Archive of Our Own

The soft golden glow of Laurelin’s memory lingered even now in Valinor, filtering through the branches of the tree where they stood.

The air was warm, carrying the faint fragrance of blossoms, and yet between them stretched a coldness that no light or song could bridge.

The young Elf, his hair shining like spun gold beneath the swaying leaves, stared at the Elleth before him.

His hands hung loosely at his sides, though they trembled faintly with the weight of words he could no longer keep unspoken. His fair face was composed, too composed, as though discipline alone kept him from breaking apart.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t accept your feelings.”

The words were quiet, but each one struck like the tolling of a bell.

The Elleth, her own hair glimmering in the same golden hue, lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were wide, glass-bright, as though she had not expected the knife to fall at least, not so mercilessly.

“Why?”

She whispered, her voice fragile, breaking on the single syllable. The sound of it cut him deeper than any blade.

He faltered, guilt twisting within him. To look upon her now was agony; her beauty, unmarred and radiant, should have been enough to ensnare his heart.

She was noble, gentle, kind yet none of it stirred the fire within him that had once been ignited by another. The memory of her, the one he could never forget, burned unbidden in the depths of his spirit.

His throat constricted, but he forced the truth out, for he could not dishonor her with a comfortable lie.

“I don’t want to subject you to a loveless relationship,” He said at last, each word heavy with the sorrow he carried.

.

.

“Where I… still long for another.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. He could hear the trembling of her breath, uneven, choked, and it made his feä ache. He wished she would shout at him, curse him, strike him anything but this silent breaking.

Tears welled in her eyes, brimming until they spilled over, tracing down her cheeks like silver rain. Her lips parted, as though to speak, but no words came. She staggered one small step backward, and that simple retreat was more final, more damning, than any pronouncement she could have given.

“I’m sorry,”

He whispered again, the apology hollow, fragile. His voice wavered like a candle flame before a gust of wind. He knew it would never be enough.

The Elleth’s hands clenched at her sides, her nails biting into her palms, and then she turned away.

A sob tore from her chest, raw and unrestrained, echoing in the stillness beneath the tree. Her sorrow pressed upon him, suffocating, a weight he could neither lift nor bear.

Her golden hair streamed behind her as she fled, her footsteps quick and desperate upon the grass, vanishing into the distance as though she had to escape not only him but the memory of what she had hoped for.

He stood frozen, the image of her retreating form seared into his mind. The ache in his heart was relentless, cruel in its clarity. His lips parted once more, voice breaking as he breathed the name he had not dared speak aloud until she was gone.

.

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“I’m sorry, Amarië.”

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Finrod opened his eyes, the golden shimmer of dawn filtering faintly through the curtains of his chamber. For a moment, he did not move. His body was still, but his mind was restless.

He blinked slowly, once, twice, as though adjusting to the light of the present, yet already knowing what had dragged him back into wakefulness. His vision cleared, the familiar carvings of the ceiling above him swimming into focus, and still the heaviness remained.

A sigh escaped him, low and weary, carrying the weight of centuries. He raised a hand and pressed it against his eyes, as though he could blot out both the ceiling and the fragments of memory that clung to him.

‘It’s that same dream again,’

He thought bitterly, the words echoing in his feä with the dull ache of something half-healed but never forgotten.

His spirit throbbed with pain, as it always did when the dream returned..the memory that refused to fade, the wound that had never fully closed. The day beneath the tree. The day he had spoken words that had carved sorrow into a soul undeserving of it.

Amarië.

Her name lingered on his tongue like ash. The image of her golden, radiant, eyes wide with disbelief before brimming with tears rose unbidden to his mind.

A Vanyarin maiden so lovely, so talented, so pure of heart that many would have considered it the highest honor to have her hand. To wed her would have been the blessing of a lifetime. Others would have rejoiced, would have claimed her love as a gift from the Valar themselves.

But he… he had rejected her.

He had rejected her even though the thought tore at him. And worse, he had done so with a falsehood clinging to his lips, claiming that he loved another.

A lie, born of desperation to sever what could never be.

A lie that had broken her more deeply than silence ever could.

Even if he had spoken otherwise even if he had bent and allowed her confession to bind them what hope could they have had?

Their story had been doomed at its beginning, doomed by his exile, doomed by his brokenness, doomed by the hollow truth of his heart.

What he longed for in a partner was not merely beauty, not merely grace, but a soul with whom he could stand unshaken.

Someone who would walk beside him through every shadow and storm, who would know his silences as well as his words, his weaknesses as well as his strengths.

A companion who could shoulder the burden with him, and to whom he could entrust the entirety of himself.

But Amarië… even if she confessed a hundred times more, he could not accept. To bind her to him would have been cruelty, for it would have been a bond built on falsehood, and Finrod Felagund was too honest in his love to pretend where none existed.

He had always known, deep in his spirit, that it would be a cruelty worse than rejection.

For the House of Finwë did not love as others did.

Their hearts did not bend slowly, nor kindle gradually. No..they burned at once, wholly, with the fierce and irrevocable fire of recognition. Love at first sight, unbidden and unrelenting, and never again could it be given to another. It was the way of his kin.

It was the curse and the gift of their bloodline.

And when Finrod had first laid eyes on Amarië, there had been no fire. No racing heartbeat, no breath stolen from his lungs, no tremor in his chest that spoke of fate. Only calm admiration, respect for her beauty, and nothing more.

It had not been the love of his house, and he could not force it to be.

His chest tightened, and his hand slid down to rest against his ribs as though to still the phantom ache. For he knew the truth of himself as well he was a broken man.

Though re-embodied by the grace of Mandos, though his hröa bore no outward scar, his feä carried them still. He had died in torment, in darkness, torn apart by teeth and claws in the dungeons of his enemy. And that memory had not left him.

His nights were plagued with the echo of growls, with the stench of death, with the sensation of fangs sinking into his flesh. Even now, safe in Valinor, he would wake choking on the phantom taste of iron and blood.

And what could Amarië, untouched by such horrors, know of that?

She had been sheltered in her city, surrounded by music, light, and love. A pampered daughter of the Vanyar, beloved and protected. She had never tasted despair, never seen war, never lifted her hands to toil, for others had done such things for her. She was too innocent, too naïve, too untouched by the cruel truths that had become the marrow of his being.

If she stood at his side, she would look at him with confusion. If he cried out in his sleep, she would not understand. If he spoke of shadows and regrets, her eyes would glaze with pity, not recognition. And pity… pity was worse than rejection.

No, she would not understand his pain.

And Finrod knew with cruel certainty that if he bound her to such a life, to a broken man with a haunted soul, then neither of them would find joy. Their union would be poison slow, bitter, and destructive.

It would harm them both, not heal them.

So even now, long after the moment had passed, long after his spirit had been judged and renewed, Finrod held to his decision.

He had rejected her, not from malice, but from love twisted into mercy. He had chosen the sorrow of separation over the cruelty of falsehood.

And yet, the dream returned. The image of her tears. The memory of her retreating steps. The sound of his own voice whispering apologies too feeble to undo the harm.

He closed his eyes again, pressing them tight against the wave of anguish.

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She would never understand and perhaps… she should not have to.

_____________

Finrod then opened his eyes once more, the weight of his thoughts pressing down upon him like an unseen hand. His gaze drifted to his side, where a faint glow was spreading across the horizon.

The first timid light of dawn was unfurling, casting soft rays that slowly crept into his chamber. He watched silently, his chest rising with a sigh that seemed to carry centuries of exhaustion.

Pushing himself upright, he sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, staring at the floor with vacant eyes before his body moved of its own accord.

He rose, bare feet meeting the chill of the marbled floor.

The cold bit into him, but he did not care..he welcomed it, even, as though it could anchor him in the present. His steps were slow, heavy, as he crossed the room toward the terrace.

There, he stood at the threshold of his dwelling, a place far removed from the noise and bustle of Tirion or Alqualondë.

His home lay hidden deep within the woods, secluded, quiet chosen precisely because of the silence that surrounded it. And now, from that solitude, he watched the sun lift itself into the sky, pale gold spilling through the trees.

Once, such a sight would have filled him with peace. Now it filled him only with a hollow ache.

His hands gripped the railing as his shoulders sagged. He was still not ready. Not ready to face the world. Not ready to meet the eyes of his kin, to endure the whispers that trailed behind him like ghosts.

Whispers of pity, whispers of admiration twisted into condescension, whispers that said there is the one who died, the one who fell, the one who broke.

He was not ready.

Even when his father, Finarfin, urged him to return, to live once more among their people, Finrod could not bring himself to obey. He loved his father dearly, but he could not bear it..not yet. His father’s halls were filled with voices, with life, with eyes that would look at him and see the shadow of death clinging still.

He had chosen isolation instead, to dwell where no one would demand a smile from him, where no one would force him into conversation, where no one would pretend the past had never happened.

For he could not pretend. He could not play at peace.

He could not smile and nod as though the terror and blood had been nothing more than a fleeting dream, easily dismissed upon waking. He had seen others do so. He had seen those who emerged from Mandos walk back into Valinor’s light with a serene countenance, as though their trials had been wiped clean, as though the horrors of war and death were no more than shadows that faded with the dawn.

But for him, it was different.

He had seen Valinor itself choose silence. Choose to forget. The people who had not set foot beyond its walls, who had not marched beneath Morgoth’s shadow, who had never tasted fear nor despair they remained untouched, pristine in their ignorance.

They believed that all wounds were healed in the Halls of Mandos, that those who returned were mended, restored, whole once more. They did not see the scars that still lingered within the feä.

They could not.

And so their joy, their lighthearted words, their blithe insistence that all was well—it was salt upon his wounds. Insensitive, thoughtless, cruel in their unknowing.

They did not flinch when a branch snapped behind them. They did not startle at a sudden touch. They did not wake choking on air thick with imagined blood.

But he did.

He and all others who had walked in Beleriand, who had known the weight of endless vigilance, who had been forced to sharpen their senses until every whisper of sound was a threat..they remembered.

They lived with it, even now. They had been raised in darkness, taught to guard themselves against death that stalked them in the form of orcs and wolves and treachery.

It was instinct that had kept them alive. Instinct and steel.

And that steel had been drenched in blood, again and again. They had bathed their blades in it—not out of desire, but out of need. To survive. To protect. To keep their kin safe for one more night, one more dawn. And every battle was a gamble with fate, every fight a silent acknowledgment that they might not live to see the morrow. Yet still they fought, because others depended on them.

That was the weight they carried. That was the truth written into their very bones.

And though he lived again, though his hröa was unmarred, he could not forget. He could never forget.

The faces of his companions haunted him the Elves who had followed him, the Men who had fought beside him, those who had laughed with him in the firelight only to fall screaming in the dirt. Their voices lingered still, their courage, their sacrifices. They had given everything, and he had watched too many of them die.

And even now, as the sun rose golden and bright upon Valinor, Finrod Felagund could not shake the truth: he was not ready to face a world that demanded he forget them.

A world that insisted he leave behind their memory.

A world that would have him live as though blood had never stained his hands, as though war had never torn apart his heart.

He was not ready to face a world that wanted him to live as though nothing had happened.

__________

Finrod exhaled shakily, his breath catching in his throat as his bare feet pressed against the damp grass.

The air was cool, clinging to his skin, the early mist still lingering like a veil woven by unseen hands.

His night robes dragged along the ground, collecting dew, yet he scarcely noticed the chill. His heart, for the first time since his return, was hammering with a kind of urgency he had thought forever lost in the silence of Mandos.

The deer’s glow lingered in his vision, burned into his mind as if it had marked him..again.

His steps were hesitant at first, almost stumbling, but as the ethereal creature darted deeper into the trees, instinct overcame doubt. He pressed forward, branches clawing at his arms and hair, the ground rough beneath his feet, but he could not stop.

It was real.

It had to be real.

Every leaf seemed to bend away from the luminous path it left behind, as if the forest itself was guiding him. Finrod’s chest tightened at the memory..the last memory of his mortal life, when darkness and pain had threatened to consume him.

He remembered the howls, the snapping jaws, the endless agony of tearing flesh. He remembered Sauron’s triumph pressing upon him like chains. Yet in that moment of despair, light had broken through.

The deer.

It had stood before him, impossibly radiant, its very presence forcing the werewolves to recoil with snarls of pain, their shadows unable to bear its glow.

Finrod had been too weak to lift his sword again, too broken to speak more than a whisper. And still… the deer had come closer, lowering its head with the gentleness of one who understood sorrow.

Its muzzle had touched his fevered brow, and warmth pure, untainted warmth had coursed through him, filling him with a peace so alien amidst the carnage that tears had slipped from his bloodstained face.

For the first time since leaving Valinor, he had felt like a child again, resting beneath the golden light of Laurelin, sheltered, safe.

"Thank you,"

He had breathed with what little strength he had left, the words slipping from his lips as though they belonged not only to his final moments but to all the burdens of his life. And then, death..yet death without fear, without agony. Only stillness, as though the creature itself had carried him gently into the hands of Mandos.

Finrod’s throat constricted as he stumbled now, chasing its image through the forest. That moment, that gift, had never left him. He had thought it a dream, the delirium of a broken body but Mandos had told him otherwise, his deep voice edged with curiosity that Finrod could still recall.

The Vala had watched him with a rare flicker of surprise as he entered the halls not shattered, not tormented like so many other fëar, but strangely… whole, touched by something beyond Mandos’ reckoning.

And now it was here again.

His eyes widened as the deer glanced back at him, its body shimmering like moonlight woven into form, its gaze steady and almost knowing. For a moment, Finrod froze, breathless, as though he were once more on the edge of death, staring into the eyes of something far older, far greater than his understanding.

"Wait!"

His voice cracked, echoing too loudly in the stillness.

The creature tilted its head, ears flicking at the sound, and then it moved graceful, swift, its hooves leaving no mark, only a faint shimmer on the leaves it passed.

Without hesitation, Finrod followed. His hair caught in the branches, his robe tore at the hems, but he did not care. All that mattered was that he could not lose sight of it..not again, not when it had once saved him from despair itself.

His lungs burned, his legs ached, but the light beckoned him deeper and deeper into the woods, until the house behind him had long vanished from sight.

________

Finrod’s chest heaved as he staggered before the looming curtain of vines. His hair clung damply to his face, sweat and strands of gold sticking to his temples as he tried to catch his breath.

The forest seemed to fall silent, the chirping of birds fading into nothingness as though the world itself was holding its breath at what lay before him.

The deer stood utterly still at the threshold of the cave, its light shimmering faintly against the hanging vines.

The glow touched the stone in rippling reflections, the cold grayness softened by the ethereal blue hue. Its eyes..if they could be called such met his again. There was no malice there, only that same strange beckoning, a quiet insistence that stirred his heart despite the growing knot of unease in his chest.

Finrod clenched his jaw. He should have turned back, should have dismissed this as some trick of memory and light, but his feet moved forward of their own accord.

Had it not given him peace once? Had it not spared him agony in his last breath? He trusted that memory, fragile though it was, more than the logic that screamed against following into shadow.

The vines brushed over his shoulders as he entered, the sudden chill of the cavern air wrapping around him like a damp shroud.

The sound of the forest behind him died away completely, leaving only the echo of his own cautious steps. Darkness swallowed him whole, pressing against his senses until it felt as though even the air was watching, waiting.

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Then...there.

A faint pulse of light, soft and fluttering like the glow of a firefly, deeper within the cave.

His breath caught as the deer’s radiance flickered ahead, its form dissolving into the depths as though urging him onward. He moved slowly, every footstep crunching against gravel, every breath amplified tenfold by the silence.

The light grew stronger the deeper he went. It clung to the walls, outlining veins of stone like silver threads, until at last he emerged into an expanse where the ceiling rose high and unseen. At the heart of this cavern lay a great chasm, and below..a pool.

Its waters shimmered with the same pale glow as the deer, illuminating the cavern in ghostly ripples.

Finrod stepped carefully to the cliff’s edge, his heart hammering in his chest. He peered down, the glow reflecting in his wide eyes. The water moved strangely, as though something below stirred restlessly, warping the light into eerie patterns. He frowned, unease prickling along his skin.

He leaned further, just enough for his breath to fog against the cold air rising from the depths. He thought yes, he thought something shifted below, a shadow sliding across the glowing pond, far too large to belong to fish or drifting debris.

And then, without warning, the ground seemed to vanish beneath him. A lurch, a cry half-formed in his throat and the next heartbeat he was submerged.

The icy shock of the water ripped the air from his lungs.

He thrashed instinctively, golden hair billowing around him like seaweed as he fought to break the surface. But the more he struggled, the more the depths seemed to claim him.

Cold fingers..no, not fingers, but something slick and unseen wrapped around his ankle, pulling, dragging him downward.

Finrod’s body writhed in panic, arms clawing against the weight of the water. His lungs burned, the pressure crushing against his chest as his mouth opened in a desperate gasp that only drew in more water. He fought, every instinct in him raging against the pull, but the grip was unyielding, relentless.

The glow above him blurred, dimmed, slipping further and further from reach.

His strength waned. His movements slowed. His vision swam, the light fracturing into a thousand broken stars before his eyes. And in the darkness creeping at the edges of his mind, Finrod’s final thought surfaced, bitter yet strangely resigned:

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‘It seems I’m going back to Hall of Mandos.’

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_______

Harry didn’t expect to find a man at the shore of the pond at the House of Potter Estate, and he certainly hadn’t expected him to be so criminally handsome as well.

It had been a simple walk, one meant to clear his head.

Instead, his peaceful retreat had turned into something straight out of a fairytale or perhaps a nightmare.

The stranger lay there half in the water, half on the mossy bank, his figure framed by reeds and glimmering moonlight. Harry had frozen on the spot at first, his heart skipping several beats, because what he saw looked wrong.

The man’s eyes were open..wide open and staring at nothing.

The pale light of the moon glinted off them, a startling, beautiful shade of blue, but utterly lifeless in the way they seemed to look through the world rather than at it. For one terrifying moment, Harry was convinced he had stumbled across a corpse.

But no corpse Harry had ever seen looked quite so… ethereal.

The stranger’s hair was the color of sunlight spun into gold, cascading around his face and shoulders, trailing even further down his body like liquid silk. Long enough to reach past his waist, the strands clung to him in wet curls, glistening like threads of starlight.

His skin was pale, almost luminous in the dark, and even unconscious or dead, Harry thought with a grimace he radiated a kind of quiet dignity. He was dressed in nothing at all, save for the clinging sheen of water, and that only added to Harry’s alarm.

Harry swallowed hard, dragging a hand through his own messy black hair.

“Brilliant,” He muttered to himself.

“Just brilliant. Dead Adonis washing up on my bloody property. What am I supposed to do with this?”

The thought of calling the Aurors had crossed his mind instantly.. Merlin knew this was beyond anything Harry wanted to deal with.

Then, because he wasn’t heartless, he’d thought of the funeral service. But something in him resisted the finality of it. He crouched down, hands shaking only slightly as he reached out. Almost on instinct, he tried to close the stranger’s eyes.

The moment his fingers brushed against the cool lids, Harry froze. He could feel something a faint hum, the barest flicker of life thrumming beneath the skin. Frowning, Harry pressed his hand over the man’s chest. He nearly toppled backwards in shock when he felt it... slow, steady, undeniable. A heartbeat.

The man wasn’t dead. He was alive.

Harry let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His throat felt dry, and he sat back on his heels, staring down at the figure with an odd mix of relief and exasperation.

“Bloody hell,” He whispered.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, you know that? Eyes open like that..do you want people to think you’re a corpse?”

He shook his head, forcing himself to pull out his wand. A diagnostic charm would sort it out quickly enough.

The spell swirled across the stranger’s body in pale green lines, revealing what Harry already suspected the man was alive, though weak, his magical reserves unfamiliar yet strangely immense in their own right. His vitals, however, were steady.

There was no curse clinging to him, no trace of poison. Just exhaustion or something deeper that Harry couldn’t immediately name.

“Of course,” Harry muttered.

“Of course I find some mysterious, beautiful bloke passed out half-naked on my land with magic I can’t identify. Because my life just isn’t complicated enough already.”

Still, he couldn’t leave him there. With a wave of his wand, he murmured the levitation charm, carefully raising the man from the damp grass.

Even in unconsciousness, he seemed impossibly graceful, the lines of his form poised as though carved from marble by some master sculptor. Harry’s face heated when his eyes, entirely against his will, traced over the lean strength of the stranger’s figure.

“Stop that,” Harry hissed at himself, cheeks burning.

“You are not a pervert. You are a decent man doing the right thing. You are not ogling a half-dead stranger who may or may not be some kind of fairy prince.”

With another flick, a large towel appeared, thick and dry, which Harry quickly draped over the man’s form. He averted his eyes in the process, muttering all the while, though he couldn’t stop the flush that crept stubbornly up his neck.

He guided the floating body carefully through the estate, settling him in one of the guest rooms. Once there, Harry eased him down onto the bed with a sigh, watching as the man’s chest continued its steady rhythm, proof that he wasn’t hallucinating this whole thing.

The room smelled faintly of lavender from the sheets, the warmth of the firelight softening the sharp lines of the stranger’s face.

Harry dropped into the chair beside the bed, running a hand over his face, equal parts exhausted and bewildered. He leaned back, eyes fixed on the man who lay there like a dream come to life, impossibly otherworldly.

And Merlin help him, Harry couldn’t help but think criminally handsome, even with his eyes unnervingly open.

_______

Harry sighed deeply, the sound heavy in the quiet room, and leaned back against the chair until its wooden frame creaked faintly under the shift of his weight.

His fingers came up to pinch the bridge of his nose, pressing there as though he could squeeze out the tension throbbing behind his eyes.

He tilted his head back, staring up at the carved beams of the ceiling. Merlin, what a mess his life had become again.

He had never expected this.

Not the unconscious golden-haired stranger lying a few feet away, not the weight of old family history suddenly dropped in his lap, and certainly not the exhausting combination of both. His lips twisted into something halfway between a grimace and a bitter smile. It was almost laughable, how fate or maybe sheer bad luck kept throwing him into situations no sane person would believe.

And to think, all of this had started with the damned Potter Estate.

The thought made him snort under his breath. Potter Estate. The words sounded so grand, so ancient, like something out of a history book or one of the musty portraits at Hogwarts. But for Harry, they came with nothing but a tangle of frustration and resentment.

He never would have even known the place existed if not for Gringotts contacting him out of the blue two months ago.

He could still recall that day vividly sitting across from a pair of sharp-eyed goblins, listening as they informed him that the Potter Estate had once again become available for purchase.

Available.

As though it had been on some bloody auction list, gathering dust and waiting for some distant relative to come along. He had blinked at them, confused, before the truth had sunk in.

All those years every single one he’d spent stumbling through Hogwarts, fighting for his life, enduring Dursleys, Dark Lord, and everything in between never once had anyone breathed a word to him about the Estate.

About his family’s home. Not McGonagall. Not Sirius, though Merlin knew Sirius probably had his reasons. And certainly not Dumbledore. The meddling old goat, may he never rest in peace in whatever corner of hell he’d surely carved out for himself.

Harry’s jaw tightened at the thought, the bitterness rising sharp and familiar in his throat.

How many things had Dumbledore hidden from him in the name of ‘the greater good’? How many truths had been bent, twisted, or withheld altogether, all while the man had guided Harry’s life like some bloody puppet master? Too many. Far, far too many.

So when the goblins had asked if he wished to reclaim the property, Harry had been floored. Shock, anger, and a hollow sense of betrayal had battled inside him, but in the end… he couldn’t say no.

It was his family’s. It was the one thing left that might still connect him to a past that wasn’t tainted by manipulation or loss.

The process, of course, hadn’t been simple. It had taken two exhausting weeks of paperwork, meetings, and signatures..goblins never made things easy, not even for their favored clients.

He’d walked out of Gringotts clutching the key, his fingers curled so tightly around the cold metal that the Potter crest had pressed into his palm. The weight of it had been almost unbearable.

And then he had come here.

The Estate had loomed before him, proud and crumbling, its walls lined with ivy and its great doors standing like sentinels to a world he’d never known he’d belonged to.

He had stood there for a long time, staring at the silhouette of the house against the fading light, emotions twisting inside him until he wasn’t sure if he wanted to scream, cry, or simply walk away.

Mixed feelings didn’t even begin to cover it. It was his inheritance, his family’s legacy, yet it also felt like another cruel joke from a life that seemed determined to keep him running in circles.

Harry exhaled slowly now, dragging his gaze back down from the ceiling to the sleeping figure on the bed. The stranger’s chest rose and fell with unerring steadiness, his golden hair spilling across the pillow like sunlight captured in silk.

For days now Harry had kept an anxious vigil, checking for any sign of change, of waking. Each day had passed in uneasy silence, and with each one Harry had grown more and more weary.

He closed his eyes, letting his head sink back against the chair. Just one minute, he told himself. Just one minute to rest before dealing with this new mess, before unraveling the mystery of who or what this man was.

He had been busy enough, playing caretaker to someone who might wake at any moment and demand answers Harry couldn’t give.

For now, he just wanted to close his eyes. .

.

.

Just one minute.

.

_________

Harry shifted on the chair, stretching his stiff limbs, before absentmindedly letting his body slide onto the edge of the bed.

He hadn’t meant to lie down just a moment of rest, just to close his eyes but his exhaustion had other plans.

The soft mattress beneath him, the steady rhythm of the stranger’s breathing, and the warmth of the fire lulled him in without mercy. Within moments, his eyes had shut completely, and his body relaxed into the kind of sleep only born of pure weariness.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out until a sharp toot near the window startled him awake. Harry jerked up, disoriented, his heart thudding in his chest as though he’d been caught in the middle of a nightmare.

It took him a second to place the sound, and when his bleary green eyes blinked toward the source, they landed on a familiar snowy figure perched on the sill.

“Hedwig,”

He murmured, relief softening his tone as he scrubbed a hand across his face. His voice was low, husky from sleep, as he pushed himself upright and rubbed at his eyes. A yawn escaped before he could stop it, his shoulders rolling as he stretched his upper body, joints popping in protest.

“It seems I’ve fallen asleep.”

He shuffled across the room to the window, fingers fumbling at the latch before he swung it open. A cool breeze drifted inside, carrying the crisp scent of late morning.

Hedwig wasted no time, hopping gracefully from the sill and gliding into the room. She circled once before landing elegantly on the table, feathers ruffling with quiet dignity.

“Sorry, girl,”

Harry said gently, guilt tugging faintly at him. He should’ve been awake, should’ve noticed her sooner. He reached out to stroke her soft feathers, the familiar sensation grounding him. She extended one leg toward him, and sure enough, a small roll of parchment was tied neatly to it.

Harry’s mouth twisted into a small smile.

“Always the reliable one.”

With careful fingers, he untied the letter, setting it aside for the moment. His other hand dipped into his pocket, retrieving the small pouch of treats he always carried for her.

“Here you go. Earned it.”

Hedwig clicked her beak, clearly pleased, and nipped his fingers affectionately as she accepted the offering. Harry chuckled under his breath, the warmth in his chest easing some of the tension that had taken root over the past days.

When he glanced down at the letter, however, his expression hardened. His eyes narrowed slightly, and after a pause, he shook his head, setting it deliberately to the side. Whatever it contained, he wasn’t ready for it right now. Not when he had enough on his plate already.

Hedwig seemed to sense his mood, giving a soft toot as though in farewell. She flapped her wings once, sending a swirl of parchment scraps on the table fluttering, before soaring out through the still-open window. Harry leaned on the sill for a moment, watching her white figure disappear into the brightening sky.

A fond smile tugged at his lips despite himself.

He had almost lost her once.

The memory rose unbidden, sharp and vivid..the Dursleys’ cramped house, Vernon’s furious shout, the chaos as Hedwig had fought with everything she had. He remembered the flash of talons, the startled cry as Vernon’s face was raked, leaving a scar that would mark him forever.

Hedwig had fled into the open sky, wings beating furiously, and Harry had thought he’d never see her again. That loss had carved into him in a way he hadn’t been ready for. Yet, against all odds, she had returned to him, fierce and loyal as ever.

Harry exhaled, shaking his head as if to dislodge the heaviness of the memory.

His gaze drifted across the room until it settled on the grandfather clock standing in the corner, its polished wood gleaming softly beside the crackling fireplace. The steady tick, tick, tick filled the silence as he squinted at the hands.

Already noon.

His brow arched in mild surprise.

“Seems I’ve slept longer than I thought,”

He muttered, lips quirking ruefully. He glanced once more toward the bed, toward the golden-haired stranger who remained unmoving, as if untouched by the passing hours.

It seemed he had fallen asleep for a long time which very rare and quite pleased.
______

Harry had intended only to check in on the man before grabbing something from the kitchen. He didn’t expect to linger. Yet when he stepped into the room, his eyes betrayed him, catching every detail.

The man was still asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, but there was something about him that unsettled Harry.

He wasn’t just beautiful..he was otherworldly. An ethereal aura clung to him, as if he had been carved from some ancient dream, too luminous to belong in Harry’s dingy little cottage. Even in sleep, he seemed untouchable.

Well, except for the eyes. Open. Not blinking.

Harry shivered. Merlin, that was eerie. At least the man wasn’t in those drenched, ruined clothes anymore.

Harry had gone through the trouble of changing him into one of his spare pajama sets..simple, soft, far more comfortable. It had been awkward enough doing that. He wasn’t about to admit how much his hands had shaken, or how his heart had hammered as though he were doing something forbidden.

Shaking his head, Harry stepped closer. A strand of golden hair had fallen across the man’s face, obscuring the sharp line of his cheekbone. Without thinking, Harry reached out, fingers brushing lightly to move it aside—

.

.

.

And froze.

A hand clamped tightly around his wrist.

Harry’s eyes went wide, his breath caught in his throat, but before he could react, the world tilted.

The next thing he knew, his back was pressed firmly into the mattress, his hand pinned above his head, and the man who was supposed to be asleep loomed over him.

Their eyes locked blue, deep and piercing, awake and focused in a way that sent Harry’s pulse skittering painfully in his chest. For a moment, neither moved. Neither spoke. It was as if the air itself had thickened, sealing them together in a cage of silence.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. No..several.

The man’s expression flickered as though realization struck, and suddenly he jerked back. He scrambled off the bed, muttering words..no, apologies in a language Harry didn’t recognize. The sound was melodic, rolling, foreign, but full of sincerity.

Sitting up quickly, Harry blinked at him, still trying to process.

“Pardon?”

The blond man tilted his head, brows furrowed in confusion. Clearly, he hadn’t understood a word. His features scrunched in frustration, and something about it made Harry let out a shaky, almost incredulous sigh.

Fine. He’d fix this.

With a quiet murmur, Harry cast the spell a wandless translation charm he’d perfected over years of practice, more out of necessity than choice.

The magic shimmered faintly between them, unnoticed to anyone else, and settled like a veil.

“Now,” Harry said carefully.

“ Can you understand me?”

The blond man’s eyes lit up instantly, as if a door had been opened, and Harry knew the spell had worked.

“Good,” Harry said, exhaling slowly. He leaned back a little, studying him more closely.

“So—how are you feeling right now? I found you at the shore by the pond near my house.”

The man’s brow furrowed as he thought, his expression intent, as though combing through a fog. Finally, he nodded once.

“I remember… falling into the water. And then drowning.”

The voice was melodic, deep yet smooth, carrying an almost musical resonance. Harry found himself momentarily distracted, struck by the simple thought.

' if he sang, it would be beautiful.'

He shook the idea off, mentally scolding himself. Now was not the time.

“Do you remember where you came from before that?” Harry pressed.

A pause. Then the man nodded again, slower this time.

“I was at my home. In Valinor.”

Harry blinked. Confusion coiled in his gut. Valinor? He had never heard of a place by that name..not in Britain, not in the wider magical world. He wracked his brain, trying to recall whether it had ever been mentioned in an obscure textbook or map, but came up empty.

“Right…”

He muttered, distracted, trying to piece it together. His thoughts spun until the man’s voice cut through.

“Where am I?”

The question snapped Harry out of his reverie. He shifted off the bed, running a hand down his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles before standing.

“You’re at my home,” Harry explained.

“In Wizarding Britain.”

The man tilted his head again, curious as ever. “What is Wizarding Britain?”

Harry froze mid-motion. His stomach churned with unease. He turned to look at the blond properly, but the man’s expression was open, unguarded, and deeply confused.

“You mean you’ve never heard of it? Britain’s Magical Community?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice level.

“The joke of the magical world, apparently.”

The man only shook his head, as though the words made no sense.

Harry’s dread deepened. A heavy, familiar migraine threatened behind his eyes, the kind that always came when trouble landed at his doorstep without warning. He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and instead forced a slow, steadying breath.

‘It seems,’ He thought grimly.

.

.

.

‘I may have stumbled into trouble again.’

_______

The Potter Estate’s kitchen, once echoing with the stillness of disuse, now buzzed faintly with the sound of clinking cutlery, the occasional scrape of chair legs, and the soft sighs of Harry Potter’s growing frustration.

Across the table, the blond elf was devouring his food with the kind of hunger Harry hadn’t seen since Ron’s Hogwarts days except this man ate with a strange, delicate grace.

Every bite was measured, his posture straight, his fingers handling the fork and knife with a poise that screamed of noble upbringing, even as he consumed the meal like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Harry, meanwhile, sat slouched in his chair, staring at him with wide green eyes and the kind of disbelief that should have worn itself out hours ago. But no..apparently the universe had decided he hadn’t suffered enough confusion in his life.

Migraines pulsed behind his temples, dull and relentless, clawing deeper the longer the conversation went on. He rubbed at the side of his head, fighting the urge to slam his forehead down against the polished oak table.

Because this wasn’t just a stranger who washed up at his pond. This wasn’t even just a blond bloke with ridiculously pretty hair and an unnerving set of permanently open eyes.

No.

This man...this ethereal, melodious-voiced, blue-eyed creature was an elf. A literal, honest-to-Merlin Elf.

Not the odd, mischievous sort he’d once imagined lurking in the corners of storybooks.

No shoes-makers in workshops or cheeky creatures who danced on moonbeams.

No, this was the tall, forest-loving, nature-revering, fairytale kind. And the fact that Harry could even think that sentence without laughing hysterically told him just how far gone his sanity truly was.

What made it worse what truly made his head spin was the casual way the elf had explained that he came from another world as a realization came in.

Another dimension

If Harry cared to split hairs, though at this point he didn’t. The semantics didn’t matter. The fact remained the elf wasn’t from here. And somehow, fate, luck, or sheer bloody misfortune had dumped him square in Harry’s lap.

Harry rubbed harder at his temples. He could practically hear Hermione’s voice in his head, rattling off magical theory about dimensional tears, trans-world travel, and the impossibility of it all.

He could see Ron’s blank stare if Harry had tried to explain it over chess and he could feel the laugh Dumbledore would’ve given, that infuriating twinkle of “Oh, what a fascinating puzzle” that used to drive Harry mad.

“Following a random glowing animal. Are you dumb?”

Harry finally snapped, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. He leaned forward, glaring across the table at the elf who had just paused mid-bite.

The elf blinked at him, tilted his head slightly, and swallowed before calmly sipping his water as though Harry hadn’t just insulted him. The picture of serenity.

“You just sound like my elder cousin…”

The elf muttered under his breath, his voice carrying that same soft melodic lilt even when he was grumbling.

Harry’s eyebrows twitched, the vein at his temple throbbing with renewed force.

The elf looked up at him again, clear blue eyes unclouded, and simply nodded as if to confirm Harry’s accusation of stupidity.

Harry’s mouth fell open, speechless.

Never. Never in his life had he met someone who would so brazenly admit to being a fool. Not just admit it agree with him outright.

For a long beat, Harry just stared, caught between disbelief and the kind of exasperated amusement that left him momentarily stunned. The elf, for his part, returned to his food with unbothered grace, fork gliding elegantly as though nothing unusual had just passed between them.

Harry dragged in a long breath, trying to calm the twitch at the corner of his eye. He could already see it..the future.

This elf, wandering into any random marketplace, handing over his coin to the first person who smiled at him kindly, and getting fleeced within minutes. A mark painted in gold, radiating naivety with every word and gesture.

Harry wouldn’t be surprised if the elf had been scammed a dozen times already.

.

.

The quiet in the kitchen stretched on, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall and the faint creak of the old house settling into its foundations.

Harry tapped his fingers against the table impatiently, his green eyes locked onto the blond elf sitting across from him.

“So what are you going to do now?”

Harry finally asked, his voice carrying a weariness that betrayed how very done he was with today.

The Elf blinked slowly, then placed his elegant hand beneath his chin, the very picture of someone preparing to wrestle with a great philosophical quandary. His brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as though he were carefully considering the weight of his next words.

Harry, leaning back in his chair, waited. And waited. And kept on waiting. Minutes crawled by, the silence punctuated by nothing but the occasional rustle of cloth as the elf shifted or the faint scrape of Harry’s boot against the floor.

Then at last, the elf spoke.

“I don’t know.”

Harry’s jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle he didn’t crack a tooth.

For one brief, searing second, he imagined flipping the entire table just to release the pent-up frustration simmering in his chest. All that silence all that ridiculous display of pondering and the elf came up with that?

“What do you mean you don’t know?!”

Harry exploded, his patience snapping like a brittle twig. His palms slapped against the wooden table, his voice sharp with exasperation.

“You sat there for five bleeding minutes like you were solving the meaning of life, and all you’ve got for me is I don’t know?!”

The blond Elf unbothered, unruffled, maddeningly calm met Harry’s glare without flinching. His blue eyes held an honesty that only made the words sting sharper when he finally replied.

“I have no land. I have no money. Nor do I have a name here. I am nothing but an outsider in a land I know nothing about.”

Harry froze, his mouth snapping shut as the weight of the Elf’s quiet words settled over him. His first instinct was to argue, to fire back some biting remark, but the truth rang too plainly in the man’s tone.

And damn it all, Harry realized, the elf was right.

If what the Elf had said earlier was true, then he wasn’t lying.

He truly had no home here. No family, no coin, no friends. Nothing but the clothes Harry had put on him and the food Harry had fed him. And with that pretty face, naive trustfulness, and that whole “I’ll follow glowing animals into caves without hesitation” streak, Harry could picture exactly what would happen if he let him wander alone.

Kidnapped. Scammed. Sold off. Maybe worse.

Harry groaned and rubbed at his face, dragging his hand down until it covered his mouth.

He didn’t need this. He hadn’t asked for this but the image of the Elf, lost and alone, stumbling headfirst into danger in a world he didn’t understand… yeah. Harry couldn’t just leave him. Not when the man looked at him with such open, trusting eyes.

He lowered his hand and glanced back at the Elf, who tilted his head curiously in that infuriating way of his, like a puppy waiting for a command. Harry rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Fine,” He muttered, the word tasting like surrender.

The Elf perked up slightly, though he remained silent, watching.

Harry exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping as he finally gave in. “I’ll help you find your way back home.”

The Elf’s eyes brightened immediately, as if a light had flared to life inside them, spilling warmth into the kitchen. Harry squinted against it, half-blinded by the sheer radiance of the man’s joy.

Bloody hell, he thought, this elf was like staring at the sun..too shiny, too earnest, and impossible to look away from without squinting.

“But,” Harry continued firmly, wagging a finger at him.

“ While you’re under my roof, you’ll help with the household chores. No freeloading, got it?”

The Elf’s face broke into a smile that seemed almost too pure for the world, bright and guileless. His entire being seemed to glow with it, as if Harry had just handed him a treasure beyond measure.

Harry had to look away before he actually started grinning back like an idiot.

“I’m Harry,” He said gruffly, as though reminding himself of who he was.

The Elf placed a hand over his chest in a strangely formal gesture before speaking with quiet pride.

.

.

“Finrod. My name is Findaráto Finrod.”

.

.

Harry gave a curt nod, swallowing past the strange flutter in his chest at hearing it and just like that, their deal was set.

________

Days bled into weeks, and weeks crept toward a month.

In that time, Harry and Finrod had fallen into an odd rhythm of coexistence two men who should never have crossed paths, now bound by circumstance and the quiet solace of one another’s presence.

Their search for answers on how to return Finrod home had been frustratingly fruitless.

They poured over grimoires, Harry took trips into the wizarding world under the guise of “research,” and Finrod spent hours walking the estate grounds, listening to the hum of magic in the land itself as though it might whisper him a path back to Valinor but each attempt ended the same with silence and uncertainty.

And yet, in those fruitless days, they found something neither had expected.

Conversations grew late into the night. Between stacks of books and cups of tea, they shared stories. Harry listened, transfixed, as Finrod spoke of the Light of the Trees, the great halls of Valinor, the Oath of Fëanor and the burning tragedy that followed the Kinslayings, the exile, the weight of history carved into every step of his kind.

There was sorrow in Finrod’s voice when he spoke of it, but never self-pity. His words carried the gravity of memory, not a plea for absolution.

Harry, for his part, offered no judgment.

He had learned long ago that people carried sins and scars far deeper than anyone else could know. He had no right to sit as judge over Finrod’s truth, not when he himself bristled under the constant judgment of the magical world. Instead, he listened. Simply listened. And in that, Finrod seemed to find peace.

In turn, Finrod proved himself an equally patient companion. Harry told him of his childhood locked in a cupboard, of years spent in fear and longing, of Hogwarts and war and betrayal. He spoke of Dumbledore’s manipulations, of the blood on his hands, of battles fought when he was still just a boy.

Finrod never interrupted, never criticized.

He only listened, his eyes soft and sorrowful, sometimes reaching out to place a steadying hand on Harry’s arm as if to wordlessly remind him that he was not alone.

It was strange, Harry thought, how much that simple companionship meant. No advice. No condemnation. No shallow comfort. Just presence. Just being there.

And for once, Harry allowed himself to be grateful.

Now, nearly a month had passed since the golden elf had stepped into his solitude, and Harry found himself standing outside the estate, bundled in a thick jacket as the bite of near-winter air brushed against his cheeks. His breath came out in pale clouds, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he rocked on his heels.

The grounds were quiet, save for the whisper of wind through bare branches and the faint crunch of frost beneath his boots.

He tilted his head back, staring up at the washed-out grey sky, and exhaled through his hands for warmth.

Finrod was inside, finishing whatever task he had set his mind to that morning, and Harry was waiting. Waiting in a way he had not done for anyone in a very long time.

It startled him sometimes, how easily this elf had slipped into his life. He had planned something very different when he first reclaimed the Potter Estate renovate the crumbling bones of the house, restore the grounds, and then leave. Leave Britain, leave the shadows of the past, and find some quiet corner of the world to finally, finally breathe.

Solitude had been the plan. Peace, bought with distance.

Not… this.

Not a bright-eyed, golden-haired Elf who carried both sorrow and sunlight in equal measure. Not laughter in the halls or quiet company by the fire. Not this sense of something shifting inside him, something he didn’t dare name.

Harry shoved the thought away with another sigh, watching his breath curl into the air as he waited for Finrod to step outside.

It had been almost a month since Finrod, the shiny golden elf, had arrived at his life of chosen solitude. And Harry still didn’t quite know what to make of it.
______

“I’m sorry, I’m late.”

The voice carried lightly in the cold air, warm enough that Harry’s shoulders relaxed despite the chill nipping at his cheeks. He turned and found Finrod standing just a few paces behind, his long hair catching faint glimmers of the winter sun.

The Elf wore a white long jacket that looked as if it had been tailored precisely to his frame, elegant yet practical, with a deep green scarf wound neatly around his neck.

The scarf brought out the gold in his hair and the pale light of his eyes. Black trousers and polished shoes completed the picture, making him look like something out of a painting rather than a man who had been stranded in another world for over a month.

Harry swallowed and forced himself to look composed.

“It’s fine,”

He said evenly, adjusting his jacket and turning to continue walking. His boots crunched against the frosted earth, and beside him Finrod fell into step as though the rhythm had been long established between them.

Their conversation started small, little trivialities about what they might cook for dinner that night. Finrod had an unexpectedly keen interest in recipes, always asking what Harry thought of spices or why mortals combined certain foods together.

Harry gave his usual half-sarcastic, half-practical answers, but there was something about Finrod’s attentive listening that made him soften without realizing it.

Still, even as they talked, Harry’s eyes betrayed him. He kept glancing sideways, letting his gaze linger a fraction too long on the prince’s profile the calm curve of his mouth as he smiled, the unguarded light in his eyes as he mused aloud about herbs or the texture of bread and every time Harry caught himself, his chest tightened.

A sadness flickered across his expression, swift and sharp, before he forced his gaze forward again. He knew..Merlin, he knew..he couldn’t let himself get attached. He couldn’t afford it.

Finrod wasn’t his to want.

The Elf had a home, a people, a kingdom waiting across the chasm of worlds annd Harry… Harry was just Harry.

A wizard who had spent most of his life fighting battles he never wanted, who had been scorned by those he saved, who had carved out this solitude like a final defense against further disappointment.

Riches meant nothing here. His magic, impressive in his own world, seemed pale and clumsy next to the effortless songs Finrod had woven into the air when he thought Harry wasn’t watching and appearance? Harry gave a dry laugh in his head. There was no competing with Elven beauty.

He was just Harry. Ordinary. Replaceable. A shadow compared to someone like Finrod.

The ache of it settled deep, like an old wound pressing fresh. He had promised himself he’d never fall again. Not after the last time not after heartbreak had gutted him so thoroughly he thought he’d never recover and yet here he was, betrayed by his own heart, caught by something as foolish and impossible as love for someone beyond his reach.

The thought alone made him sigh heavily, his breath visible in the cold air.

“Is something wrong?”

The voice was closer than expected, pulling Harry out of his spiral. He jerked his head up only to find Finrod leaning slightly toward him, face angled with open concern.

Their proximity was startling Finrod’s golden hair brushed forward, catching in the wind, and Harry could see the faint trace of warmth in his breath.

Heat flared across Harry’s cheeks. He startled back, instinctively shoving at the closeness, and snapped his gaze away.

“Nothing!” He blurted too fast, too sharp.

Finrod only tilted his head, amusement slipping into his features like sunlight through clouds.

A quiet chuckle escaped him, not unkind but teasing, and Harry felt his blush deepen furiously. He turned his glare on the elf but it only seemed to amuse him further.

Mortified, Harry pushed ahead, walking faster and faster as though he could outpace both the embarrassment and the thundering of his heart. Behind him, Finrod’s soft laughter chased him down the path, a sound far too beautiful to be fair.

But Harry’s eyes, when he dared to look forward again, carried no humor. The levity of the moment was swallowed by the weight of the decision that had been gnawing at him since the night before. His hands clenched unconsciously into fists within his jacket pockets, the fabric straining against his knuckles.

He had found it.

The spell. Buried in an old, crumbling tome in the dusty attic of Grimmauld Place, hidden away between brittle pages that smelled of time and neglect. A spell older than the house itself something ancient, half-forgotten, but intact.

A spell that could send Finrod home.

And it had to be tonight. The full moon would crest high, and the stars would align in the pattern the spell required. The timing was perfect, and waiting any longer risked losing the chance for another year..if it even came again.

Harry exhaled slowly, his resolve cutting sharp inside him. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much his own heart rebelled, he couldn’t keep Finrod here. He couldn’t be selfish.

The Elf deserved to go back, to return to the life, the family, the people waiting for him even if it meant Harry would be alone again.

‘He needs to know,’

Harry thought, his chest aching as though the words were carved there. His heart screamed against the decision, but his eyes hardened with quiet determination and tonight, he would tell Finrod..

.

.

No...

.

.

He would send him home..

.

.

.

Tonight..

______

Finrod had never thought he would find himself in such a place..so far removed from the song of Arda that at first he thought it a cruel jest of Námo. Another world, different skies, a silence in the air that did not hum with the Music he had known all his life.

He had wandered strange forests, heard unfamiliar voices, and seen dwellings fashioned with curious methods unlike the stonework of the Noldor or the carvings of the Sindar.

It was bewildering, almost dreamlike, and for days he wondered if he still lingered in Mandos’ Halls, caught in some vision or trial.

At first, he did not believe the mortal who called himself Harry. Why should he? The man was sharp-eyed, weary in spirit, and spoke with a bluntness that suggested little patience for tales of Elves and Valinor.

Finrod thought him perhaps a trick of his mind, a test to see whether he could distinguish truth from illusion but the longer he stayed, the more that doubt began to wither. The land here was real enough. The cold air cut sharply against his skin, the food filled his stomach, the hearth gave warmth and Harry..Harry was no illusion.

He learned of magic here, a strange and fascinating power that was unlike the arts of his people. Where the Elves shaped the world through harmony with the Song, through craft and words of power, Harry wielded his magic through incantations, wands, and sheer force of will.

It was rougher, perhaps less graceful, but no less wondrous. Each time Finrod watched him, he felt an echo of awe, as though he had stumbled upon a new branch of Eru’s design he had never guessed at.

And yet, though magic fascinated him, it was not what held his gaze most often. It was the man himself.

Now, standing beside Harry as they walked through the marketplace, Finrod found his eyes straying once more. Harry’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he weighed turnips against carrots, lips pressing thin as he muttered about stew.

The mortal was wholly focused on the mundane task, yet to Finrod, that ordinary moment carried a strange gravity. He had seen kings at councils, warriors in battle, maidens in song but there was something about the sight of Harry in his simple humanity, choosing ingredients with care, that pulled at Finrod’s heart.

A fond smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it. His hands twitched at his sides, a sudden and foolish urge to reach out, to take Harry’s hand in his own and hold it as if the world might allow such simplicity. He tamped it down swiftly, forcing composure, though the longing lingered.

What would it matter if they stood in public? He had once been a king, a warrior, a son of Finarfin yet now, in this strange world, he was just a wanderer. And Harry was… Harry.

He wished, against all wisdom, to close the space between them.

His thoughts drifted back to their first meeting, the memory still vivid, sharp as the moment it happened.

He had been drowning or thought he was. Darkness pressed around him, cold and suffocating, the echoes of Mandos still ringing in his ears. He struggled, gasping, until consciousness returned like a cruel tide.

There was a bed beneath him, warmth that was not his own, and when his eyes opened he thought for a fleeting heartbeat that some had dragged him from death itself.

Impossible, he had thought. No soul should have been near him in such an isolated place. His instincts, honed by war and betrayal, flared, and before reason could intervene, he had moved—pinning the one beside him down with strength born of fear.

And then…

Emerald eyes. Bright, alive, startled, but not afraid. They met his own with clarity, a piercing green that cut through the haze in his mind. For a moment, Finrod’s breath caught. His heart stuttered once, hard enough that he nearly forgot to breathe.

It had been only an instant, but it was enough. Enough to undo him, enough to tell him that this was no dream. When he snapped himself from the daze, shame flooding him for his roughness, he knew it was already too late.

.

.

.

He was doomed.

.

.

Finrod shook his head softly, as though to banish the memory of that first, disastrous meeting, yet the thought lingered like an echo he could never silence.

He turned his eyes instead to Harry, who was still moving down the market stall, fingertips brushing over jars of spice as though the choice of cumin or thyme might decide the fate of kingdoms.

And yet, watching Harry so close by, Finrod could not ignore the ache that welled in his heart.

It was a pain he knew too well the pain of yearning without hope, the ache of desire tangled with the shadow of inevitability. His lips pressed into a thin line, his chest tightening as if to remind him: such feelings were folly.

What would it matter if he spoke them aloud?

Harry was a hero.

Finrod had come to understand this, not from Harry’s own lips never, for the mortal spoke of his past as though it were a wound, best left untended but from the weight that clung to him.

Harry carried it in the way his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, in the scars across his spirit that no song could ever fully heal. He was marked by battles fought, by losses endured, by victories that tasted bitter.

And Finrod… what was he now? A broken man, though his face and form were unmarred. His hands still bore the strength of his line, his voice still carried the resonance of his people, but within, he was scarred.

A son of Finarfin, doomed to carry the weight of kin-slayings, of oaths unfulfilled, of blood that should never have been spilled.

He had given his life once, in darkness, and yet he had not been permitted peace. Even now, fate had cast him adrift into a world not his own.

He had no right to claim love.

Still, his heart betrayed him. Each glance at Harry’s green eyes, each faint, wry smile, each moment of silence shared by the hearth..it wove around his soul like threads of gold, unbreakable and Finrod, foolish as he was, cherished each one even as he knew they might never be his to keep.

He knew too well the curse of the House of Finwë.

They loved once, and wholly. Their hearts were not fickle like Men, nor shifting like the sea. When they loved, it was as though the Song itself bent around that devotion, unyielding and unending. And too often, it ended in ruin. His uncle Fëanor with his fire, his father with his grief, his brothers with their dooms… and the death that followed.

Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps he had always been fated to love only once, and lose.

All, except for Haru who had managed to married twice.

Harry..how strange that this mortal’s name echoed in Finrod’s thoughts like a reminder of that exception. An anomaly. A hope that perhaps not all curses bound forever and yet… what then?

To confess now might shatter what peace they had found in each other’s company. To speak aloud what stirred in his chest might drive Harry away, or worse, burden him with feelings he did not return. Would it not be kinder, wiser, to bury it deep and carry the ache in silence?

Finrod’s hand flexed at his side, restless, as he exhaled slowly through his nose.

.

.

No.

He had lived too long with regrets.

He had seen too many chances slip into shadow because he had hesitated, because he had thought there would be another day. If he buried this, if he silenced himself now, he would carry that silence until the end of his days whether they ended here in this strange world, or in Valinor should he return.

Better to risk the pain of rejection than to live with the weight of words unsaid.

He lifted his gaze, watching Harry’s profile catch the pale light of the winter afternoon, and his heart clenched once more. Harry deserved truth, even if Finrod’s truth brought him sorrow.

He would confess....Tonight.

Something in his spirit stirred, the same instinct that had never failed him in war or counsel. A hunch, quiet but certain. Tonight would be special. And his hunches… they were not always wrong.

_______

Harry stood stiffly on the rooftop, the cold air biting at his skin even through his thick coat.

His breath came out in faint puffs of mist, uneven, betraying the storm beneath his ribs. Above him, the sky glittered in cruel indifference.

The constellations he had named so often in his youth, when he had lain in fields alone with nothing but the night as company, now seemed almost mocking. Virgo, Libra, Cancer..all familiar, all constant. And the moon, growing from crescent into fullness, slowly but inevitably reaching its zenith, like a clock counting down to the end of something he wasn’t ready to lose.

He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, but it did nothing to ease the dread curdling in his stomach. Just minutes now until the full moon would crown the heavens. Minutes until he would have to do what he both longed for and feared.

“Why are you asking to meet up here?”

The voice, rich and melodic, pulled Harry from his spiraling thoughts. He turned at once, and there he was Finrod. Standing a few paces away, his golden hair catching the pale light of the stars, his posture regal and unbothered despite the chill.

He was so achingly out of place in Harry’s world, and yet so seamlessly part of it now, that Harry’s chest constricted painfully at the sight.

“Oh, look! The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Finrod’s gaze had lifted skyward, his tone almost casual, yet reverent.

The Elf’s lips curved faintly in admiration, his eyes reflecting the silver of the crescent moon. For a heartbeat, Harry nearly faltered, nearly smiled with him because yes, the moon was beautiful, but not nearly as much as the man who stood there like a figure carved of starlight.

But Harry said nothing.

His silence stretched, heavy and unnatural, until Finrod’s brow furrowed. He lowered his gaze back to Harry.

“Harry?”

The simple sound of his name, spoken with such warmth, nearly undid him. It always did. The way Finrod said it gentle, deliberate, like the word itself was worth cherishing was something Harry had come to treasure far too much.

Harry pressed his lips tightly together, forcing himself not to crumble. His hands trembled where they clutched the book to his chest.

He had to start now. He couldn’t delay. If he hesitated, if he let himself look too long into those blue eyes, he would break.

“It’s time,”

Harry whispered, voice shaky, his eyes falling to the stone beneath his boots. The admission burned his throat raw. His body shook as though he were standing at the edge of some precipice, about to leap into a void he might never return from.

He cursed inwardly at the heat pooling in his eyes. Not here. Not now. He could not let himself cry not when he needed to be strong, not when this was supposed to be for Finrod’s sake.

“What time?”

Finrod’s confusion cut through the silence, his tone soft but laced with unease. Harry could not look at him. His grip on the book tightened until his knuckles whitened, the leather pressing sharply into his palms.

Finrod followed his gaze and then he saw it. The book, the cover marked with an eight-pointed star, its edges worn and ancient, its aura humming faintly with a power older than Harry had words for.

“Oh…”

The sound was barely more than a whisper, but it struck Harry like a blade. He didn’t need to look to know what was written on Finrod’s face realization, dawning sorrow, perhaps even gratitude. And yet, Harry could not bring himself to meet his eyes.

Silence fell around them, thick and suffocating. The stars still burned above, the moon crept higher, but all Harry could hear was the rushing of his own blood in his ears.

His fingers shook as he flipped open the book, the parchment brittle beneath his touch.

The pages fluttered until at last it settled, open upon a sigil drawn in fading ink three northern stars arranged in an eternal embrace, shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

Harry’s vision blurred at the edges as he stared down at it, his teeth sinking into his lip to keep it from trembling.

“Are you ready?”

His voice cracked despite his best effort, low and unsteady. He did not look up. He could not. To look into Finrod’s face now, to see acceptance or worse, joy would shatter the fragile shield he held around his breaking heart.

He fixed his gaze instead on the page before him, though the lines of ink seemed to swim through the tears he refused to shed.

He couldn’t explain the storm raging inside him..the love he had no right to feel, the ache of losing someone he never truly had, the guilt of longing for a man who already had someone waiting in another world.

He should be happy..happy that Finrod would go home, happy that he had found a way to make it possible but all Harry felt was the unbearable weight of knowing that tonight, under the stars and the full moon, he was about to lose him forever.

And so he stood, head bowed, the book trembling in his hands, as his heart quietly broke in silence.

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" Harry—"

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Finrod’s voice carried softly into the night, weighted with something that Harry wasn’t ready to face.

His lips pressed tightly together, trembling faintly as though they might betray him, and he turned his head away. He couldn’t bring himself to look, couldn’t bear to meet the golden warmth in Finrod’s eyes because he knew if he did, he would shatter entirely.

The silence between them stretched, fragile as glass. Harry could hear Finrod’s faint sigh resigned, aching and it stirred something sharp inside him.

A hundred words tried to form on his tongue, but before they could escape, he felt it arms wrapping firmly around him, pulling him into a hold that was both tender and desperate.

The dam inside Harry broke.

Hot tears spilled freely, soaking into Finrod’s tunic as Harry clung to him with a kind of desperation that startled even himself. He shouldn’t cry, he told himself.

He was supposed to be strong, to be the one others leaned on. But right now, in Finrod’s arms, he was nothing but a man carrying too much weight, breaking under the softest kindness.

Finrod didn’t question.

He didn’t push. He simply held Harry, his palm rubbing slow circles over Harry’s back, steady and soothing, grounding him in the storm. The embrace was wordless, but it spoke more than either of them could say aloud.

The night air shifted. A stronger wind swept through the clearing, rattling the leaves overhead as silence deepened around them.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Above, the stars glittered brighter than usual, drawing themselves into faint, strange alignments.

The moon, usually pale silver, glowed faintly with a light that shimmered between blue and gold. It was as though the sky itself mourned for them, preparing for what was to come.

Harry’s breath hitched against Finrod’s shoulder. His voice trembled when he finally whispered the first word of the spell.

A glow blossomed around them soft, radiant, the color of golden dawn woven with streaks of pale blue.

Each word Harry uttered wrapped them tighter in light, humming with ancient power. Finrod’s arms tightened once, as though he understood though he had not been told what Harry was doing.

And Harry, his heart breaking with every syllable, kept speaking.

The spell was beautiful, yet cruel.

Each word was a piece of farewell. Each word was a promise that would never be fulfilled. Tears streaked down his face, glimmering as they caught the growing light.

When the final word slipped from his lips, the glow surged. A blinding flash enveloped them, a brilliance like fireflies scattering into the night.

Finrod’s form grew faint, his edges dissolving into the light. His warmth began to fade, though his arms were still around Harry and then gentle as falling snow Finrod pressed his lips against Harry’s forehead.

A kiss that was both a benediction and a goodbye.

Harry’s eyes fell shut at the touch, a sob tearing from him as though it were being ripped out of his chest. He wanted to hold on. He wanted to scream and fight the magic. But he couldn’t not when this was the price.

When he opened his eyes, the glow was gone.

So was Finrod.

The night was quiet again, the stars cold and distant. Harry stood alone in the clearing, his arms clutching at empty air as though trying to hold the ghost of what had been. His knees gave way, and he sank to the ground, pressing his forehead into the earth as sobs wracked his frame.

He had known it would end this way. He had known the price but knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

Finrod had returned home and he would not remember.

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The cruelest truth of all.

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When Finrod awoke, it was to the quiet of his chamber. He blinked into the darkness, disoriented, the familiar carvings on the walls seeming strangely foreign yet the last thing he remembered was going to the forest yet Finrod couldn't care about it.

His pillow was damp. His face, wet.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his golden hair falling loose over his shoulders. A sharp ache pulsed in his chest, mirrored by a splitting headache that made him groan softly.

“Why am I crying?” He murmured aloud, voice raw and broken.

His hand lifted to wipe at his cheeks, but the tears would not stop. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as though trying to force the emotion away, but it only grew heavier, like a weight lodged deep in his soul.

Something was missing.

Something had been taken from him wiped clean, scrubbed from memory yet the absence was too sharp to ignore. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t recall what he had lost, but his heart knew.

His body knew and so Finrod wept quietly, helplessly for something he could no longer remember.

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For someone he had loved, once, and lost forever.