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.
Eönwë is seated on Harry's left at dinner. It's Argon's usual spot, but he's been moved across the table, next to his father as Aredhel is absent along with Irimë. Celebrían is in the latter's seat on Argon's other side since Finarfin is in the place she typically occupies. Everything else is as usual.
It's the most awkward dinner party Harry's been to since the engagement of Marianus Burke to Ariadne Vineshadow – his Defense master and school healer respectively.
Eönwë speaks to the elves when spoken to but has no questions and makes no other comments. His answers are rather to the point. Only Harry gets more than the bare minimum. But admittedly, he asks much better things. He's used to this from Eönwë; though the others certainly aren't. He suspects they aren't used to Ainur all that much or their tendency to rely on their personal auras more than speech. Not if this is their reaction.
Nienna and Vairë are notable exceptions, but then, they and Námo spend so much time in the Halls of Mandos. Harry supposes that they've adjusted to elven preferences along with the Maiar who frequent there. Same for Irmo and Estë. Oromë as well, but his language is that of beasts and birds. Nessa prefers dancing and music to any words at all. The others he hasn't seen interact with enough Eldar to know.
Eönwë is even less talkative in general; it's just how he is. Harry doesn't take it personally. If he doesn't have something to say, then he usually says nothing. Other times, he could wax on philosophically for hours about a particular point or relate certain events in the most minute detail.
The one who understands this the best is seemingly Finarfin, and aside from Harry, Eönwë speaks to him the most. An interesting thing as they're seated so far apart.
There's something about the entire arrangement that makes Harry pause, but he can't quite put his finger on it as he glances from one person to the next. He doesn't know if this was done by the staff, Fingon, or some type of coincidence but it does seem to make it much easier for everyone to move around Eönwë. The attendants very carefully don't touch him, Harry notes. They lay all his dishes on the table, while standing as far away as possible without making it obvious, and take nothing directly from his hands. It's a strange ballet that Harry watches from the corner of his vision.
Harry's noticed the same at Formenos. All the Ainur seemingly have a bubble around them where no elf gets too close or looks too long in their eyes. They never treat each other in this manner, even strangers or the different varieties of elves. Never treat Harry like this, not at home, and he knows that he's made a poor elf indeed.
So it's even more worrisome that some of the retainers are now doing it to Harry here. It's taken him long enough to get them to look at him properly with all this lord business, and he's still trying to get most of them to address him by name only, so this is more than troubling. He isn't sure the full scope of it yet, but he knows that it means his… accident is definitely being whispered through their ranks. Just as he feared, it'll soon be known to the entire household and then Tirion.
Harry frowns into his wineglass even as he thinks that. Even more so a minute later when the next course arrives and there's a minor debate turned dance behind him. They aren't so inexperienced as to actually argue or to flinch when Harry finally just turns to hand over his salad plate. It's taken cautiously, handled like one would a venomous tentacula, fingers kept as far away from his as possible. He knows that everyone is viewing the tableau like they'd a Quidditch accident. He simply isn't quite sure what to say, what to do aside from pretend it isn't happening. He fights to keep his hand from rising to cover his face. To keep the shame off his expression.
Gil-galad touches his wrist at the edge of the table even as the next course is set in front of him. Fingon doesn't glare, but his face is hard in a way that Harry's never seen. Fingolfin and Findis have identical expressions from opposite ends of the room; their eyes move but little else on their persons. Celebrían is poised, but her knuckles are slowly turning white on the arms of her chair. Argon doesn't hide his disapproval at all, and Harry has the feeling if Eönwë weren't here, that he'd already have gotten up. Harry can't see Finarfin or Angrod from his angle, but Finrod seems pained.
Eönwë is silent next to him. Face indifferent. Watching. Always watching. Harry feels the flicker of annoyance in his song though, a discordant note, the point of the sword. He doesn't physically reach out to Harry, but protective chords curl around and over him as they sit next to each other. He knows that Harry's increasingly discomforted; he may even understand why. However, this is Fingon's house and Fingon's staff, so he says nothing. But Harry knows he'll remember every name and every face. Knows that those amber eyes are taking in everything, but he's too disciplined to show his true emotions.
Tension rises further as the meal progresses. Gil rubs a delicate circle on Harry's elbow as the main course is brought and drinks are refilled. Celebrían and Finrod try to restart the conversation, but it's stilted.
Harry glances at Fingon as they come to him again. Sees when he's completely done, finally had enough. Fingon excuses himself and is out of the room before anyone has time to respond; Harry can feel his attendants scurrying off in front of the swelter of his power, feel him scorching down the hallway like a heatwave at midday. Argon seems a second from following, only doesn't due to the look their father gives him.
Harry just sighs and sits back in his chair. He'll eat eventually because he won't waste the food; even though he knows for a fact that no one starves in Valinor, old habits die hard. Rather, his appetite is completely gone. He's too old for this; he is. Has too much else to deal with. He wants nothing else than to get up and leave at this very instant. He stays in his chair only because it'll upset Fingon more to find him absent when he returns.
The table is quiet; no one says anything as they gaze at each other. Gil gives up any pretext, just slides fingers through his and sets their hands on top of the armrest. The twin of Harry's own ring is warm against his suddenly chilled skin.
Eönwë sips his wine. He's a steady beat next to Harry, sharp edges sheathed for now. However, his song soothes over Harry's back and settles around him as surely as a downy blanket.
Time ticks by. Fingon is still gone, and no one else comes. Everyone picks at their food for a lack of anything else to do. Harry eats slowly but tastes nothing. Eönwë clears his plate, and Fingolfin refills his glass.
Fingon returns not long after everyone is finally finished and starting to wonder if they should go search for him. He appears much calmer now, coming in at a normal pace and with a satisfied air. Notes encircle Harry's wrist and squeeze just as the elf enters the room, and Eönwë stands. He gives Fingon a nod when he turns to leave.
Harry, having predicted this would happen, is already out of his chair. He casts a quick peek at Fingon and walks Eönwë to the door. No one follows, but they don't speak until they're outside the main entrance. Harry can feel others milling about in the distance, but nobody's from their dinner party. He knows Gil will meet him upstairs. Hard to fully predict what everyone else's doing.
Eönwë simply stands next to him, looking out into the deepening twilight. He reaches out to touch Harry with his hand this time, a ghosting of fingers on his skin.
"You will stay?"
It's mostly a statement, but it borders on a question. His amber eyes flick to Harry.
"For now," Harry allows. "Celebrían promised to take me to see the ocean, and Gil-galad wants to go sailing."
It's only supposed to be for a short time, but for elves, that could end up being anywhere from three days to three months. Celebrían only came for tea initially, after all, and she's still here even now.
"Celebrían…" the Maia repeats as if considering the name. "Yes, I know the one."
He moves in front of Harry then. There's a slow beat, the march off to battle. The illumination of the house is bright on his face as he tilts his head down.
"Be well, Marcaunon," he says, and it's a soft feather against his face. Gentle as a kiss to his forehead. "I will call on you when you return home."
Eönwë offers a small bow before he turns on his heel. He walks off into the darkness, and Harry looks after him until he hears his song fade in the distance.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Breakfast is better, far more relaxed overall. Most meals aren't very strict except when family arrives or an actual visitor. The staff rarely serves them unless it's such an occasion. Of course, there's hardly a time more formal than an Ainu at one's table for an elf.
Harry can tell the staff are relieved that Eönwë's gone, nevertheless. The Maia can be rather intimating; he'll give them that. Although, their attitude towards Harry himself is still very detached, very distant. Intimidated. Almost afraid when they see him in the halls and put themselves back to the opposite wall and as far from him as possible.
It's even worse than when he first came here.
Elves are unaging, but they can still die. Harry's different, and they know that now. It's some of his fears turning into reality. Some left holdover from being a wizard and never daring to tell a soul the truth. All his unvoiced thoughts taking shape.
Gil tells him that he doesn't care, that it doesn't matter, but Harry knows deep down that it does. That there's some flaw inside him. Some defect that can never been fixed.
The rest of the day decides it for him. The looks he can feel behind his back. Not from the Houses of Fingolfin or Finarfin. Their thoughts are harder to discern, but fear isn't among them. The others in the household though. Fingon's retainers. His staff and servants and attendants. Harry can feel all of them withdraw physically and spiritually.
Harry needs to leave. He wants to leave. Really and truly this time.
He wants to go home. He wants Formenos. He wants his own castle and his own bed and his own magic surrounding him. He wants Laerien's bossiness and Melpomaen's hesitant smile and Inglor's sarcasm. He wants to be able to see Indilwen at any time, to not just leave her in the stables. He wants to speak with Káno and hear him play every day and not only in secret. He wants Nienna and Vairë and Eönwë too, to not have to worry about what anyone else thinks.
He'll go to the ocean with Celebrían and Gil-galad because he's already promised. And because, to be completely honest, it'll get him out of this house. He can return home from there. And maybe… Maybe Gil will…
Harry chases that thought away as he comes to the door. It's innocuous. Looks just like any other in the house, but perhaps it's what it represents. The room beyond is something of Fingon's office and his study. It's as private as anything ever is in this place. Set further away from the usual hustle and bustle. Tucked away in a corner of an upper floor. He hasn't been back in this room for… He can't be entirely sure when. The last time he was even close was when he perched on the roof above. Listening in to Fingon and his father. That feels like a lifetime ago.
Technically, as Harry thinks that over, one could consider that to be true.
He knocks but already knows Fingon's here. Already knows that his host is waiting for him. Has been trying to figure out how to approach him all day.
He both is and isn't surprised when he sees Harry standing there. His diadem and robe are off, and Harry can see the glint of the former on the corner of his desk. His sword is on its stand, and he knows that Fingon's already drawing up an even tougher training regimen with both his father and Argon also in the mix. Likely Finarfin as well given how their encounter with Eönwë went. Harry thinks he may even spar with them someday in some distant future. Maybe if they ever come to Formenos.
"Come in," his host invites. His voice is warm, welcoming.
He directs Harry to a seat at the table near the balcony, the same one Fingolfin sat in not so long ago. He pours them drinks without even asking. Harry idly notices that he does pull the balcony door closed before he sits in the chair across.
"I suspect this isn't just a social call," the elf says as he places the glass in front of Harry. It's a sweeter wine that he's seen Harry have on multiple occasions and one he truly does enjoy.
Harry accepts the drink but holds it between his hands on the tabletop.
"You seemed like you wanted to talk earlier," he comments, tracing the pattern on the glass. "I thought maybe we could."
Fingon tips his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, there are certainly… things to discuss."
A pause as Harry considers his words. As Fingon considers him.
Some part of Harry will miss this place, he decides. Will actually miss the people here. Getting to know them. The sound of their voices. The feel of their auras like a steady thrum in the background. Formenos is populated these days, but the castle itself is empty. Only Harry truly lives there all the time aside from Indilwen and Káno's harp. The Ainur come and go as they wish, and the elves all have their own homes in the surrounding city now and have for years. Even his work office is in the municipal building, just down from the castle gates.
The castle is his alone. He prefers it that way, but maybe, sometimes, being alone isn't better.
"I wanted to thank you for having me," Harry begins since politeness is never out of place. "For letting me stay. For having me here."
"You're leaving?" Fingon asks. His tone is off. Shocked. Dismayed. Bruised.
"You and I both know that I don't belong here," Harry tells him, and it's an apology. "I think it's better if I leave."
Fingon closes his eyes for a long second before letting out a gusty sigh. He studies Harry, sharp gaze now focused and determined. He's a good man, and it's easy to forget the battle-forged ruler who lurks underneath.
"Running away isn't going to work, you know."
At Harry's startled expression, Fingon lets out a little snort, but there's no mirth.
"Pushing us away won't either," he adds.
Harry shakes his head. "I'm not-"
"You are," Fingon cuts him off. "You have from the beginning, but I see why better now." He doesn't blink as he looks across the table. The distance is a mere two feet but may as well be two miles. "Dying's never an easy thing."
"I didn't-" Harry starts to say.
Fingon again talks over him. "You did. You died, nephew. We both know what happened."
His tone is sterner than he's ever been with Harry. Edged. He's still the same warmth as always, however. Steady but not burning. Never scorching. Only searching. Waiting.
"What do you expect me to say?" Harry questions then, and it's nearly a demand because he doesn't understand what Fingon wants from him. "That I'm sorry for lying to you?"
He watches as Fingon's fingers flex. Once. Twice. Before flattening against the wooden surface of the tabletop.
"I want you to stop apologizing," the elf tells him, and his eyes are stronger than mithril. "I want you to stop feeling like you need to. I want to see you as you are and not just the parts you haven't managed to hide away."
"I'm not hiding." Harry doesn't raise his voice, but it's firm.
Fingon merely stares at him the same way he did at Eönwë yesterday; like this is a fight he has to win no matter what.
"You are."
It isn't an accusation. It just feels like one.
Harry sips from his wine to buy time, and that's his biggest mistake yet. He isn't as steady as he should be as he sets the glass down. It's a small thing really. Or maybe a large one as it knocks Fingon's own. As both tilt onto the tabletop. Harry snatches his back, seeker reflexes still quick and sure, but the other spills out across the surface and towards the floor with a chipped rim and several scattering pieces.
Harry flicks his fingers without thinking, without pause. The wine is gone instantly as it pours for the edge, and the glass is now whole. Not a single shard out of place. He freezes as he realizes what he's done. It's so easy to fall back into old habits. To be open with his magic as he had yesterday in the courtyard.
Fingon simply observes him. Seeing everything and missing nothing.
And Harry just gave him quite a show.
His heart squeezes painfully as he peeks over at his host. He leaves his wineglass on the table, hands now gripping the armrests, frost forming beneath his fingertips at the look he receives right back. Sees fog when he exhales. As the room feels colder.
Fingon's in front of him now, and Harry isn't sure how that happened. Isn't sure how he moved so quickly from the other side of the table to kneeling right here. He doesn't touch Harry but crowds his space, places both hands on the sides of the chair. They're both silent as they stare at each other. Harry thinks of a thousand different things to say, but none of them are right. None of them are sane enough for this. It's certainly beyond a little healing, some ice and breeze. Not as bad as waking up from death.
Fingon though lays a very gentle hand on his knee. Touch as light as a feather.
"I don't know what crime you imagine you've committed to punish yourself like this," he states. His voice has eased to that of a blanket, cotton wool soft. Like he's trying to soothe a spooked chimera.
Harry doesn't shift. He isn't guilt of anything, but the feeling beats in his chest like another heart.
"What makes you think I'm punishing myself?" he asks. His fingers have moved to his elbows to create distance; the table certainly isn't a safe place for them.
Fingon just gazes up at him. His eyes are assessing. Searching and seeking. He doesn't use Legilimency. Harry doesn't even know if he even has the elvish version like Finarfin. But he feels wide open. Feels like he's being seen as thoroughly as if he stood naked in the entranceway and spun around.
"There's nothing you can possibly have done that's worse than any of us," the elf insists. "Nothing that's worse than any of the rest of the family. Existing isn't a crime, Herurrívë. Living isn't either." It's far too close to the truth.
Harry stares over his head. He can't look at Fingon any longer.
"Stop," Harry murmurs then. "Just stop."
It isn't begging, but he can't do this anymore. He feels trapped. Like a rabbit in one of Aredhel's snares. He scoots his seat back to put more space between them. One hand is on his face rubbing his eyes and then pinching his nose so hard it'd leave bruises if he were an actual elf.
Fingon backs up, allows him room; it's only to grab his own chair and move it to Harry's side of the table. He isn't as close as he was seconds before, but it feels like too much. Like the only way out of this is a confession but he isn't exactly sure which sin Fingon wants to hear. Harry's just tired. Exhausted in a way that sleep won't fix. It has nothing at all to do with dying and everything to do with living.
He has no idea how long they sit there saying nothing to each other. Fingon, as always, is ever-so-patient. Like he has all the time in the world and absolutely nothing else better to do than to witness this disaster unfolding.
Finally, Harry sighs and takes his head from his hand.
"You called me nephew," Harry says, and it's a redirection and almost an allegation both. "Just now and… that night."
He hadn't realized it initially, but looking back, it was obvious. That hadn't been Fingolfin's voice.
"I did," Fingon confesses with elbows on his thighs and fingers threaded together.
"I'm not…"
He can't get the words out. Settles for something safer, easier.
"You never married him," Harry accuses with the barest hint of frost.
"No," the older elf admits that, too. "I didn't."
He doesn't rise to the bait, however. He's still looking at Harry and his expression isn't one that Harry's ever seen directed at himself before. Not like this. Not from anyone.
"I've made a great many mistakes," Fingon declares then, "and I'd like to stop making the same ones. I should've told you from the start. I should've claimed you from the beginning."
Harry has zero clue how to respond. His mind is a library of overturned shelves and scattered pages. He feels his mouth open and then close. Feels time tick by. Hears the clock on the mantle. His companion just lets him gather his thoughts, book by book. Would let him have all the eons in the universe.
"Why didn't you marry him?" Harry finally inquires because this is a safer topic. Because this is simpler to grasp. To voice than everything else.
Fingon allows it. He really is too good to be true.
"Because I was a fool." It's said with a laugh but absolutely no mirth. "Because I cared more about what others thought than what we felt. Because I feared what my father would think," he says, and his eyes are a silver so bright that it puts the moon to shame. "He already knew, of course. He's always known; they always do."
Harry can feel his regret. Feel the ache of it in the air like a tragedy. Feel the loss like a limb that should be there but isn't. A phantom that moves but is wisps of smoke when one looks.
"He didn't care?"
"He did," Fingon responds softly, "but he also didn't." His fingers now drum on the arm of his chair like a march across the battlefield. "He worried we'd be hurt. Not just me but Maitimo as well."
Because that's his nephew, Harry understands. This is Fingolfin's son, and that's his nephew. They're both the line of Finwë, and there's been grief and discord in it since practically the beginning.
Although, he supposes that Eldar didn't worry about a match that close. Not when they were functionally immortal and generational time could be in the millennia. Even purebloods rethought this eventually and had for much of Harry's adult life, but admittedly, some of his classmates had been from generations of first cousin marriages, and he had his suspicions that some were perhaps even closer than that.
"Did he worry about your uncle?"
It's not an unreasonable question with everything Harry's learned of Fëanor, but Fingon shakes his head.
"Not as much initially. Not truly even until close to the end. Uncle is… was surprisingly kind." Fingon actually smiles at that, and it's fond. Genuine. "He's stern in many ways, but he dearly loves all his sons. I've to say he treats me much the same; for all his issues with my father, uncle has always been good to me and loves me as he does his own children." His lips quirk upwards even more. "I was very often with them. Maitimo and Makalaurë especially. Less so the others. But we three were most often found together."
Fingon hesitates then. As if pausing for breath. Pausing for memories to come.
"I had a room in their home," he adds after a moment, "and Maitimo had one at my father's – before I set up here. Even Laurë did; just as you do. Laurë usually was our alibi." He gives a chuckle. "I suppose looking back, we were so very obvious."
Harry just listens to him. Doesn't say anything as the words wash over him like warm bathwater. He can almost picture it. Picture the three of them. So young. Bright. Unknowing of what was to come. Fingon in the middle with the two brothers on either side, his dearest love and his cousin who'd be his brother. They remind Harry of another trio, of three others so long ago who promised to be friends forever. Harry's kept his end of the bargain; he knows that wherever they are that Ron and Hermione do, too.
Fingon exhales, and the spell is broken. He puts his palms flat on the chair, and they only tremble faintly.
"Elves…" he begins as a way to center himself, "Elves often stay in the same household with their families even if they wed and have children. Or if not, very close by. Like I did here."
It's both an explanation and a distraction; Harry just inclines his head.
"Some will leave to establish themselves elsewhere, but that's more unusual. Not unless they can't agree on where to live." Fingon barely falters but continues on, "Or if one family has disapproved of the match. Close relatives will have rooms. Permanent ones that they'll move back and forth between, especially if they aren't settled."
That… Harry hadn't known any of that. He could guess based on what he'd observed. But no one had ever said it outright. It makes a lot of sense given the state of Fingon's household. Of the people here and how long they'd stayed so far. And how everyone seemed to have a particular place that they stayed in. Even Fingolfin and Finarfin had suites that the staff didn't so much prepare as simply air out a bit. And they hadn't really brought much with them, now that he thought about it.
There's also how they'd put him back in the same room Fingon had tried so hard to give him the first time. He wonders what they thought of him settling in Formenos. It was the former residence of Fëanor and his sons – yes, through exile. But still…
Of course, now there's the fact that Fingon felt the need to explain something that should be basic knowledge.
Harry knows that he's grimacing even as that occurs to him.
"I think we've done a disservice to you," the older elf states, and his tone is apologetic, "my only excuse is that we didn't know. Suspected, yes, I'll admit, but I didn't know for certain." He reaches out to put one hand on Harry's wrist. "You haven't spent much time with other elves. I can see it now."
Harry feels his ears grow hot. "Is it that obvious?"
"Not at first glance, no. The more time we spend with you…" Fingon gives an elegant shrug. "You hide yourself very well. Too well, I think. It's hard to feel you. We can see you; we know that you're there, but you're a blank book." His grasp is strong but not too tight. "It's only lately that you've let us read a few pages."
He's warm, welcoming. His aura invites Harry in if he'd allow himself to come to the door, but he hesitates on the sidewalk, on the pathway leading up. Stands outside in the snowstorm and doesn't even dare peer in the windows.
"One day, you'll tell me, yes?" He clarifies after a moment, after Harry's obvious puzzlement, "Why you let yourself carry such a burden?"
Harry swallows. Half of him wants to say yes. Wants to confess everything. The other half wants to just lay his head down, close his eyes, and never open them again. In the war between them, it's a stalemate. Nothing's accomplished.
"When you're ready," Fingon tells him as if knowing the entirety of the battle inside him.
Harry breathes out slowly, and both of those sides quiet. Both glance at each other with this unexpected white flag.
"What if I never am?" Harry asks, and it's very tired. Weary.
There's a sensation like a mug of cocoa put into his hands. Warmth seeping through the ceramic. Chocolate after a dementor attack.
"Then, that's fine."
Fingon's quiet for a long pause. Still looking at Harry but his eyes aren't accusing. They're focused. Like a blaze contained behind glass.
"Even," Fingon suggests but hesitates, "even if he isn't your father, would it be so bad to accept us? It isn't as if you've lied to us about it." His hand is still on Harry's arm, not letting go. "Are we truly so terrible?"
Harry feels his eyes widen of their own accord. Feels something inside thaw into blooming snowdrops. Delicate. Fragile but all the more lovely for it.
It's…
The Weasleys – Molly and Arthur – considered him part of their family. Often said he was like their own son. Ron and Hermione considered him a brother. He was termed uncle by many, but this is different.
Here, they've called him cousin and nephew even after he's repeatedly told them that he isn't. And yet, there's an offer to stay even without that between them. There's welcome even after he's done nothing but push them away.
The Ainur are his friends, but he often feels like their charity case. Káno and Indilwen are his friends, too – his closest really, but one isn't on this continent and the other is a horse. His staff – Laerien and Melpomaen and Inglor and the others – he knows they all have real relatives they long for and are waiting on. Harry doesn't even remember what having a family is like. What it's like to be accepted for no other reason than being himself.
There's a little boy in a cupboard buried deep his mind. Past glaciers and castle walls of ice and snow and library shelves full of books. Down through dungeons of icicles and fog thick enough to cut with a blade. All the way hidden at the very bottom of a lonely chasm. Harry feels that cupboard door opening now. Sees a childish hand appear and a flash of green eyes.
Next to him, Fingon stirs.
"There you are," he murmurs. His voice is full of an emotion Harry isn't willing to name.
Harry meets his gaze because if he can stare down a Dark Lord, he can do this, too. Only, Tom just wanted to kill Harry. Fingon wants something else entirely. Wants him to be something and someone he can barely remember or never recall at all.
A cousin. A nephew. A son.
Somehow, that's scarier. Somehow, it's worse than curses, dragons, murderers, dementors, or even death. All of those are things he can fight. All of those are things that he's survived. Conquered.
How is he supposed to handle kindness? Honest interest? Concern? When was the last time he had any of those for him as a person? Not as a headmaster and authority figure? A curiosity to their paradise? A shelter in the eternal blizzard?
Harry lets out a long, hard sigh. Fingon allows the quiet to stretch out between them. He's said everything he wants; he's magnanimous now and grants Harry a reprieve.
"Your hair is getting long," he comments in a very clear change of the subject and casts another glance Harry's direction.
"I should cut it," Harry says back. It's offhandedly, almost an afterthought. When's the last time he had?
Fingon tips his head in thought, but ultimately, he makes a negative motion.
"Keep it," he replies. "Let it grow. You may find that you like it this way."
His expression is serene, gentle at the borders. Harry gives a considering nod but doesn't say anything else. The silence is comfortable now. No longer at all strained. Peaceful even. The elf next to him is a steady warmth. Like sitting in front of the fireplace on a winter's night.
Gil-galad is still the favorite, but maybe Fingon's higher on the list than Harry ever realized.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The sea is lovely today. Calm and clear with soft waves. The sky is midsummer blue with white fluffy clouds. It's warmer than expected for just after breakfast, but the breeze from the water eases the worst of it.
This really is a beautiful place, Harry decides. The village is a short walk away but far enough for comfortable privacy. There aren't any major population centers close, and that's a definite plus with the whispers circulating. With the increasing number of predictions. With new prophecies of death, of the beginning of the end.
But that's a problem for the future. Today is a day for family.
Teddy and Victoire meet him just after nine. He greets them by the top of the dune, his designated apparition point, and they get a full glimpse of the new house to the left with the glorious ocean to the right.
She's used to living by the sea, and this is not so far away from her parents that Fleur will hunt the lot of them down for taking her pregnant daughter out for the day. It's her first grandchild to be perfectly fair, so Harry can understand her overprotective instincts which put Molly to shame.
Teddy looks up at the cottage with an assessing eye. Taking in the wooden walkway leading up, the elevated beds of the garden behind, the second story with a balcony. Harry knows he's already evaluating potential exits and hazards, but that's just how he is. He's spent too much time on the job already and an Auror is never truly off duty.
Both of them are brimming with energy. Bright and happy with their lives, and he's pleased to share even just this moment with them. Teddy's hours have been long lately. There's been a run of difficult cases, and they haven't seen much of each other unless he's at Saint Mungo's to interview victims. He looks better now, however. Better than the last time Harry saw him. The dark shadows beneath his eyes have disappeared and his easy grin is back. He's been sleeping again, hopefully at home and not his office. That usually makes a world of difference
Victoire, Harry's truthfully seen more, as she always stops in after her prenatal appointments to have either lunch or tea before heading back to Gringotts. Harry still has his standing weekly invitation to their flat in the Alley, but Teddy hasn't been there the last three times. Hermione was there last week to help with the Expansion Runes so that a nursery can be added for their son. They still have four months before he arrives, but that time will go by so quickly. It always seems to be racing along at lightning speed.
Harry leads them down the short path to the front door, which is painted a turquoise blue in honor of the man behind him and the color he sported through most of his Hogwarts years. Victoire laughs at it, as if guessing his thoughts. Teddy's hair is Hufflepuff yellow today, but it shifts to Weasley red then just to spite them.
"Your new home is lovely," she says in congratulations as they go through the door into the kitchen, and Harry can tell she's excited by the prospect. Already planning to help him decorate. She's now gazing at empty shelves, itching to open cabinets, all but measuring out the space where the table will go.
The rest of the house is much the same from the sitting room downstairs to all the bedrooms upstairs to the potions brewing space in the basement. The tour isn't much longer than Harry predicted; he knows them too well.
Victoire loves peeking into every nook and cranny. Opening every door and window. Looking at every available space. Teddy trails after her, eyes not missing a single detail. His posture is relaxed though, easy, pleased. His cases are over; his workload has decreased back down to normal. He's getting to come home every night now. He and his wife are getting ready to have a baby; his life is good. Nearly complete.
Save for one thing.
They end up back in the kitchen. He's leaning against the sink, back to the window that overlooks the garden. There aren't chairs yet. Harry didn't see the point for it when he wasn't going to be the one sitting in them most of the time.
Keys in the magical world are different. Aren't like their Muggle counterpart. They aren't just meant to open locks or doors. They give power over wards. Over properties. Bestow ownership. The ones in his pocket don't have his name on them. Haven't since the very beginning. He made that clear from the start when he bought the land and commissioned the house.
He offers them his best smile as he reaches out to hand them over.
"For you," Harry says and means it completely.
They blink at him. Victoire with puzzlement. Teddy with eyes that are turning a very familiar shade of green the longer he stands there.
"The cottage," Harry clarifies then, "it's for you."
There's a long pause. Filled only with the distant sound of waves and the call of gulls.
"Tonton," Victoire breathes, and her face is delighted. Eyes full of tears before she hides them behind her hand.
"Are you sure?" Teddy asks. His hair is black now, dark as raven feathers. "Are you really sure?"
"Of course. Your clan's growing," Harry returns and makes a gesture to both of them. "You'll need the space."
"But this… this is too much," Victoire tells him; her voice is shaky as Teddy takes her hand. "It's far too much."
"We'll never be able to pay you back," Teddy adds. He's a little winded, but Harry can already see his anticipation. Can see the dreams forming, taking shape in all their glory.
Harry simply keeps smiling at them both.
"Why would you ever need to repay me for this? Family takes care of each other."
Victoire's arms come around him first, but Teddy's are there a second later. Stronger. Tighter. Both silently promise to never let go.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Group – Watching Harry and Gil-galad look at each other with stars in their eyes.
Fingon – Were Maitimo and I every that obvious?
Argon & Fingolfin – Laughing outrageously.
Fingolfin – Son, you were worse.
Argon – Nods sagely. Auntie Findis took bets before Artanis took over for her.
Fingon – Shocked. Everyone knew?
Argon – Uncle bet it'd be when we got back from Endor.
Fingon – Wait… Which uncle? Surely Ingoldo, yes?
Argon & Fingolfin – Exchange a look and quickly start walking away.
Fingon – Calls after them. Which uncle?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Celebrían – Sigh. He isn't doing so well.
Gil-galad – No, not after…
Both – Silent for a moment.
Celebrían – Who has only met one of her fathers-in-law in person. I know. We'll take him to see the other peredhil we know.
Gil-galad – Who has also never met any of the Fëanorions in person. Splendid. What a great idea.
Narrator Voice – Spoiler. It was not a great idea.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Attendant #1 – So he died?
Retainer #2 – But he's better now?
Servant #3 – And Lord Eönwë came to check on him?
All of Them – Jumping to all sorts of conclusions.
Retainer #2 – Oh, no. We look at him when we speak to him.
Servant #3 – I once touched him while we passed in the hallway. Do you think he's still angry?
Attendant #1 – We'll just have to try harder!
AN: Snowdrops symbolize new beginnings, hope, rebirth, and the ability to overcome challenges.
-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).
Melpomaen – Figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Ever Hopeful,
Azar