Chapter Text
Harry Potter has a problem. Several of them in fact. A whole list in fact. He could write an entire essay on the topic in four millimeter cursive with citations.
He snorts and hurries down the corridor at a pace that's most assuredly not a run. It's more dignified than that. Especially with the expensive robes they insist on stuffing him into. The rugs are plush and soften his footsteps, but he's already silent after all these years of escaping relatives and fans. Not to mention stalking out-of-bounds students in the hallways. Further avoiding all the jewelry they tried to foist on him certainly keep him from jingling as he ducks down the stairs.
Forget an essay, Harry thinks. Try a treatise. A book.
He's done that before, after all. It's not nearly as hard as people make it out to be. As much correspondence as he gets nowadays, it certainly feels like he's writing another. Though admittedly, the illustrations are the best – and most amusing – part.
Harry honestly doesn't know how he keeps ending up in these situations. Life after the war had been quieter, yes. Fewer Dark Lords or death-defying stunts but certainly still odd. Even for a wizard. Now, it's taken two hard left turns and full speed straight on ahead. Directly into the outright bizarre.
"Cousin!"
It's just the edge of his hearing, up two hallways and an entire floor. He can imagine the look on Fingon's face, can practically feel the disappointment from here. That only makes him step even lighter like a naughty schoolboy avoiding the prefects.
Doesn't this bring back memories, Harry muses as he turns another corner that takes him closer to the kitchens.
Running from his cousin – or in this case, an alleged cousin. Though admittedly Fingon and Dudley are worlds apart. Quite literally. Looks, temperament, and location. If he had to choose, Harry knows which one he'd pick. But that'd open an entire sack of kneazles he doesn't want to deal with.
His pace slows then as he passes two servants exiting the largest kitchen.
"Lord Hérion," they murmur and offer shallow bows, but at least both look him in the eye now. Which is a vast improvement and has only taken several years.
Considering the timescale that the Eldar work on, that was practically as fast as a Firebolt 84. Maybe one day, they'll even drop the lord part of this utter farce.
Baby steps.
Harry sighs and slips inside. The kitchen itself is a cacophony of noise despite the early hour. It's so busy that he isn't noticed, and he's out the side door without any further comment. The stable's in easy distance. Indilwen, already strategically placed in a stall by the back exit, waits for him alone. There are no stable-hands in sight, but he can hear them moving in the distance for their dawn chores. She lifts her head at his approach, chewing on her morning meal of hay and oats. She flicks a judging ear his way and stamps her front foot when he starts saddling her by himself.
"I know, I know," Harry commiserates and pauses to scratch along her neck just how she likes.
A blue eye turns to glare at him. As if to ask what he thinks he's doing this time of day with the sun just barely peaking over the horizon.
"It's not so early that they didn't know I was leaving," Harry defends even as moves to rub behind her right ear. "I also said my goodbyes to my hosts last night".
And if they think he meant later in the week or even the month, that is in no way shape or form his fault.
It isn't.
The amount of time elves spent visiting each other is insane. Harry isn't staying here for months much less years. He has things to do. A castle to decorate. A town to construct. Books to read. Herbal lore to create. Potions to envision. Paints to mix. Things!
It isn't his fault that travel here is so slow. Of course, he plans to apparate he and Indilwen once they're a safe distance from prying eyes. No one has to know that part though since he's never going to explain it. To anyone. Ever.
There's a flick of a horsetail behind him that swats Harry on the shoulder in warning. He feels the presence before Harry hears or sees him. Male. Elda – not Maia. Steady but not sneaking. Pausing right outside their stall.
"Hiding again, I see." The voice is amused. Familiar. Too pleasant. "Or is it running, Marcaunon?"
Harry doesn't sigh. He also doesn't bang his head on the wooden post next to him, but it's tempting. Somehow, he should've known his luck wouldn't hold. Life is never that easy on him.
Harry turns then as is only polite. He hides his apprehension, his need to rush. Pushes away the sinking feeling of Fingon edging ever closer.
"King Gil-galad," he greets and nods respectfully as he can given that he's in the middle of saddling a horse at the crack of dawn during his great escape from far too many of Finwë's line.
That earns him a chuckle.
"I'm hardly king of anything these days," Gil-galad returns, "and I know I told you that we do not have to use titles between us. I think you prefer that even."
He's still standing by the stall door, looking impossibly royal even with their surroundings. His tunic is layers of ocean blues and white like cresting waves, and the circlet on his brow glints in silver mixed with gold in the morning light. It isn't the most elaborate Harry's seen – that honor absolutely goes to Queen Indis. The brooch for his house is apricot-size and set over his heart, and there's a glittering ring on each hand. It'd be a bit much by magical standards, but it's barely anything for a Ñoldo.
Harry, however, is a complete minimalist. The only jewelry he wears is the signet he came to this world with – not that the elves can even see it on his hand. He knows it makes the Ñoldor beside themselves that he doesn't have more or any as far as they can tell. That coupled with his other odd behavior sets him apart, and he's seen several of them trying to hide their whispers behind their hands and interrupted many other conversations just by entering the room.
"You are far more king than I'm lord," Harry says instead, and Indilwen nudges him with her nose, braided black mane tickling along his cheek.
That statement earns him another laugh. Gil-galad's smiling, friendly and a little too cheerful for this time of day.
Harry's immediately suspicious. Not the least of which is why Gil-galad is here of all places. Not Tirion or even Fingon's estate – since Angrod and Írimë have been here for weeks already, and Gil-galad is supposed to be dangling off this crazed family tree somehow. But why is Gil-galad here in the stable?
"And yet, how well Formenos blossoms under your hand," the older elf comments, and it's almost idle. Like he speaks on nothing more than the weather. He's regal even as he leans on the short wall, outer robe a waterfall of silk in the faint breeze. "I'm told it was once a place of exile, punishment even, but I hear it is a town that is nearly a city now. A place of warmth in the infinite snow."
That's… true, Harry admits, even if only to himself. He had a lot of experience rebuilding after the war. He'd learned to soothe instead of harm, to mend instead of rend. Formenos started as a project. As a lack of anything else better to do in this strange new world. Now, it's a passion. A calling. Creating a new home for himself and others displaced to Valinor. Unable to return to the world they'd known before. Though admittedly, his had not been Arda like theirs.
"That doesn't make me it's lord though," Harry points out. He's standing very still with Indilwen practically nuzzling into his back. Her bridle is taunting him as it hangs just out of reach, but it'd be just a little too rude and a little too casual for him to reach for it while speaking with a Ñoldo king.
"Just the person in charge," Gil-galad comments. It's very knowing as he taps his chin with a ringed finger just so.
Harry purposefully looks at him and not the bridle. He doesn't shrug; he isn't a teenager anymore, and this world is more formal than his last. Instead, he inclines his head.
Formenos needed a leader. Despite his protests over his appearance, it somehow became Harry. Perhaps it's past experience. Maybe it's lingering humanity and their need to just do something and not just sit around. Perhaps it's just Harry himself.
"I was the only option," Harry offers, but it's poor as an excuse. "I don't think people become lords by default."
Gil-galad pauses, stares at him for a long moment. Harry can feel the clock ticking, can practically hear Fingon's footsteps in the distance as they draw closer.
"One would be surprised."
It isn't mocking, but there's something to his tone. Gentler now. Still warm but the amusement is gone. He hasn't stopped leaning on the wall, but there's not a speck of dirt on his tunic to be seen. Repelled by some elven magic that all of them – even Harry, too, now – seem to have. His hair is layered between loose and braided as appropriate for his station. In the dawn light, the deep, rich brown holds shades of red and even gold.
"Perhaps," Gil-galad says then, interrupting his thoughts, "perhaps we can both not be lords for the day?"
Harry blinks once and again when Gil-galad enters the stall and abruptly stands beside him. Indilwen nickers then, swishes her tail. But she allows him close, which is surprising in more ways than one. A quick escape isn't the only reason she's kept at the back of the barn and away from other horses or strangers in general.
"My Arthion is kept nearby," the elf clarifies. His eyes – Harry notices – are neither blue nor gray but something in-between like an oncoming storm. "A ride this morning would surely be welcome, no?"
There's mischief present. Harry's known far too many troublemakers to miss the unspoken offer.
"I plan to ride north," he allows even as Indilwen rubs her forehead against his shoulder again but doesn't chew on his robe this time. Probably because this is one he actually likes and it's comfortable to ride in.
"I have not spent much time in the north of Aman," Gil-galad responds, amusement ebbing and flowing. "So I defer to your expertise." He gives a generous wave of his hand.
Harry lets out a breath; he offers a nod. It earns him a satisfied smile.
This… This can work. He can bridle Indilwen while Gil-galad's horse is prepared, and they can leave. He can head in the direction of Formenos until Gil-galad is ready to make his own departure or stop to rest or do… whatever else he's planning to do.
But really, that would be too easy.
There's a not-so-unexpected tingle of doom then. A crawling sensation down his spine, and Harry knows his time has come even before he hears the words.
"Leaving so soon, cousin?"
Fingon isn't a boggart. He isn't. Harry doesn't jump or gasp. He also doesn't sigh heavily in defeat.
And for someone who's thousands of years old with literal gold woven around his braids, Fingon somehow looks like a miserable, abandoned crup discarded in the Diagon gutter. He also manages to have an aura of a despondent grandmother with his hands folded over his chest. Harry has been many things – healer, master, professor, headmaster – but standing before this elf, he feels all of eleven years old being gently rebuked for staying up past his bedtime while not turning in his homework and simultaneously putting them into negative house points. This is worse than upsetting Professor Flitwick and making Hagrid cry combined. Molly Weasley, bless her after all these years, never even had this sort of dastardly power.
"Good morning, Lord Fingon," Harry greets, and he fails at not feeling like he just kicked a mooncalf when it's already down.
Fingon's face saddens ever-so-slightly as he lets himself in the stall like he owns the place, which… fair. Though what's with all the fancily dressed former kings of the Ñoldor and this stable, Harry will never know.
Indilwen's ears flatten as her space is further invaded, and she backs even closer to Harry. Luckily, she calms when he puts a hand on her neck.
"Hérion, cousin, no need for formalities between family," Fingon corrects with a shake of his head. He seems unconcerned about the unhappy meras, or maybe he's very confident in his ability to dodge. "No need to rush out our door. You are welcome to stay as long as you like. It really isn't an imposition."
If he were still human, Harry would be feeling his left eye twitch. That doesn't happen to the Eldar, however, it seems. He contents himself with running his fingers along Indilwen's mane instead.
Fortunately, he's spared answering by Gil-galad.
"Findekáno, well met on this fine day. We were just discussing our ride," he offers, and it's so smooth that Harry would believe him if he didn't know better.
Those sad silvery eyes flick from him to Gil-galad then, and Harry can actually take a deep breath.
"Gil, up so early today, I see," Fingon counters, glancing from one to the other with a dark eyebrow rising, "I did not realize you were so eager to head out together. The household has yet to even sit down for our morning meal."
"We had hoped to be back before then," Gil-galad returns, and really, it's ever so amiable. So nonchalant.
Fingon moves to open the stall door. It's only then that Harry belatedly recognizes that he's being led out by a firm hand on his upper arm.
"Ah, well. We shall have an early start of things then, but a ride after breakfast sounds splendid," their host replies, and there's a suspiciously shining tone now. It's appeared magically like the sun peaking out from behind the rainclouds. "I know a lovely lake to the south of the city. I shall be most happy to show it to you both."
South, huh. Thwarted again, it seems.
Somehow, Fingon's arm has come to rest on his shoulder as he's turned towards the exit. Harry can just see Gil-gald watching them out of the corner of his vision. His face is a pleasant but neutral mask. A servant has meanwhile and miraculously appeared. Now hovering nearby, trying very hard to hide the dubious expression on his face as he sees the saddle Indilwen's already wearing. Harry knows when he's been outmaneuvered though and lets himself be tugged along. He can admit defeat gracefully.
"I did not know you liked riding so, cousin. Surely though, the forests of Formenos present a unique challenge with the snow," Fingon continues readily, but he pauses to look at Harry then. His expression is odd, unreadable for the briefest instant that's gone as soon as it arrives. "Tyelkormo was always the best horseman and hunter, though the Ambarussa were nearly of equal skill. I didn't spend quite as much time with them as others in the family. Irissë was very dear to Tyelko and later the Ambarussa once they were born. Arakáno also rode with them frequently. You will have to ask them more yourself when they arrive."
That brings Harry up short. He stops mid-stride just inside the entryway to the barn. Fingon's arm is still around his shoulder, but his grip is looser now.
"They're coming here?"
Since really, there aren't enough of them already. Harry had only come to Fingon's estate out of obligation and to keep friendly ties to the people outside of Formenos. He knows this song and dance too well. Has learned the politics of it over a lifetime in the magical world. Make the appropriate visits. Go to the right functions. Shake hands with people he would sooner hex – or would hex him. Smile for the cameras. Repeat. Ad nauseam.
Fingon honestly seems puzzled by the inquiry.
"Certainly," he adds with a small frown, "uncle as well."
There's a faint buzzing in Harry's ears that he forcefully ignores.
"Your uncle?" Harry questions more to himself.
It takes him a moment – truly, this family tree is a ridiculous as the Black's – but that must mean King Finarfin – King Arafinwë by his original name. He's current ruler of the Ñoldor in Tirion despite all the other kings from Endor running around. Though who knows what will happen when – if Finwë – returns. Most of them have either gone back to their prior homes. Or have formed their own cities with the influx of newcomers and rule from there.
"Our uncle," Fingon corrects gently as they resume walking back to the manor with Gil-galad trailing behind. "My father will be coming here as well. Although he will likely travel earlier."
Harry's heart doesn't skip a beat. It doesn't.
He isn't in the midst of House of Finwë family reunion. This isn't his problem. Not his augurey, not his rainfall. He can get out of this.
"And when is this joyous occasion?" he asks. How Harry keeps the sarcasm from his voice, he'll never know.
Fingon laughs ever-so-cheerily as he tells him. And really, elves are too much sometimes.
Harry does some quick math in his head even as he thinks that. He nearly blanches. There's a sudden pounding at his temple as his pulse speeds up. A swaying in his step before he steadies himself.
That's… That's over six months from now! He can't… He is not staying here for six months. He isn't!
Behind him in the rapidly growing distance, Indilwen whinnies.
It sounds all too much like a cackle.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Sleep for an elf is different. Need for true sleep is rare and usually only when exhausted or injured. Most often is a light trance, walking through memories or true dreaming. Harry prefers sleep to be honest, but he isn't comfortable enough doing that here, outside of the privacy of his own suite in Formenos. Too much risk of being caught. Too many explanations that no one ever seems to believe anyway.
He's tired though. Politicking is always draining even when it's people he likes. And it's close to the surface. The memory of waking up here.
It always is.
He opens his eyes to a soft light. The surface beneath him is a pillowed cloud and beckons him back to sleep, but there's a nagging itch between his shoulder blades. Harry knows he's being watched before he even sees the…
Hm… He's not a man. Not exactly. There's an otherness to him even as he leans back and tucks his hand down to his lap. As if he's just been reaching out to touch but reconsidered at the last second. His hair is dark in the way that nighttime is dark, as are his eyes. His face is stern, brows drawn down, but he's not elderly nor young nor middle-aged. There's a timeless glint to his eyes like the oldest vampires or a phoenix. Ageless. Unending.
His expression though. It'd be comical if the situation were anything else. The being – Námo, he later learns – stares at Harry with something that can be only described as the lovechild of shock, awe, and absolute horror. Rather like watching a broom collision during a Quidditch match. Unable to look away from the spectacle as those involved plummet to the ground below in a tangle of blood, twigs, and limbs.
That expression barely changes as Harry sits up and slowly looks around. The room is… different. Grays, blues, whites. Bright but no windows and source-less light. The furniture would be like that of a bedroom, but it's made of some unknown material – not wood but also not muggle plastic, metal, or stone.
There are others in the room but only one of them is looking at Harry. A woman, hair so pale a blonde underneath her gray hood that it's white – and wouldn't the Malfoys be jealous of that? Her eyes are moist, color-obscured, and there are tear-tracks on her face as though she's recently been crying, but there's just the very faintest of smiles as she gazes at him. The look is fond, and it makes something in Harry tremble and glance away.
A second woman – diminutive, veiled – speaks delicately by the entrance. Despite her small stature, he can't see fully past her. Somehow though, he knows that there are four – no five – more people on the other side. She steps back then and gestures before giving a small nod. Harry sees a shadow of someone just beyond her now, but the hallway is dim where his room is bright. He can just make out a flash of silver – hair, he thinks – before that too is gone.
Then, they're alone. Harry feels everyone but the three in the room with him leave. There's no door, but somehow, the opening closes. It's a little too like magic for his taste.
He feels their eyes on him, but it's the male who speaks first.
"I bid you welcome to the Halls of Mandos." His voice is deep, echoing like they're in a cavern. But there's a breathless quality as if he'd forgotten how to speak.
Harry wants to ask where this is, but he hesitates. He… died. He knows he did. He'd felt it. Felt his soul separate from his body. Only, there was no station this time, no train, and no Dumbledore. The other times there were but not now. There was the Veil and then here. Is that the difference?
He looks from one to the other and back slowly.
"I… How did I get here?" he questions instead. As that really seems the most sensible.
His host flinches – at least, Námo does. The blonde covers her mouth with her hand and turns her head away. He can't even see the face of the veiled woman.
There's a very long pause.
"You were… delivered here personally," Námo says flatly. His eyes are blacker than the darkest shadows, but there's the flicker of a single light. A sole star in the eternal night.
Harry gapes at him.
What? What?
Since that makes has as much coherence as some of the homework from hungover seventh-years he'd previously tried to grade. Or reading the handwriting of the first-years not trained in penmanship.
"Eru Ilúvatar delivered you here," Námo continues ever-so-faint, "and bid me to release you into Valinor."
That… That means absolutely nothing to Harry. But first part, the name, is said with such reverence – such devotion – that Harry's hesitant to voice more questions. And to be honest, he has no idea what to even ask.
He stares at them as they stare right back at him. Silence stretches out awkwardly.
The room around him is aglow, solemn, otherwise empty. Clinical and detached in the way of hospitals. Some would find this soothing, but Harry has always preferred a more intimate setting. Cozy furniture with a cackling fire, blankets, warm drinks as the snow fell outside. If he was truly a follower of the magical ways, he should be in the Summerlands. Meadows of verdant green and endless warm weather.
This is opposite from any afterlife he imagined without thinking he's being punished. This certainly isn't the welcoming committee he wants. He's always expected his friends, students, colleagues. Ron and Hermione. Teddy. Victoire. Andromeda. The Weasleys. Maybe even his parents and Sirius. He's outlived so many people over the years first through war and then through time.
Instead, he gets strangers. If he'd known this is what dying would've brought him, maybe he should've rethought his options.
The blonde woman steps forward then. She's by his bedside and sitting next to him before Harry can even register the action.
"You are understandably confused," she murmurs, and her voice is gentle rain on an autumn day. Calm but melancholy as it drizzles down. "This 'tis not the world you are used to, but we can teach you. This is not a punishment. I dare say this is a gift."
She takes his hands, and it's only then that Harry realizes he's made fists. Her skin is smoother than any silk as she runs her fingers over his ring, but there's a strength to her grasp underneath the softness.
She's crying, Harry thinks. Startled that anyone would do that for him now. When he was younger, yes. But he hasn't been a child for centuries. It's been so long since anyone shed tears on his behalf.
Who was the last? Rose perhaps? Ginny's youngest daughter? Teddy's grandson? Harry had certainly wept for their loss and the loss of their children.
A hand strokes his hair then, infinitely tender as a stray lock is tucked behind his ear.
"All will be well," she says. There's something to her words, some hidden power. "You shall see."
Somehow, despite everything, despite the fact that he doesn't even know her name, Harry believes her.