Ballad of Dusk and Dawn
Disclaimer: Definitely don't own any of this.
Warnings: AU, Crossover, Slash, Character Death, Attempted Suicide, Implied Violence
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.
Bringing life into this desolate world is always a strange but joyous thing. It's been a long thirteen months, but they've reached an odd, steady state. The camps themselves are still growing as more survivors seek safety with their magical brethren. They've rather become little towns and cities in their own right now. Only with fabric and felt instead of concrete and glass, surrounded in a bubble of wards with glowing runes. There's even the sound of children running and giggling, muted though it can be, and people are naming the rows instead of using numbers.
Harry alternates most often between the major five sites in the islands –Birmingham, Manchester, Glasglow, Dublin, and Edinburgh. London took a direct hit so the site there is devastatingly small. Staffed by Gringotts as it's just beyond the doors to one of their outside entrances.
He's at a minor location today, in Southern Ireland near the banks of a once beautiful river. The water is brackish outside the borders, but the merrow have made a sparkling lake from the ruins of the metropolis previously here. There are already fish jumping and game grazing by the shores.
The humans number just under four thousand, not counting those who've come to aid them. But they're clean, well-fed and dressed. Quiet though, save for the youngest who don't know better. Most still speak in hushed voices when they talk at all.
Today, however, is a good day. There's an excited buzz in the air even this late. The atmosphere is, for once, upbeat. Almost cheerful.
There's a new member of their group. Small – a full five weeks early, but they'll both make it, mother and child. Magic to the rescue again. Harry's grateful for it. To not have to add another orphan to their numbers. To not have yet another parent lose their child.
This time, it's a good story. A happy ending.
They've had so few victories.
He allows himself the chance to let his shoulders sag, if only for these few moments, as he sanitizes everything in the operating theater. It's getting late, well after dark, and most everyone's finally turning in. His newest patients are already tucked away, and he's sent his apprentices to bed save for the overnight healer. The Muggles who've stepped up to assist are already updating their endless lists and heading off to look through their supplies with a bounce in their steps.
A new baby will be a breath of fresh air. A chance for everyone to see that there's still hope even in the ashes. Even better, spells will keep them all from hearing the cries and other things newborns bring. So they'll have all of the benefits and none of the downsides. A true win for everyone.
And if his suspicion about this child is correct, they'll be even more joy to come in the next months and years. The odds of finding a formerly unknown Muggleborn here isn't necessarily astronomical. Even with the laws changing, there are some who slipped through the cracks, but Harry had only felt magic in the baby. None in the mother. Her husband was gone, she'd told them earlier. Deceased like so many others, so it's hard to say for him. Not impossible, just improbable.
Still, Harry privately wonders about the number of Muggleborn they'll have in the coming days. If the use of magic on them, some in the womb, some as infants and small children will make a difference. Will spark their own core.
Or if Mother Magic will grant them this gift as a defense. Or possibly an apology.
But that's a thought best left to himself for now. And best not to count his salamanders before they hatch. No need to make unfortunate elements pay more attention either.
Magic and life find balance in all things. The purebloods are fewer, and Muggleborns are more with the half-bloods the most. Everyone knows that. Even purists – the few still hanging onto the broomstick with their fingertips – know it.
However, they'll certainly use the state of the world to push back. To reform with Muggle-baiting and Muggle-blaming. Their typical party-line.
He knows Hermione and Percy are on the lookout for just that scenario. The Malfoys still have contacts in those circles and will keep them informed. There are a someothers from Hogwarts who also pass along word; those who owe debts or who simply remember the terror of their schoolyears.
Harry's just finished cleaning up, is actually thinking about a very belated dinner, when his pocket buzzes. He doesn't roll his eyes or sigh; it's a very near thing, nevertheless.
Despite what magicals think, Muggles have outstripped them in a number of fields. Communication is certainly one of them. Even with the state of the world, their satellites remain intact and the clever among them – including several Weasleys – have quickly figured out ways to tap into the network now that the Statute of Secrecy has taken a long flight on a short carpet.
He reads the message with a steadily growing frown and a headache forming behind his right eye. Purists are a worry for tomorrow. It seems, there are more pressing ones for today.
A wave of his holly wand refreshes his robes, and it's vibrating, agitated. It's never liked battle or the darker aspects of magic. However, it's always been protective, almost violently so, and has allowed more than it normally would've under other circumstances. His wand of elder isn't particular as long as it's magic, but it prefers to remain hidden, to conceal itself as something else or as another wandwood; it's ironically taken to masquerading as black walnut almost permanently nowadays. Harry isn't sure if it's in jest or some type of hidden message he's yet to decipher. He isn't sure which is more concerning.
Both understand that he's being called to do things one would consider outside the scope of practice. Especially for a healer. And yes, he's very much emphasized with Albus Dumbledore more as the decades have passed, most especially the last year. Harry isn't an Auror or a Hit Wizard or a Dueling Champion. He doesn't have a Defense mastery. He isn't even a member of the government. He defeated a single – one – Dark Lord as a schoolboy, and he only did that because a prophecy and the adults around him made him do it.
He shouldn't be the person in charge here outside of looking after the ill and injured. That he is qualified to do.
But there's no one else. There's no one left. The other healers look to him for guidance, even ones he knows are allegedly more experienced than him. The Muggle authority is in tatters, their world is in genuine ruins. The Magical Confederacy is too busy trying to contain the damage or squabbling about trivial matters.
There isn't a law out here unless they make it themselves.
It started because there was no one else. If he hadn't done it, there literally wasn't anyone. But now, all the cites have some type of guard established by the citizens themselves once they had the breathing room. Many even have magistrates now for petty and smaller crimes, and punishment is typically the more tedious chores and loss of privileges. But there aren't jails here or prisons. Serious crimes, those merit special attention. Usually, it means exile and notice to all other encampments in case the offender attempts to show up elsewhere.
There've been deaths. Of course, there have. Harry would be more surprised if there weren't. There would've been more and even worse if they hadn't tweaked the wards to better prevent things before they start.
This is a different dragon altogether. This isn't an accident. Or the heat of the moment. These are outsiders who'd be welcomed to join but want to steal. To take. To force.
Unfortunately, it isn't the first occasion. Not even the first one this month. Raids and would be warlords have become less frequent as time goes on. As free resources dwindle when territories are established but the offenders grow more desperate.
Harry doubts it'll be the last, but there's more than one reason why they look to him for these messes.
Muggles may have mastered communication, but magicals are still the champions of transportation. Witches and wizards best of all. Brooms, carpets, portkeys.
The last, however, takes time. And that depends on the power and skill level of the caster. Same goes for the number of passengers. The best Harry has ever been able to do is two hundred miles in five seconds for a group of thirty.
Cost for portkeys also goes up exponentially for the same factors.
Harry could've had an outrageous fortune doing nothing for the rest of his days but making occasional portkeys. He should know, after all. That's how he kept the Black fortune while managing to pay back the goblins. Not to mention funded his entire mastery, the house he barely remembers, Teddy's wedding to Victoire, and a number of hobbies he previously remembers enjoying.
Apparition though is near instantaneous. Distance depends on the individual, but the average witch or wizard can take at least one passenger with a little practice. Harry can take groups with him easily and move from the Atlantic to Asia in a single jump.
He shoots off a message to his apprentices and rises. Disappears in a whisper of magic. Reappears to the smell of ocean air.
He's traveled thousands of miles in an instant.
This camp is already under siege when he arrives. He can see the flash of automatic fire against the dark sky, but it's pushed back by a torrent of air. There's ricochets into the night and the heavy scent of iron and artillery before the barricade magic blows it way.
It's a medium-sized site, around forty thousand, run by a collation of sirens and harpies. They're reinforcing the barrier with songs and storms. It's holding strong with winds swirling around a kaleidoscope of lights.
Inside is dim; it's still the middle of the night. Everyone but the defenders has withdrawn to the center into more guarded groups. All the adults have weapons of one variety or another; he even sees one human women with a harpy bow, complete with accomplishment feathers.
Harry has only been here once, but it's breathtaking during the daytime. Set on the cliffs above the dazzling waters with colorful tents and banners. Well over a third of the population are children. The rest are almost entirely women or elderly. Men, by siren law, are only allowed if married or of a certain age, and Harry fortunately has passed the second barrier of entry.
The leader is a stately siren matron with clouded eyes and white hair. She's hobbled by time, but her power is steady as she forms another layer of protection around the camp's youngest just in case. Her second, a harpy with a spear longer than she is tall, motions him over immediately. Her words are curt, very to the point in filling him in on everything that's transpired so far. Which's about as he expected.
The raiding parting approached well after midnight local time, but the humans on watch spotted them. The barriers were strengthened just in case. A good thing too as they were attacked without warning or provocation. Hadn't even said a single word. All of the camp's forces were still inside the wards and only redirecting the assaults but had sent out the alert. No one on their side has been injured, not yet. But protections can only hold so long. Be it days or weeks. People get tired, anxious, make mistakes. Wards can fail.
There may even be others in the vicinity who could be caught in the crossfire. Other survivors seeking aid.
Not to mention, it'd be hard to flee. Sirens and harpies both can fly, but they don't have transportation magic like other races. Muggles don't have either.
The matriarch has been quiet so far as she listens in, and her head is bowed. The toddler in her arms is fast asleep, completely unaware of the danger raging outside.
"I know their type," she whispers then, voice still alluring despite everything, "they will kill all the hatchlings." The matriarch looks at him with sightless eyes that are far older than anything else in the room.
Her second is solemn stone carved by sea winds. Her spear is gripped in talons that should leave grooves but don't only because of enchantment.
"They'll return and keep returning," she adds, sounding both angry and very tired. A breeze swirls at her feet before she stamps it down. "They see mercy as a weakness."
Harry exhales. It's slow. Pained.
He already knows. Knew as soon as he arrived that it'd come to this. It usually does.
In this world of dust and misery, there's so little room for kindness. None for diplomacy. But his duty is to his patients. To the innocent. To those who ask for help and will receive it.
Harry thinks about what ingredients he has in the shrunken trunk in his inside pocket; Steelclaw keeps him well-stocked, and he'll be forever grateful for that. He thinks about what he can make and how fast it can be done. Thinks about what can be inhaled. What can be absorbed through skin. Some can just be within inches to leech into a person's aura.
Yes, that'll work best. Limited area. Limited effects. If someone can contain it…
"Your mastery of the wind," he begins.
She cocks her head just as Fawkes does, but he can tell she's listening.
"I think we'll find great use of it."
Her golden eyes grow large, then resolute.
Both give a nod when he asks for two hours and the tent next door to brew. Poisons aren't nearly as hard as people like to imagine. Most of the time's spent in not harming the brewer, making sure it does what he wants and not blowing up immediately. When he's done, he has thirteen vials of deep purple. It's not unlike nightshade in color, but there's not a trace of that present.
He meets them by the campsite edge. The matriarch is already there, directing everyone effortlessly. Harry looks at the brigands before them; they don't even realize that they've been hemmed in. That the harpies have scouted the area fully, counted all of them, made sure that not one will be missed.
Harry thinks they may have been military once. Perhaps a unit. Protectors. Not local to here, no. All the locals are inside, guarding it, or other locations nearby.
They've traveled here; he can tell by the look and feel of them. Scouted. Searched for a camp they thought they could take. Bypassed others that either didn't have resources they wanted or they thought too strongly protected.
They'd targeted here in particular.
This'll have to be investigated. Harry knows the Magical Confederacy hasn't monitored people moving outside their areas, and that's a massive oversight. They would've spotted a group so large before this if they had. No telling what they've been doing out there, beyond sight and attention.
Even more troubling.
Harry's still observing the raiders when the matron and her second come to him. None of them have noticed him; none would likely even care if they did. He's dressed as a healer; that means little to them.
They don't even know that they're doomed.
Harry merely exchanges a grim nod before he spells the first vial outside. He sees it drop and smash against the ground. The vapor rises in a slow, black mist before a gust comes. Carrying it. Spreading it further.
Harry watches for several slow heartbeats. Then, he takes out the next vial.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Lunch is an awkward affair, at least for Harry. It's formal; of course, it is. A king, even a former one merits a ceremonial luncheon. Particularly when he's the father of the host.
Everyone else there already knows each other – or are related in some capacity – so Harry's the odd one out. Gil-galad sits on his right, a steady presence who redirects attention away from him effortlessly as a beater with a bat. Even he can't deflect every question though.
Somehow, this entire affair is only slightly less excruciating than being hit by one of Dobby's bludgers while battling the basilisk and running from Aragog. Only less fun. The meal is delicious but tedious in the way that only weddings, funerals, and conferences have managed to perfect. Harry's saved solely by all those prior Ministry dinners and meetings with the board. He speaks when spoken to, keeping his answers vague but proper, and otherwise remains quiet. Gil-galad's hand rests on the arm of his chair intermittently throughout this. Harry leans into the touch, lets it anchor him.
They watch that, too. He knows they do. Watch every little move he makes in a way not even the Ainur do or the wizarding public ever did. This is worse than after defeating Voldemort the second time when there were newspapers, magazine articles, and no small amount of marriage proposals foisted at him. Only, he can't run off to New Zealand this time until everything quiets down.
What he wouldn't give to be back with the goblins? Now, those were a people who could mind their own business. If Harry was of a mind, he could've gone to the middle of Gringotts, stripped down, covered himself in stinksap, and rolled around on the floor. And they would've done nothing more than step over him. Maybe with a few words to clean up after himself whenever he was done.
Or perhaps he just needs a spar with Eönwë? Hitting something does sound vaguely appealing right now. Probably better than stabbing with his fork.
He could likely get away with sending a message and setting up a time. If he does it somewhere vaguely near here, maybe Gil-galad would come, too. So that he'd think Harry's less of a complete lunatic at least.
Better than some of the others showing up.
Harry grimaces at the thought of Námo opting to pay a visit. He had, in fact, come to Formenos on occasion. Mostly before the elves arrived but some afterwards. Those who recognized him were very… ahem… concerned. Perhaps alarmed is a more accurate term.
At that memory, Harry quickly schools his expression lest they think it's due to the conversation – the weather of all things.
Gil-galad is already glancing at him, however. Harry feels a knee lean against his under the table, sees the question in those blue-gray eyes, but he shakes his head and offers a small smile. A finger brushes against his forearm for a lingering few seconds before drifting away. He turns back to see both Fingon and Fingolfin observing them.
Harry feels his ears start to heat but successfully fights it off.
Not for the first time he wishes for Manwë to send a sudden – but small and ultimately contained – tornado. Preferably one that will blow away his chair right then.
As always, Manwë does not deliver.
Harry instead sips his wine very slowly and tries not to look at anyone in particular for the next course. If only Celebrían could be closer. She's usually more forgiving of his silence, filling it with her own chatter and not expecting much of a response.
Unfortunately, she's on Gil-galad's other side and next to her uncle, Angrod, so she's little help. Finrod is also on that end of the table, opposite his brother. Argon is on Harry's left, but he usually keeps his opinions to himself. Aredhel is across from Harry, and she's very sympathetic most of the time, but she's in between her father and Irimë and thoroughly distracted by both. Harry doesn't know the former, which is much of the problem, and the latter finds laughter in everything like life itself is a punchline. Fingon is the head of the table, inverse of Findis, with his direct kin around him. Harry rather thinks they positioned himself a little too closely. His perfect seat would be as far away from all of this as possible, ideally on the moon. Maybe he can beg a ride with Celebrían's father-in-law to get there.
Of course, he could just fly there himself. Hm…
He idly wonders how hard that would be as Angrod and Finrod begin arguing over the new caverns chosen for Nargothrond. On his other side, Aredhel is telling her father of her plans to visit her son soon while Irimë asks to go with her. Argon is very focused on his soup like it holds all the secrets of the universe, and Harry honestly isn't sure he's said a word this entire meal. He can't see Celebrían from this angle and can only hear her speak with Findis and Gil-galad about the recent heavy rains.
Harry is still considering as he drinks his wine again.
It wouldn't be so much a matter of distance as the elevation. But the moon can't be as high as it was on Earth if an Ainu could reach it, right? Would he need Warming Charms? A Bubblehead? Could he just fly there as a bird? How long would that even take? Probably not worth risking it with apparition since he'd never been there and it's a moving target. That's just asking for an accident, and he isn't dying to try that here in Valinor.
He'll have to ask Nienna if he'd be barred from going there. Oromë said it was guarded by Tilion, and it certainly seems a safer option than heading for the sun. But maybe one day there, too. They certainly don't seem to mind him going just about anywhere else in Valinor. Certainly, he hasn't taken them all on the various offers yet, but Taniquetil is on his to-do list. Aulë has also been making some rather pointed hints along with his wife.
He'd almost be tempted to use that as an excuse to finally leave Tirion, but the elves always go even stranger than usual whenever the Ainur occur in the conversation. Much less a mention of going to see any of them.
Maybe if Eönwë comes, Harry could leave with him?
No, Harry decides as he picks up his spoon, that'd probably be even worse. That definitely would spark their attention and far too many questions.
Harry bites down on a sigh and stirs his soup. He glances up only when he recognizes that conversation around him has quieted.
Fingon's looking pointedly at Harry. Fingolfin is sipping from his glass, but Harry can feel his attention also. Others are gazing at him as well; it's not the entire table, just the left half but Harry realizes that he must have missed something. A comment. A question perhaps.
"Apologies," Harry offers with a small, modest smile. "My mind wandered."
Fingon waves him off, but there's an odd expression on his face. Normally, he's open. As easy to read as a shop board or signpost. Today, it's closed off. Shuttered. The usual warmth now absent and Harry feels its loss like one does a blanket ripped from bed during the middle of sleep.
"I said that last night would've been excellent for stargazing, but we ah… unfortunately missed it."
Harry doesn't shift guilty in his seat. He isn't a naughty schoolboy.
An attendant appears to take his soup bowl then. A fortunate distraction as he offers his thanks.
"With all the rain, it'll likely be our last chance for several weeks," Aredhel acknowledges as a new plate is set out in front of her.
"A future endeavor then," Fingolfin comments, refilling his own glass and then his daughter's.
Fingon looks at Harry again even as the staff moves around the table.
"Stargazing is one venture we haven't taken you on," he says, "and I see we've been very remiss."
"There was a tradition to go at the end of lunde timpínea to a spot outside of Tirion," Finrod jumps in then from the other end of the room. His eyes are fixed on Harry though, lingering on his hair.
Fingolfin is quick to chime in. "We haven't kept it in a number of years, but this is a time for auspicious things, I think."
That earns him a titter from several people.
"Is that where you go at night?" Irimë asks then. She has her fork in one hand and uses it to point vaguely upwards. "Stargazing? You could've just said so, you know."
Harry blinks. He tilts his head, plays that statement over in his mind, but it still doesn't make any sense.
Next to him, Argon leans over and clarifies, "When you aren't in your room?"
Harry stares at them. Keeps staring.
How would they know that he isn't in his room? Do they smell him? Are they listening for his breathing? For him moving around? Is it because their rooms are on either side of his? Do they put their ears against the walls?
For Merlin's sake, his wards haven't even triggered!
He hadn't thought to add anything for noise because Harry wasn't in the room to make any. Obviously, he'll have to fix that the next go around.
They're looking at him expectantly.
But he honestly has no reply for this. No answer that isn't an outright lie.
Irimë gives a little giggle. Likely at his expression before he can conceal it.
"Oh, someone doesn't want us to know." She grins a little too wide.
"It can't be that big of a deal," Angrod adds from the other end.
Gil-galad's hand moves to settle on his wrist where it sits on the tabletop; a thumb rubs along the delicate bones there. Slow, sure strokes that are barely a brush of skin but make his entire arm tingle. A blush starts to stain Harry's cheeks as he feels every other person in the room watching. Feels the weight of every gaze the way a dragon follows its next meal.
Someone starts to laugh. Harry can't entirely be sure whom when it begins coming from more than one direction.
"Or perhaps," Findis allows after a moment and reaches for her glass, "we don't kiss and tell."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry escapes afterwards. He can call it something more dignified than that, but he has no great illusions with himself. It's an escape. A retreat.
He's had enough elves for the day. Yes, indeed he has.
Even Gil-galad leaves him alone once he's safely ensconced in the library. Tucked away in a back corner with a shield of books. His notebook is on his lap in front of him, pen in hand as he puts the finishing touches on Irimë's fennec ears. Fingon the lion and Argon the tiger stare at each other from opposite corners. He hasn't decided what to make Gil-galad or Celebrían yet. Finrod will be a majestic wolf or perhaps a hound. Findis is naturally a very posh badger in a lovely hat and dress who's having tea with Angrod the porcupine. Maybe a horse for Aredhel or… no, a bear. Definitely a bear for her, but he doesn't know Fingolfin well enough to decide yet. Harry himself is only half a form on the opposite page, black wings and beak drawn and then crossed out.
He sighs as his pen rests on the paper.
Hopefully, no one will find him here for a while. It's certainly a safer option than his room. Or even the roof apparently. Lunch was so long that dinner's an afterthought, and Harry skips it anyway. It's evening now, but Harry's honestly not sure what to do with himself since he very much doesn't want to go to bed this early – and the thought of being in his room makes him just a bit queasy now.
Maybe Indilwen won't mind company tonight? It wouldn't be the first time he's slept next to her.
He's just contemplating that when he feels the approach. It's subtle. Not wholly sneaking. But it's hard to hide the presence of such warmth. Like closing his eyes and knowing immediately where the sun is without even looking.
It's why Harry always recognizes when Fingon is around, and truly, father is very much like son.
Harry doesn't sigh. He doesn't start. He doesn't even put away his book as Fingolfin slowly sits in the other chair at his table.
A part of him has been expecting this. Has known that it'd come. Not necessarily when or where but knew that he'd be sought out. Just as Fingon himself had done. Just as Nerdanel did. Just as all of them always do.
He starts with the truth. Perhaps he'll even be believed.
"I'm not Maglor's son."
Fingolfin merely looks at him. He says nothing and only crosses his legs, settles in his seat.
"Despite what they've told you or you might think, I'm not," Harry says. Somehow, he keeps the tiredness from his voice.
It's an old routine now. A frequent denial.
He's studying Harry closely.
He has Fingon's gaze and his hair. Even, in many ways, his face. But there are subtle differences in the shape of his nose and the pout of his lips. Harry can see his other children in those though. Argon's eyes are a blue so pale it's almost gray, but the shape is the same, and his lashes are just as thick. Aredhel has his mouth and turns her head in that exact manner as she thinks.
Harry carries on, "I'm very sorry for everything that's happened between you. I know that I wasn't involved, and I know that my words don't mean much after the fact." He pauses to let that sink in before continuing. "I hope one day you can have the resolution you seek."
Silence then. Stretching out between them. Aching and growing.
Harry shivers, but it's not truly from the temperature. The library is temperate as evening turns into night, but Harry's frozen. Would see his breath if he exhaled hard enough. He's ice rimed on the inside, and the wintry bite of Formenos is under his skin. The only warm thing at his table is the elf with him.
It's growing dim though. They don't have a lantern; Fingolfin likely hadn't thought to bring one. Harry doesn't need it.
"Nephew," the elf finally says.
Harry starts. He's closed his eyes and hasn't realized that he'd done so.
"Look at me."
It isn't quite a command, and this isn't his king. Harry obeys anyway.
Fingolfin's shifted. He's now leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, black hair sliding down one shoulder like spilled ink. He's closer now. Near enough that he could reach out to touch. His hands, however, are folded together almost in prayer.
"Nephew," Fingolfin repeats, and it's very firm this time.
Harry's heart beats harder, even if only for a second. He grips the pen still in his hand.
No one's ever called him that before. On paper, he'd an aunt and uncle growing up. But reality was a different beast altogether. They dubbed him freak and boy and meant it. Sirius named him Harry and sometimes James and couldn't recall the difference. Molly and Arthur called him by name and sometimes dear but nothing more familial than that.
This isn't the same; this is claiming. This is acknowledgment.
Fingon calls him cousin.
Gil-galad calls him…
Harry shakes his head.
He can't accept this; he won't. He wants to offer a denial, opens his mouth to give just that, but he's beat to it.
"I've made many mistakes in my life," Fingolfin states, "I fought my brother over the wrong things and for the wrong reasons. I let Moringotto poison us against each other." His eyes are very silver in the growing dimness, like the moon reflecting sunlight. "I won't deny any more of my family."
He fingers push together until they turn white. Until Harry thinks he might actually break them together.
"One day my brother will be free of the Halls, and my only wish… My only wish…"
He falters.
For all that he's forever young, Fingolfin seems impossibly old in that moment. Tired. Defeated. Eyes looking into the past ages and remembering ashes and dust. The sun setting behind ominous clouds and dawn an uncertain night away.
His voice when he speaks again is barely a whisper.
"I only ever wanted to be his equal. To be his brother."
It's a confession. A dark secret told to a stranger.
Harry knows that it isn't his to take. That this isn't a gift he's earned or deserves. That there's an entire house of people around them who warrant this more.
"I'm not the one you need to tell," he replies delicately. Gently as if he holds a snowflake on his fingertip.
Fingolfin finally looks at him again.
"But you're the only one who will listen."
His eyes are dry, but some wounds are too deep.
Harry thinks what it must be like to lose so much family – first his father, then his son followed by his brother. To have his mother, wife, and older sister stay behind. To be on distant shores as the leader and be breaking apart while expected to lead everyone else. But even before that, to be the second brother, the lesser and middle son. Not the golden youngest and favorite of their mother. To forever follow an older sibling who did it first, better and greater than one could ever hope to match.
To be left behind time and again. First by age and circumstances. Then by shores and treachery. Last by death and oaths.
Harry should get up and walk away. He should leave. He should stop this right now. Before it goes any farther.
Instead, he sets down his pen and his notebook; he edges forward in his chair.
"Will you… Will you tell me about him?" Harry asks then.
It's more tentative than he'd like but bolder than he probably should.
Fingolfin blinks in surprise. More so when Harry continues to look at him.
"It's just that…" Harry begins, "no one ever really has anything good to say. Even will they speak of his accomplishments, there's always negative added in."
It's a miserable truth. For all that they think he is one, they almost unanimously struggle to find a kind word for the House of Fëanor.
Nienna is the only one to talk about any of the Fëanorions without a disparagement or warning added in. Námo and Vairë avoid all mention of them. Oromë cursed heartily the one time Harry dared to ask, and he hasn't again. Eönwë's always clinical, detached – honest in both his praise and his censure. Even Fingon adds a little hint of reproach. Of could-bes and should-haves. Gil-galad doesn't know them personally and has said as much, but Harry knows he's displeased by many of the events surrounding the twins, Elros and Elrond. Celebrían speaks only of Celebrimbor and the terrible fate that befell him.
Fingolfin stares at him for a long time, so long that Harry actually begins to worry. Thinks that he may've made an enormous misstep.
Then, he relaxes. Breathes out in a sigh. Lets the tension in his shoulders bleed out. It isn't a smile, but his face is softer. More at peace. His hands settle on the arms of his chair.
"What would you like to know?"
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Fingolfin – Studying Harry very closely at lunch. I know that look.
Cue flashback remembrance scene of Fëanor and his sons at far too many dinners during the boring parts of the conversation.
Fingolfin – He's plotting something. Nudges his oldest.
Fingon – Also knows that look. Has a sudden chill of doom.
Both – Suddenly very concerned.
Harry – The moon isn't so far, is it?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – So…
Angrod – I see it.
Findis – He's very good.
Aredhel – Managed braids and a ring at the same time.
Irimë – Bets, anyone? No cheating, Finrod.
Fingon – Puts his head in hands and massages his temples.
Fingolfin – I've left them to this for way too long, haven't I?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Tell me about your brother.
Fingolfin – Eyes widen excitedly.
Narrator Voice – Three weeks later.
Fingolfin – And then, he was up on the roof-
Harry – Geez. That sounds familiar.
AN: Black walnut in wand lore is for someone with good instincts and powerful insight but against self-deception (or deception against others).
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Lunde timpínea – month of showers. It probably should translate as April showers but being used more as a rainy season/month in this context.
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Ever Hopeful,
Azar