Chapter Text
Harry didn’t remember falling asleep
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One moment, he was curled on his side in bed, the weathered weight of The Silmarillion clutched loosely in his arms—its once-bright dust jacket long lost to time, pages yellowed, and the spine cracked from countless readings.
It smelled like old parchment, like something ancient and enduring.
A relic
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Just like him.
He didn’t even like Tolkien, not really—not the way others raved about elves and battles. But this book… this book was different.
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This was the first thing the Dursleys had ever given him.
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Not out of kindness.
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Not even close.
Dudley had outgrown his "fantasy phase," and Aunt Petunia, with her usual sneer, had tossed the book into Harry’s cupboard like a burden.
“Might as well rot in there with your freakishness,” she’d muttered but Harry had taken it in his arms like a lifeline.
He had pressed his nose to the pages and imagined another world—a world where people belonged to something greater, even when they were broken.
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A world that wasn’t his cupboard.
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He held onto the book like a treasure, even now, long after war and wandlight and tombstones.
It had survived everything.
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So had he..
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_____________________________
Earlier that evening, he’d reread The Fall of Gondolin.
And just like always, it twisted something deep and raw inside him.
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Maeglin.
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He lingered on the name, over and over. .
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Not as a villain.
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Not as a traitor.
But as a boy born of a fractured union—isolated, unloved, cast into a world that expected him to thrive while giving him nothing.
And for what?
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For being angry?
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For wanting something of his own?
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Or was he had been misunderstood?
The story painted him in shades of betrayal and shadow, but Harry saw something else...
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Grief
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Loneliness.
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Longing.
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Maeglin reminded him of "Him."
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Of how even monsters once wore small shoes and dreamed under the same sky as everyone else.
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Of how maybe,
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Just maybe, everything could have turned out differently.....
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if only someone had been kind.
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To save him from the orphanage..
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Harry had spent years trying to understand why.
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Why it had to be him?
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Why He had done the things he did.
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Why the world demanded so much and gave so little....
He thought, sometimes, that he almost understood.
"If somebody had saved him…" he thought, his fingers tracing a sentence in the text, "…maybe he wouldn’t have fallen."
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"Maybe he could’ve been more."
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But what could Harry do?
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Nothing.
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He was tired.
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Even if he did...
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It had been too late....
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Tired of carrying destinies.
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Tired of reading tragedies.
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Tired of wondering who he could’ve saved, and who he couldn’t.
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And who would save him?...
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The war was over. The last curse had fallen. The Boy Who Lived was just Harry now.
But even now, even here, peace felt so borrowed
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Not earned.
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________________________________________________________
He sighed, slowly, and closed the book.
The leather binding creaked softly in protest, like it didn’t want to be silenced just yet. He placed it carefully on his bedside table, like setting down a memory that never stopped whispering.
He slid off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
The lamp clicked off, and the room descended into darkness.
The ceiling above him stretched pale in the moonlight, full of shadows. He stared at it without really seeing it..... Not truly.
His mind wandered.
It had been a year.
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A year since the battlefield had grown cold.
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A year since the screaming had stopped.
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A year since he'd stood among the rubble of what used to be everything.
He had left Britain a month after it all ended, boarded a train with nothing but with his luggage and that battered book.
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No letters.
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No explanations.
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Just silence.
He needed the quiet more than he needed closure.
Ron, Hermione, even Ginny… they didn’t understand. Not fully.
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Maybe they couldn’t.
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That always couldn't understand...
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Like they always do....
Every conversation felt like they were talking to a version of him that had already died somewhere in the war.
So he went no contact.
He owed them everything. And he loved them. But he was tired of being the hero in their eyes when all he felt was tired.
He hadn’t spoken to a soul in months.
He wandered small towns, took jobs under false names, and let his magic settle quietly in his bones.
He wrote in journals he never re-read. Collected memories like bruises.
Healing, he told himself.
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“You’re healing.”
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But is it?
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It never felt like enough....
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Like he was enough.
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Only time would tell if he’d ever feel whole again.
_____________________________________________________________
He sighed again.
Pulled the blanket tighter over his shoulders.
He thought about Maeglin—his last thoughts, twisted and angry and so alone.
He thought of " Him " --- child without a hand to hold.
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Like him...
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And he thought about the fact that it had taken a war for someone to finally give him one.
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Would it have made a difference?
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Could someone like Harry have changed their stories, if he had been there?
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His chest ached.
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Not for glory.
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Not for happy endings.
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Just for a chance.
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A single, golden chance to say to someone like Maeglin—like Him....
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“You are not the monster they say you are.”
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Even if it's just a silly fantasy story.......
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Harry could hear the faint chirping of birds and the distant echoes of a bustling town—soft, melodic voices, the ring of hammers on metal, the creak of wooden carts rolling over smooth stone.
It was…
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Unusual.
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Unnatural, in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
His eyes blinked open slowly, squinting against the early golden light pouring through translucent curtains.
Warmth filtered across his skin, and for a few blissful moments, he didn’t move.
Let himself sink into the softness of the bed beneath him—real cotton sheets, cool against his legs. The pillow smelled faintly of something herbal and wild.
Then it hit him.
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Wait.
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Wait
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Wait, wait, just wait a minute!
His room didn’t smell like this. His room didn’t sound like this.
His bed didn’t feel this soft.
' Where the hell—'
Harry jolted upright, heart hammering.
He stared around, wide-eyed.
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This wasn’t his flat.
The walls were pale stone, smooth and unmarred, etched faintly with elegant strange word motifs.
The windows were wide arches, wrapped in trailing vines with violet blossoms clinging to the edges. The furniture—modest, carved with care—radiated a kind of ageless grace.
A woven tapestry hung above the writing desk, depicting stars and silver trees and unfamiliar constellations.
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It was both humble and breathtaking.
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His breath caught in his throat.
A strange pull tightened in his chest.
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Strangely enough...
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This place feels… familiar.
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And then—like a tidal wave crashing into his mind......they came.
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Memories.
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Not his own.
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Pain seared through his skull like wild fire.
Harry let out a strangled gasp, staggering off the bed and dropping to his knees, clutching his head.
It felt like a thousand voices screaming all at once—memories of another life, layered atop his own. Thoughts, feelings, names, images—so many names.
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Fingon.
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Turgon.
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Idril.
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Ecthelion.
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Glorfindel.
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Maeglin
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He knew them.
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He remembered them.
They are the characters in the book, he just finished reading.
But how? And why?
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Then.....
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Who was Estelion?
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His hands trembled.
He pressed his forehead to the cool floor, riding out the pain, breathing through the storm. It faded slowly, leaving only dull throbs of dizziness and the sickening twist of confusion in his gut.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Harry sat back on his heels, dazed, stunned into silence.
The memories lingered, like old dreams.
A childhood spent beneath white towers. A city hidden in the mountains. A father who spoke in gentle tones.
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A name...
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Estelion..
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Whispered with pride.
His lips parted, heart clenching.
"...You’ve got to be bloody kidding me."
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Of course...
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Of course this would happen.
He had to poke at fate. He had to care.
And now fate had grabbed him by the collar and thrown him into the pages of a story that was never meant to be changed.
He scrubbed a hand through his already messy hair and groaned.
“Bloody Potter luck,” he muttered.
Shakily, Harry got to his feet and stumbled toward the arched balcony doors.
The wooden latch clicked open with a soft sound, and the warm wind met him like an embrace.
He stepped into the sunlight—
—and froze.
Below him sprawled a city of white stone and luminous towers, nestled like a dream between the cradling arms of green mountains.
The streets were alive with laughter, music, and the rustle of bright banners in the breeze.
The buildings shimmered like pearl, their architecture elegant and sweeping, almost grown rather than built.
White stairs wound around towers, bridges arched high above, and light danced on the fountains of clear, glittering water.
It was…
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Beautiful......
He clutched the edge of the balcony, breath stolen from his chest.
“Gondolin,” he whispered.