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.
"You!"
Harry sees his life flash before his eyes. He's just to the part where he arrived in Mandos when a vengeful Ñoldo bears down on him in the downstairs hallway of Fingon's estate, three steps outside of the main entranceway as they come in from the stables. He's managed to deposit Indilwen there successfully without anyone the wiser, but Harry knows his luck wouldn't hold. It never does.
Now, he sees every bad decision that has led him here. He wonders if Nienna will have mercy on him. The other Valar really don't seem up to it right now.
Come on, Manwë! For once? A little lightning? Some thunder? Hail and a tornado to suck him away? He heard of a story like that from Hermione. Sometimes, he really feels like he's in Oz, and he wonders how Kansas is doing.
Harry can only brace himself as Argon all but tackles him to the wall. It's directly behind him, which is the sole reason that the elf hasn't brought both of them to the floor. A hand behind his head keeps him from smacking into the marble and plaster, but he still feels all the air rush from his lungs as he's half-squeezed, half-clutched to a very muscular chest like a mother does her newborn.
Gil-galad, that traitor, is too busy cackling beside him. Celebrían has disappeared for parts unknown. Either leaving him to his fate. Or, more likely, she's gone to find her grandfather like the sensible person that she is.
Argon is still gripping him like a werewolf mauls a deer, or like Grawp once hugged that spider, when Findis arrives. Harry feels her before he sees her. Can hear her sedate steps down the elaborate staircase and then against the tiles with the sharp click of her heels. She stops exactly five feet away.
"Stop suffocating him," Findis orders very calmly. Too calmly.
Argon finally pulls back, both hands now around Harry's shoulders. He's still against the wall, but he can actually breathe again. It's a welcome change.
Harry doesn't even mind the stare down he's getting.
"What were you even thinking?" Argon demands then, and his tone is unexpectedly stern, like Mr. Weasley lecturing his sons. "Were you thinking? Did cousin drop you on your head as a child?"
"I was never dropped on my head by anybody," Harry retorts as he tries – and fails – to extricate himself without using too much force, but he's held far too tightly now with fingers twisted in his tunic and robe both. It's a no go without a true struggle. Or magic.
Argon gives him a look of utter disbelief. One that Findis mirrors, though hers comes off even more sardonic. She has a fan in her hand, which she snaps against her palm as Celebrían reappears.
"And you two," Findis adds and points with her fan from Gil-galad to her niece, "helping him like this!"
Harry somehow manages a step forward, Argon dragging along. And what an interesting spectacle that must make?
Her attention rivets back to him.
"They had nothing to do with this. It was all me," Harry states immediately. "Don't take it out on them."
He hears Argon sigh right above his ear. Then, he's pulled into another hug. It isn't aggressive this time. It's quieter, gentler as arms settle around his back, and he finds his temple being pressed against a shoulder. A chin settles on top of his head.
Harry tenses immediately, but Argon is warm. Like Fingon. Like Fingolfin. Like a living fur cloak wrapping around him. However, he's Gryffindor red while they're burnished gold. Still valiant, still noble but less like a king or hero from a storybook. More like a friend at his side, a comforting grasp. He reminds Harry of the twins, honestly. Of George before Fred died. Of playfulness and easy acceptance and jokes even at the darkest hour. They supported him through Quidditch practices and ostracism during his schooling and rescued him from the Dursleys, too.
Harry finds himself relaxing despite himself. He leans in and exhales slowly as Argon rubs across his neck. Lets himself sink into this warmth, to the sentiment offered, and closes his eyes. It's so comfortable. Even… safe.
"We're not mad," the elf says then. It's soft like the swish of a tail. "Just worried."
Harry doesn't respond. Just nods against him. Just sinks in further and lets out a sigh. He isn't quite sure how long they stand like that, but Argon doesn't push him away. Allows him as long as he wants before Harry finally steps back.
He waits even more patiently for Harry's to steady himself before pulling him along upstairs. He doesn't fully let go as he escorts all of them down the corridors to everyone else. They're in Fingon's office, all the members of the House of Finwë who're in residence. Finarfin and Fingolfin stand in front of the desk while Findis marches over to the back cabinet and turns the key; she starts pulling out glasses and a wine bottle. Finrod and Angrod are at the table by the balcony as if trying to stay out of the way. Celebrían moves over to linger near them, but Finrod stands and guides her into his chair.
Fingon is in the center of the room as he waits for them. His arms are crossed, head bowed, but he glances up as soon as they enter. He strides over before they can fully finish walking inside, bumping his brother out of position and coming to stand just in front of Harry. Words seem to be failing him, however. Harry can see a thousand of them fly across his face before he's jerked forward. He thinks he's going to be struck for a fleeting second. That he's finally going to get the anger he deserves.
Instead, he's pulled down and a forehead bumps against his; Harry startles at the tenderness of it. At the affection that tugs at his shields and asks him to come outside. Summer warmth against winter snow thawing into spring soft rain. Snowdrops blossoming in the suddenly revealed green grass.
"Herurrívë," Fingon finally murmurs but says nothing else as his hand finds the back of Harry's neck.
Harry feels his throat tighten at the press of emotions. At the fear and relief and sorrow and fondness… So many that he stops being able to name them all as they drizzle through in steady drops. As they build into a surge and he's left trying to tread water against the flood. His eyes burn from the force of everything. He blinks rapidly and takes a shuddering breath. He trembles, can't stop shaking.
Fingolfin is suddenly there. He's contained heat behind a stone hearth. Not burning but definitely felt as he pulls Harry away from his son. As Fingon takes a reluctant step back. There's a pause as no one touches Harry at all, Fingolfin's hand hovering over his sleeve just out of reach but far enough away.
Winter chill rushes in. Clears the air with a blast of cold freshness. It isn't harsh, but it's centering. He's himself again. Just him in his thoughts. The snowdrops are still there, but the spring is again winter. Not terrible. More like a fresh snowfall. Gentle drifting flakes that bring children out to play. Sleighbells echoing in the background.
After a moment, Harry finally exhales. He's still alone in his mind. The emotions there are solely his own now, and he can think again.
Only then, does Fingolfin steer him forward into the room, touching only his clothes and not his skin as they go further away from the door. And a quick escape, he's certain. But Fingolfin merely squeezes his shoulder before releasing him and returning to his brother's side.
"Where is it?" Finarfin asks after he looks Harry over from head to toe with his green glass eyes; he sounds and looks tired. Like he's been up for days. Hair duller than usual and fine lines on his brow.
Harry knows exactly the distance from Idril's house to here; he's ridden it twice in as many weeks. He suspects that Finarfin has likely slept little during the time it took them to cross it.
"Here."
Behind him, Gil offers up his bag.
Everyone hesitates. They pause as they glance from Harry to Gil-galad when he walks forward unwrapping the scarf. The Silmaril's light is slow to emerge at first, but then, it bursts free like an unhooded hawk. Gil places it on the desk, between the brothers, and the entire room just stares.
Save for Harry. He has his eyes closed, but everything is shaded in red like the sun is beaming down on his face.
Save for Gil-galad. Who's returned to stand at his shoulder with a hand wrapping around his elbow.
It's possible some of them have never even seen a Silmaril before. Celebrían had only because she has visited Eärendil on multiple occasions. He isn't sure about everyone else. If any of them have seen Fëanor's creations in person or only heard about them secondhand. Certainly, Finarfin and Fingolfin have. Fingon likely has as well. Finrod probably when he was with Beren and Luthien.
The others, Harry isn't even sure.
The silence stretches out like a yawning bear awakening from hibernation. Flexing claws and opening her mouth to show all of her sharp teeth.
"You said the Oath," Fingon states at last. He's now slightly off to the side but still close enough that Harry could extend out his hand to touch if he tried hard enough.
His words aren't truly an accusation. More an assertion of fact. Like he's commenting on the color of someone's cloak or the hilt of their sword.
"I…"
How does he even start to explain this? Harry has no idea as he finally glances at them.
Showing them that the Silmaril is aware won't even be the weirdest thing they've ever seen him do. He's starting to get the feeling it won't be the last. Some part of him regrets that. Regrets that they ever saw this side of him. That the illusion of normalcy is broken. That they'll now always know what a freak he is.
It was nice while it lasted, he thinks. Being considered as one of them. An elf. Fitting in. Pretending, even if only for a time, to be anything but what he is.
A liar. A fraud. A mistake.
"You must have," Argon insists breaking his musings with a motion that asks him to come clean.
Harry doesn't shift on his feet. He was a healer who became a professor and then a headmaster. He's the one who made naughty children confess things. Not the other way around. Although he'll admit that the look the sons of Finwë are giving him right now along with Findis' raised eyebrow, Argon's crossed arms, and Fingon's head tilt… it's all very effective. He doesn't even dare turn his gaze to the rest of the room to see what Angrod, Celebrían, and Finrod are doing. He can even feel Gil's unvoiced question in the press of his hand.
"Technically…" Harry begins.
Fingolfin puts a hand on his forehead, covering his eyes, as he laughs. It's a hysterical, ironic sound. It is not the noise a sane man makes.
Finarfin has his head tipped back, gazing at the ceiling as if it has all the answers. Harry hears him murmuring a prayer to Manwë for strength, and that's just rude. Manwë never answers those and much prefers to come in person or send Eönwë, and he was just here.
"Nephew," they both say at the same time and look at each other.
Fingon makes a noise that Harry's becoming well acquainted with. Like a mix of exasperation and disbelief.
Argon just sighs.
"If there was any doubt," Findis mutters to herself, "there certainly isn't any now." She takes a long sip of her wine.
He hears Finrod chuckling uncontrollably in the background. Angrod is speaking to him, but his voice is drowned out by the sound. Gil simply steps up fully beside him and threads their fingers together.
The Silmaril just shines innocently at them all. Radiates pure brilliance like a miniature star as it hovers just above the surface of the table.
"What's done is done," Celebrían says at last. She's soft, silvery in the light, but there's a core of pure adamant in her bearing. "We all have to decide now what to do with it."
As one, they all stare at Harry.
"But… what am I even supposed to with this?" Harry asks everyone but no one in particular.
Since really? He doesn't own the Silmaril; he has no real stake in this game. Yes, he lives in Fëanor's former home, and his family has basically demanded that they get to adopt him. And there's Káno to-
"Well, it is yours," Finrod interrupts as he waves a gallant hand.
His brother nods in agreement. "If you want to know the exact statue of possession and inheritance, I'm sure atar and I could find it for you."
That isn't reassuring at all. Besides, Harry begs to differ. Completely. Utterly. Entirely.
"I don't want it," he states then. It's quite firm.
They all give him a very unimpressed look. It's almost identical on Findis and Fingolfin along with his oldest son. Finarfin's is more pained, as if he's far too sober to deal with this. Argon seems to be enjoying himself along with Finrod, and Angrod is hiding a smirk with a turn of his head. Celebrían merely rolls her eyes. Gil is at least kind enough to keep holding his hand.
Harry doesn't pinch his nose. Nor does he bang his head against the closest wall. They'd stop him before he could even get there.
He honestly, really, and truly does not want the Silmaril. It's the least subtle thing he's ever seen. And coming from a person with an enchanted ceiling in his great hall along with a meadow for a floor, that's really saying something.
"Don't put it in your desk drawer," his elf whispers to him, but it's loud enough for everyone else to hear.
Argon snickers because this truly is ridiculous.
"He would," he agrees, however.
Harry doesn't know if he should feel attacked or complimented. He feels rather put out when not even Gil comes to defend him, but he's slightly mollified when his hand is squeezed.
"I don't think anyone else will truly seek it now," Finarfin allows after a moment, fingers massaging his forehead. "The Valar cleansed it for Eärendil, and Moringotto's curse is long shed."
Findis snorts with her wine glass pressed against her cheek. "I should think you'd be able to defend it well enough regardless," she states and casts a glance at Harry. There's a gleam in her gaze as if knowing or guessing at some truth.
The air in the room is a slight bit chillier at her words. No one comments on that.
"If you truly wish to be rid of it, nephew," Fingolfin cuts in then. "I'm sure you and Nerdanel can reach some sort of arrangement." His mouth is behind his hand, but Harry can still see his smile.
Harry takes a moment to consider that as a possibility. It's even one he'd pondered before. Out of everyone on Valinor, she likely has the strongest claim. He'll have to send her a message when they get back to Formenos. Which means he'll probably have to plan a trip to bring it to her. She resides with her father, Harry believes, but he isn't entirely certain where that is. Perhaps near Aulë? Harry's never actually been to his mansions before.
It's yet more added to Harry's never-ending to-do list. Yet another thing for him to worry over and stress about. Elves don't get headaches; Harry almost thinks it'd be easier on his stress level if they did. If he had something that he could treat. That he could fix.
His free hand goes to his temples, but a palm falls on his shoulder even as Harry tries to figure out logistics. Harry doesn't startle, but he does shift his gaze to see Fingolfin in front of him again. He belatedly notices when Gil-galad frees his hand, but he doesn't look as Fingolfin is drawing his attention.
"All will be well," the older elf tells him. His eyes are silvery and assured, serene as the moon on a cloudless night. "You'll see."
Harry allows himself to be drawn in. Allows himself to be pulled forward. Accepts the reassurance offered and just exhales.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The balcony has great lighting; Harry will give it that. The morning sun peeks perfectly over the horizon as Harry turns his easel to face south. It'll be hot today, sweltering as it has been since the rains stopped, but Harry isn't truly bothered by such things nowadays. Hot. Cold. Dry. Wet. It's all the same to him. Even darkness and light. He sees just as well. Can work just the same.
He's been laboring on this piece whenever he can steal the time, has already been up all night. Working on this ever since his canvas of Formenos. But it's still in progress, one of his more time intense projects in the last year despite the smaller size compared to others.
Gil hasn't told him exactly what he wants for his own painting yet, but Harry does think his next will be either Eönwë again or his favorite elf with his spear. Perhaps he can have a little spar. Or even model his armor for it as well. Purely for research purposes. Yes, definitely that.
It's a pleasant thought. An interesting diversion as the sun starts to truly rise, and Harry keeps going. A grassy plain has already taken full shape along with the trees on the left. The sky will be a miniature of his great hall, and that's what he completes first. The mountains in the distance need a little more shading but are just about done. His centerpiece, however. The stars of the show are his true focus.
Harry's almost giddy as he works. As the sun climbs higher above him. As Gil brings him tea that he's directly handed. Harry sips for a few seconds before putting it to the side and completely ignoring. Forgetting.
He's too focused. Too intent.
It's strange, really. Harry's never had a deadline before. He's always worked at his own pace. Taken his time to get it just right.
This is a different dragon. This is a broom-race, not a simmering potion. It's a sprint. A reckless dive after the snitch where a single mistake will ruin the entire game. Sure, he can start over. Sure, Harry can't truly be hurt even by breaking his neck. But he can fail. He can crash and burn.
Or he can soar.
Risk versus reward.
It's thrilling.
Harry's always performed best under pressure. Always turns certain defeat into victory. In the instant that would break others, he's always risen.
He laughs even as he strokes in gold. Here. And here. A swirl more of red. Vivid, eye-catching. Filling out the mane and tail.
Then, he switches to silver to touch up the underside of the wings. To make them even more dazzling.
Harry hears his elf moving in the room behind him. Drawers opening and closing. A door swinging. Footsteps back and forth. It's a cadence to his work. A background rhythm as he adds more black and then shifts over for a whirl of bronze.
Time loses meaning as he concentrates. As he feels Gil-galad come over periodically to peer past him before going back inside. Celebrían stops in when the sun is at its zenith. He hears them talking behind him. Lunch is mentioned, but nobody leaves. Gil walks over again to check Harry's progress.
He hesitates then. Blinks as a chin settles on his shoulder and an arm circles around his waist. Takes a surprised breath as he's pulled back against a chest. Harry's brush is dangling loosely in his fingers before it's taken and set to the side. His elf leads him off the balcony and back inside; there's a table in their room now. It's a small circle with two white chairs. On top are covered plates along with glasses, napkins, and silverware. Celebrían smiles winningly at them both as she stands and surveys her good work.
Harry looks at it all with bafflement. He has no idea when this even happened.
There should be an armchair here. There was an armchair here last he looked. It's missing now, disappeared for parts unknown. Harry doesn't know when that happened either.
There's a chuckle then; Harry knows that it's at him as Gil gently puts him in a chair and takes the other. Harry is still just looking at him as Celebrían bends down to press a kiss to his cheek. He tilts his head at her as she turns, flouncing off with a swish of her pink dress and waving over her shoulder.
Harry ponders the last time he's seen her even as Gil-galad takes the covers off their meals. How many days has it been? Three? Four? Was it in Fingon's office? When they brought the Silmaril?
That's at the bottom of Harry's trunk currently. It's wrapped in the scarf again, occasionally sending him a sleepy pulse of radiance to remind him that it's still here. Still content to be in his general vicinity.
Gil fills his glass, and the sound of it clinking on the table brings Harry back. He eats absentmindedly as he considers what else he needs to finish, and his plate is empty before he realizes it. His elf merely waves him away after that, and Harry wanders back to the balcony. Reaching for his brush, which has just started drying. He loses himself again in the colors and enhancement. In the pigments and mystique. There's a knock on the door, but Harry barely even hears it.
Everything is coming together. Is just about finished. Only a few touches left. A stroke there. A touch-up here. A little more to the mane. Fluff the feathers a bit. Refine the grass blades in front just so.
Then, he's done.
Harry pauses for a minute to look over everything, but it's exactly as he envisioned it before he started.
It's perfect.
He's smiling as he breathes the final magic in.
Everything wakes slowly. In the distance, he sees the moon set while the horizon starts brightening. The sky is still a deep, dark blue that's almost purple, and it'll take some time for the heavens to lighten fully. The circle of fur and feathers in the center is still fast asleep. Harry lets them for now; he wants someone else to be there to see it.
He lets out a happy sound then. Part satisfaction, part giddiness. Stretching his arms overhead and peering around. In the real world, the sun is nearly at the horizon with streaks of red trailing after.
Behind him, Gil stirs. His packing is completely forgotten, clothes and combs and all manner of things scattered on the bed behind them. He's been too busy watching Harry to finish, but now, he walks over and presses lips to Harry's skin. There's laughter in his ear as he watches the scene unfold. Standing behind Harry for a long time before offering another, lingering kiss and returning to his packing.
Harry watches as he goes before turning back to his now finished work. It's a fitting gift, he knows. They're leaving tomorrow, so it'll have to be now though. Dinner is soon, and there will be too much distraction after.
Fingon is easy enough to find. Harry just follows his aura unerringly down the hallway to where his room is. Harry's never been inside, but before he can even have indecision, his host is at the door. He raises a brow more at the canvas in Harry's hands than Harry himself; he steps back either way. He's still watching as Harry comes inside and looks around to find the appropriate spot.
For all that he's the master of this estate, his room truly isn't more elaborate or grander in size than anyone else's here. The bed is a darker wood, almost black, but the materials are the same quality. The wardrobe is almost identical to Gil's save for the color and detailing, and in place of an open space in front of the unlit hearth, there's two chairs with a small table and gameboard set between them. The vanity is slightly smaller but in the exact same spot, as are the balcony doors, and in the corner, by built-in bookshelves, is another very comfortable-looking armchair. This one in ivory instead of blue.
Harry ultimately chooses that as his new easel. Fingon gives him an assessing look first, but he eventually follows direction and takes everything in. Just as Harry knew it would be, his eye is drawn to the middle.
To the glorious griffin in bronze and red. To the noble hippogriff in silver and black with hints of gold in the outline of the body and wings. Harry doubts Fingon has ever seen either creature in real life – they don't exist here. The only one who's ever actually seen them before is Harry.
Until now.
Fingon stares as they lay together, entwined. Curled so tightly together that it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins save for the hues.
Until the griffin rouses and opens glowing gray eyes.
Fingon breath hitches and stops, but Harry knows that he still lives by the sound of his heart beating frantically and the blazing press of this aura. He's mesmerized. Gaze fixated as the griffin lifts his head and starts inspecting his surroundings. As he turns to the still dozing hippogriff and drapes over a wing.
The elf doesn't inhale until Harry very gently nudges him. He takes a trembling breath followed by another. He can't look away even as he blindly reaches for Harry. Even as he jerks him into his side, arm around his back. Even as he starts laughing with awe and longing in equal parts.
"You are a wonder, nephew," he whispers and then says nothing else for a very long time.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
He doesn't tell Andromeda. Not everything. Not many or even most things. He tries to keep things happier. Lighter for her sake.
She worries; Harry knows she does. As much as Molly ever has even if it's quieter, more disciplined as befitting a serpent. She worried when he traveled the world even as he came back every weekend to see Teddy. Worried more since he's been back as her apprentice despite their time officially ending and him now at Saint Mungo's for the last eighteen months.
She won't ever stop worrying, he thinks. Not after Ted. Not after Tonks. It's the nature of parents.
Still, he doesn't want to make her fears worse. She knows about some of the incidents but not all. Just the ones officially reported to the Aurors. The ones that Ron and Gawain Robards are trying so hard to track down.
There've been others. Separate events that Harry's sure are absolutely unrelated. He hardly thinks that the former Death Eaters the Ministry hunts would work alongside hags, a very peculiar vampire, two rambunctious tieflings, and a gang of goblins.
Ragnok apologized for that last one personally. Bestowed a wergild of thousand galleons, a sharp bow when Harry didn't make a fuss, and the heads of his four attackers nicely wrapped in a gilded box. It's the thought that counts, Harry supposes.
But Ragnok is old now. He knows that he'll eventually retire to a venerable position as an elder on the goblin council. His heir is a cunning-eyed gentlegoblin, Steelclaw, with the manners of a courtly noble and the throwing skills of a ninja. He's the one to finish off the last would-be assassin after Harry has wounded them but kept them all alive with no real idea of what to do next.
Harry'll never look at quills the same way after that.
Still, it's all become more of a mess than even Harry expected. He knew defeating Tom would have repercussions; he's not that much of an idiot. The power vacuum alone was appalling until Kingsley wrestled the government into submission with the help of the Order, Percy Weasley, and Lucius Malfoy of all people. But the sheer number of petty grievances, grift, and incompetence is staggering. And that's just the Ministry.
Harry was sheltered from it as a baby. Not as a newly-turned adult. Not as their savior who hadn't done things on their timeline and to their specifications.
Of course, most people are delighted. Thrilled even to be going back towards their normal, benign lives. Content to stick their heads in the sand and not notice all the changes being made in the background as long as it isn't too much of a bother for them.
But the old saying that one can't please everybody is now Harry's new catch phrase. Leaving to travel the world wasn't just to escape his fame and marriage contracts.
Not all that many Death Eaters died with their lord. Some were captured, yes. But a number of his supporters were never even marked. Few were courteous enough for actual death threats. Most just sent the curses flying – case in point Amycus Carrow.
There are even Muggleborns and half-bloods who're angry that he didn't defeat Voldemort sooner. That he didn't martyr himself for them earlier. Several non-humans take umbrage with him, too. But not many of them would actually try to hurt Harry with anything more than their words, the incident in Gringotts notwithstanding.
Harry knows he'll weather this storm like everything else, but it's a bitter potion really. Hurts as much as the dagger to the back did before he pulled it free and healed himself. Helping people is its own reward, but he never expected punishment for it.
No good deed indeed. Hmph.
One good thing, he can say though is that his mail is better screened nowadays. It should be; he pays people for it. A service definitely worth not being hexed or cursed or potioned into a relationship, and that was a very near miss on Dean's part right after the war. All of them were more than a bit paranoid about unknown senders now; Romilda vane isn't forgotten so easily either.
Not to mention there are only so many places to reach Harry in person.
Saint Mungo's is public, but it's a high priority target with Aurors and Hit Wizards permanently stationed. Plus, there are other measures after the war and just for unruly patients, anxious family members, or unstable magic.
Harry's home is unplottable, address unpublished, and warded with the sort of spells not available to the public. It also has Fidelius with Harry as his own secret keeper. Andy's residence is similar along with all Order members nowadays.
He's allowed to portkey directly to Ragnok's office or even to his vaults so that minimizes his exposure in Gringotts.
He visits most of his friends at their homes or has them come to him. He rarely goes out unless truly necessary, and Kreacher does a lot of the normal shopping.
He avoids Diagon like the plague. Hogsmeade now too after the last Killing Curse. If he has to go in person to stores, it's done by apparating to Place Cachée or heading into the Muggle London, usually the latter. He can blend in easily, and who would ever look for him there?
Or so Harry thinks.
He feels the tingle of the first spell before he sees it. He's just walking by a side street on his way to his preferred apparition point, but he's already ducking out of the way on instinct as the electric blue light is about half-way to him. His shield is cast wordlessly, before his wand even truly drops into his hand, and deflects the following curse right back. A third goes wide and above. Harry is thirty feet to the left an instant later. Crouching between two parked cars. Scanning around with eyes, ears, and magic.
It's late, sun already set, but not quite time for the shops to be closed. There are still people milling around, but not as many as there would've been earlier in the day. Some have turned to where the spells landed. Others to where they came from. A few have dropped to the ground automatically. Several haven't even noticed anything's a miss at all until another four spells fly through the area where he just was. Harry recognizes three of them but not the last. He forces all of them into the ground through a combination of indignation and sheer will.
Magic does what it wants, but it'll listen if you can plead, seduce, or outright subjugate it enough. Or if you are a favored child like Tom or Dumbledore.
He could run right now; this is his chance. Harry's probably the target, but there's always the chance that he's not. That this truly is a coincidence
He can't leave people to be injured or worse to save himself.
There's a moment of silence, like the other magicals are surprised at what happened. But Harry's not waiting on their behalf. He's already started locating them. One, two… More.
He apparates again to the rooftop that's occupied by a pair. To behind where their position should be. A healing charm that guarantees a full twenty-four hours of sleep and has no known counter takes them both out. He glues them down just in case and summons both their wands along with any back-up weapons or even portkeys, but they don't have any.
Harry finds three more together at the opening of an alleyway across the avenue. Rinse and repeat but the last one has started to turn just as she goes down. He knows he's nearly out of time.
He can feel the remaining trio starting to move, but one of them is slowed – was hit by the rebound of their earlier curse and is injured. Them separate, however, as they finally realize the danger they're in. He doesn't want them to get any bright ideas.
The summoning charm doesn't work on sapient beings but will on their clothes; a number of people are able to fight it off though. Much lesser known though is that it's possible to apparate someone else without actually touching them. To put your magic in a field around and pull.
Line of sight makes it easier. Power and practice do, too. Harry can see all three easily once he's back up high enough. And he's certainly got the power. Earth is large, and some countries are very vast or far apart from one another. Harry had a lot of practice on his world tour.
He saves the injured assailant for last, but he's down and out just like the others soon enough. Harry rolls him over, getting ready to stick him to the rooftop as well, but he freezes as he gets a better look at the face.
It's Kevin Entwhistle; Harry recognizes him. Not from school so much now, though he knows they had some classes together. He was a Ravenclaw, Harry thinks. A Muggleborn. Had graduated Hogwarts late due to the Death Eaters.
He was in the paper maybe a year or so back. A birth announcement for his son.
Harry feels his heart speed up with dawning realization. More so as he slowly rechecks his other attackers; he hadn't really bothered earlier in the heat of the moment. Nevertheless, he knows six of the eight, and the other two are enough like the rest to be family members.
It's… Never in his wildest dreams…
Harry crouches down on the roof, holly wand in his hand, even as he sends the message to Ron and the other Aurors.
He doesn't know what to feel. What to think.
It's one thing for it to be Death Eaters. He can even understand goblins being angry that he's gotten off so lightly for stealing their dragon and destroying part of the bank. The vampire was really a misunderstanding; that was all sorted out easily enough. The tiefling pair was just very determined and unable to take no for an answer. The hags… Harry didn't even want to think too hard on any of that mess; Ron still says it's taken care of now.
But this? This isn't just drunken words or an offer that's a tad too pushy or even a request for a lock of his hair, creepy as that was.
Harry exhales heavily as he feels the first brush of magic. Then, he hears the pops of others arriving.
Kevin isn't dead, but he'll be in for a very bad time of things when he wakes up. All of them will. This is a Muggle area; this is a regular street in London. The Obliviators will be going spare making sure this is contained, especially with the way more cameras are added every day. Not to mention the Aurors and Kingsley. Ron and Hermione. Andromeda. All the Weasleys. The DA. The Order.
The papers. Harry knows this will be tomorrow's headline. Would be this evening's but that's already run.
He hasn't even told Andromeda about everything else, but he knows this is too big to keep from her. Too big to contain.
Harry shakes his head. His hands tighten then. Right curling around his wand. Left clenching against his ring.
He's still shaking his head when Ron steps up to his side and puts an arm around his shoulders.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Argon – You said the Oath.
Harry – I didn't.
Angrod – You totally said the Oath.
Harry – I really didn't.
Fingon – Be honest here.
Harry – I totally didn't maybe kinda say the Oath. Except that one time.
Everyone – Why are you like this?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – If Eärendil wore the Silmaril maybe I can just…
Insert vision montage of stapling Silmaril to the sky vs making his patronus carry it around every night vs putting it on an enchanted paper airplane vs a thousand other ideas.
Harry – Opens desk drawer. I'll just put it in here for now.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Maia #1 – Walks to the cell. Come with me, prisoner.
Fëanor – Behind the bars, lying on a cot wild west style. What's going on, deputy?
Maia #2 – The warden wants to talk to you. Keep your hands where we can see 'em.
Fëanor – Walks out with boots clicking on the floor and spurs jingling. Pauses. Not without my hat.
Maia #1 – Rolls eyes.
Maia #2 – Summons it directly on his head.
Fëanor – Inspects hat for a moment. It's supposed to be black.
Maia #2 – You've been upgraded for good behavior.
AN: So we're almost back to Formenos. I promise.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) Hrívë (Winter).
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) O (Masculine).
Ever Hopeful,
Azar