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Harry awoke to the sound of birdsong and the damp, earthy scent of moss and running water.
His first breath tore out of his chest in a choking gasp.
He bolted upright, heart slamming violently against his ribs as though trying to escape. Panic flooded his senses before his thoughts could catch up, his lungs burning as he dragged in air too fast, too shallow.
He looked around.
Towering trees stretched endlessly above him, their trunks thick and ancient, their branches tangled so high that they blotted out pieces of the sky. Bushes and undergrowth surrounded him on all sides, dense and wild, as though no human hand had touched this place in centuries.
The sight made his stomach twist.
It reminded him too much of the Forbidden Forest near Hogwarts...too quiet, too alive, too full of things that watched unseen.
A wave of nausea rolled through him, sharp and sudden, and he had to swallow hard to keep from retching.
He lifted his gaze, squinting as sunlight poured down through the leaves. The sky above was painfully bright, far brighter than he expected, and he instinctively raised an arm to shield his eyes.
As he tried to stand, his legs buckled beneath him.
Harry hit the ground with a dull thud, pain shooting up through his limbs. He let out a sharp hiss, his hands clawing into the damp earth as dizziness washed over him in heavy waves. His head spun, vision blurring at the edges.
' It hurts! '
He tried to sit up again, but his body protested, weak and uncooperative. His lips trembled despite himself, a strange, fragile sensation rising in his chest.
He hadn’t felt pain like this in hundreds of years.
The realization struck him like a blow.
The last time he had felt this kind of raw, physical pain had been during the war during the final battle against Voldemort. Back when he still had Ginny. Back when he had children. Back when he had watched them age, live, and die while he remained unchanged, untouched by time.
He remembered standing at graves. Too many graves.
He remembered centuries passing like falling leaves, every person he loved slipping through his fingers until there was no one left but him until, at last, he had chosen to end it himself.
The memory settled cold and heavy in his chest and then it hit him.
Slowly, warily, Harry looked around again, his breath coming unevenly as understanding dawned. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
He had died.
He knew he had died.
He remembered the train. The station. The quiet, gentle finality of it all..the place where death had greeted him not as an enemy, but as an old companion.
“Wh—”
The word died in his throat as he broke into a violent cough. His chest seized, each rasping breath scraping painfully against his throat. It felt unbearably dry, as though he hadn’t tasted water in days.
Harry dropped forward instinctively, bracing himself on the ground, one hand clutching at his throat as he struggled to breathe. The coughing wracked his small frame, leaving him gasping and shaking.
After what felt like an eternity, it finally eased.
He dragged in a deep, desperate breath, air burning as it filled his lungs. He panted heavily, head bowed, sweat clinging to his skin despite the cool forest air.
That was when he noticed his hands.
They were small.
Soft, yet not untouched..there were faint callouses on his palms and fingers. The sight sent a jolt through him, sharp and disorienting. It was a familiarity he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
The hands of a child who had worked.
The hands of someone who had known chores, neglect, and survival.
Hands that reminded him painfully of his childhood, scrubbing floors and washing dishes in his aunt’s house long before Hogwarts had ever found him.
He clenched his hands, forcing himself to take one final, steadying breath before pushing himself upright.
His legs wobbled beneath him the moment he stood, a tremor running through his entire body.
Dizziness washed over him again, stronger this time, and he had to pause, breathing carefully as the world tilted. His mouth felt like sandpaper, his tongue heavy and dry against the roof of his mouth.
' I need to find water, ' Harry thought.
He licked his cracked lips and began to move forward, slow and unsteady, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as he ventured deeper into the forest.
Time blurred as he walked.
The forest seemed endless, the towering trees stretching on without mercy.
His vision began to darken at the edges, spots swimming before his eyes. Whenever it became too much, he stopped, bracing himself against a tree or sinking down onto the forest floor until the dizziness passed. Then he forced himself to stand again, driven by the fear of collapsing and never waking up in this unfamiliar wilderness.
He couldn’t afford to faint and not finding out what happened to him but then..faint but unmistakable he heard it.
The sound of running water.
Hope flared in his chest, sharp and sudden. Relief rushed through him so fast it almost made him laugh.
He picked up his pace instinctively, excitement pushing him forward, but the movement only worsened his dizziness. His steps faltered, his breath coming shallow and uneven, his body screaming in protest.
Still, he kept going.
When the trees finally parted and a river came into view, Harry let out a shaky sigh of relief. The sight of the clear water felt almost unreal, like a mirage conjured by desperation.
He stumbled closer and dropped into a crouch by the riverbank. Without hesitation, he cupped his hands and drank, gulping down the cold water greedily. It spilled over his fingers and down his chin, but he didn’t care. He drank until his stomach felt full and the burning dryness in his throat finally eased.
Only then did he straighten slightly, breathing more evenly, his body slowly regaining strength and that was when he saw his reflection in the water.
Harry froze.
He stared down at the surface of the river, eyes wide, his breath catching in his throat.
“What the Bloody Merlin!?”
The face staring back at him belonged to a child but not the child he remembered. It was unfamiliar, yet disturbingly familiar all the same.
Some of the features were undeniably his, echoes of the boy he once was. Others were not. There was something older in the structure of his face, something refined.
It reminded him of the ancient, aristocratic faces he had seen in old wizarding families..faces like Sirius’s, noble and sharp in a way that spoke of lineage and history.
His eyes caught his attention next.
They were an unusual color, shifting in the light between brown and green, never settling on just one. The sight sent a strange pang through him, reminding him of eyes that carried more than one story, more than one identity.
His hair was different too.
It wasn’t the wild, unruly bird’s nest he had grown up with. Instead, it lay smoother, darker, framing his face in a way that felt foreign and then he noticed what wasn’t there.
The lightning-bolt scar was gone.
The realization made his chest loosen in quiet relief. That mark had been a constant reminder of pain, prophecy, and a life defined by suffering.
For the first time in a very long while, Harry stared at his reflection without seeing Harry Potter and it was strange having him mixed feelings staring at his reflection.
.
.
.
“Who is there?!”
Harry shouted suddenly, spinning around as he instinctively took a guarded stance. His heart slammed violently against his chest as the sharp crack of a breaking branch echoed behind him. Every nerve in his body screamed danger, adrenaline surging despite his exhaustion.
He was exposed.
There was nothing around him he could use for cover..no rocks, no thick trees close enough to shield him. The river lay behind him, its surface deceptively calm, but he knew better.
It was deep, far too deep.
In his current state, diving into it would likely mean drowning. His limbs were still weak, his body drained from dehydration and shock.
And magic—
Did he even have magic anymore?
Harry clenched his jaw, biting down on his lower lip as panic threatened to rise. He could feel it now..movement. Footsteps, light but deliberate, drawing closer with unnerving certainty. Someone or something was approaching him then a figure stepped into view.
Harry froze.
The person standing before him was a man, appearing to be in his twenties. He was tall and undeniably handsome..so much so that, for a split second, Harry’s mind produced an absurd comparison.
' He could definitely put Sirius to shame… sorry, Padfoot! '
The man had dark brown hair that fell neatly around his face and sharp gray eyes that missed nothing but it wasn’t his looks that caught Harry’s attention the most.
It was his ears.
They were pointed.
Not subtly. Not strangely shaped.
Clearly pointed just like the High Elves Harry had once met during his long travels through worlds he barely remembered anymore. The sight sent a jolt through him, a quiet confirmation that this was no ordinary place and these were no ordinary people.
The man studied him intently, gray eyes scanning Harry as if committing every detail to memory. There was a brief pause, heavy and charged, before their gazes met fully.
For a moment, the man’s expression shifted.
Shock flickered across his face pure, unguarded and then something else entirely.
Recognition.
“Turin,” The man murmured softly.
Unfortunately, Harry didn’t hear him.
The man reached into his tunic and pulled out a whistle, raising it to his lips. Harry recognized the object instantly, though he didn’t know why. The sharp, clear note cut through the air, echoing through the forest and bouncing between the ancient trees.
The sound faded.
Minutes passed..slow, tense minutes before another presence emerged.
A second man appeared beside the dark-haired one as if summoned by the forest itself.
He had silver hair that gleamed faintly in the dappled sunlight and grayish-blue eyes just as sharp as the first man’s. His ears were pointed as well, marking him unmistakably as one of the same kind. He held a bow in one hand, posture alert but not overtly hostile.
He was just as handsome, though in a different way though there was something about him made Harry’s chest tighten.
There was a familiarity there something deep and unexplainable that stirred within him, tugging at memories just out of reach. Harry frowned faintly, unsettled by the feeling, unable to place why this stranger felt so important to him.
As the silver-haired man stepped toward him, Harry instinctively took a step back.
Then another.
Cold water lapped against his heels, and he froze, suddenly aware of how close he was to the river.
He glanced behind him briefly, eyes flicking to the flowing water as his mind raced. If they attacked him, he could jump but in his current state, that would almost certainly mean drowning.
He was weak, dizzy, barely standing. Fighting them wasn’t any better he had no weapon, no magic he could feel, and no real chance of winning.
He was trapped.
Before he could decide what to do, the silver-haired man lowered himself crouching down until they were at eye level. His movements were slow and deliberate, careful not to startle him further then unexpectedly the man smiled.
It was warm. Beautiful, even.
Harry stiffened.
' Nice try, ' He thought grimly.
' I’m not falling for that cliché. '
He’d learned that lesson long ago.
The silver-haired man spoke, his lips moving gently, his tone calm but none of it made sense. The words reached Harry’s ears as nothing more than incomprehensible sounds, a stream of gibberish that left him blinking in confusion.
What language was that?
Before Harry could react, the dark-haired man interrupted, saying something sharp and quick to his companion. He must have noticed Harry’s expression his confusion, his growing unease because the silver-haired man paused.
Then he spoke again.
“My apologies, Túrin Turambar.”
This time, Harry understood him.
The sudden shift made him tense, but some of the panic eased from his chest. He loosened his stance just slightly, though his eyes remained narrowed, wary and sharp.
' Túrin Turambar? '
' Why does that sound familiar? I swear I’ve heard it before…'
Harry frowned, trying to grasp the name, to pull it from the depths of his memory but his thoughts felt sluggish, heavy. The dizziness returned in a slow, suffocating wave, making it hard to focus.
“Who are you?” Harry asked.
His voice cracked despite his effort to keep it steady as he forced himself to meet the silver-haired man’s gaze, suspicion and exhaustion warring in his eyes.
.
.
.
“I am Beleg Cuthalion, Marchwarden of Doriath.”
The name hit him like a thunderclap.
Harry blinked, his breath catching as fragmented memories surged to the surface of a book Luna had once shoved into his hands, her expression eerily serious as she told him he needed to read it. She hadn’t explained why. She’d simply walked away, leaving him baffled and curious.
Beleg.
Before he could fully process the realization, his vision swam violently. The world tilted, colors bleeding together as his strength finally gave out.
The last thing he felt was arms catching him before he hit the ground.
Beleg’s voice reached him, filled with alarm, but the words blurred into nothing as darkness swallowed him whole. His final, fading thought flickered weakly through his mind.
.
.
.
' Damn, Potter luck!! '
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________
When Harry opened his eyes, the first thing that struck him was the light.
Sunlight poured in from somewhere above, far too bright, forcing him to squint as a dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. He groaned softly and raised a hand to shield his face before slowly pushing himself upright.
He was lying in a bed.
Not the rough forest floor. Not stone. A bed proper and carefully made.
As his vision adjusted, Harry took in his surroundings. The room was beautiful in a quiet, refined way. Everything was crafted from rich, polished wood, smooth and warm in tone, the kind that spoke of careful workmanship and age.
The walls, the beams, even the furniture bore intricate carvings that were elegant without being ostentatious. One glance was enough to tell that nothing here was cheap or hastily made.
It reminded him of Grimmauld Place.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Grimmauld Place had been beautiful too..grand, ancient, steeped in history. And yet it had been suffocating, wrapped in shadows and old resentments, its grandeur poisoned by gloom.
The oppressive atmosphere, the lingering darkness, and of course the blasted portrait of Sirius’s mother screaming abuse at all hours—
Harry grimaced.
Kreacher had been… tolerable, in his own way. Loyal, eventually but still the house itself had never truly felt like home. Not until Harry had finally left it behind to live abroad, far away from the ghosts of the past.
This place, however, felt different.
He scanned the room again, more carefully this time. It was unfamiliar. Entirely so. No creaking floors heavy with grudges, no sense of watching eyes in the walls just quiet, clean air and sunlight then realization struck.
Memories surged forward without warning.
Harry hissed in pain, clutching his head as unfamiliar thoughts and images crashed into him in a chaotic flood. Names, places, faces none of them his, yet all of them were.
His vision blurred as the pressure built, a sharp, splitting ache forcing him to curl forward as his fingers dug into his hair.
He clenched his teeth, breathing hard as the memories continued to pour in fragmented, relentless. After several long, agonizing minutes, the onslaught finally slowed then stopped.
Harry slumped slightly, chest heaving as he sucked in air, sweat clinging to his skin. The room was silent except for his breathing. As the full weight of the information settled in, anger flared hot and sharp in his chest.
He coughed harshly, more out of fury than weakness.
It was honestly a miracle he didn’t faint from sheer rage.
“I need to leave,” Harry said to himself grimly.
A fierce surge of determination took hold of him as he straightened, jaw set hard. He refused to stay in this batshit crazy place. He refused to wait around until the story began tightening its noose around his neck.
He had already lived one life trapped by prophecy and fate.
He was not about to be thrust into another Harry Potter bullshit destiny again not as Harry but as Túrin himself.
Harry tried to stand.
The moment his feet touched the wooden floor, his legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed with a dull thud. Pain flared sharply through his body, forcing a hiss from his lips as he instinctively grabbed onto the bed for support, fingers digging into the blankets.
His body..this body was weak.
Childishly weak.
“Merlin!” Harry cursed under his breath.
Only then did the full weight of his condition truly sink in. His mouth felt unbearably dry, his lips cracking as he licked them in vain. His stomach growled loudly, the sound embarrassingly clear in the quiet room.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, his vision swimming as hunger and dehydration combined to sap what little strength he had.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe.
Slowly, carefully, Harry pulled himself back up using the bed. Instead of standing, he sat on the mattress and leaned back against the headboard, closing his eyes for a brief moment to steady himself.
When he opened them again, he noticed a small table beside the bed.
On it sat a pitcher, it wassimple but finely made and beside it was a wooden cup. A closer look revealed that the pitcher was filled with water. Next to it rested a wooden bowl containing several fruits, their colors rich and inviting.
Harry stared at it for a second.
'Don’t mind if I do' He thought dryly.
He licked his lips again and reached for the pitcher, hands trembling as he poured water into the cup. A little spilled over the rim, splashing onto the table but he didn’t care. He lifted the cup and drank, the cool water soothing his parched throat instantly.
He let out a soft sigh of relief.
He drank again, slower this time, savoring every swallow until the dizziness finally eased. Once he was done, he reached for one of the fruits. It looked like a mango judging by its shape and thick peel and after fumbling slightly, he managed to peel it.
The first bite made him moan quietly in relief.
It wasn’t a full meal but the sweetness and juice filled his mouth easing the gnawing ache in his stomach. He ate steadily, letting the simple food restore him bit by bit and by the time he finished, the worst of his hunger had faded.
Strength slowly returned to his limbs.
He still felt weak but it was manageable now enough to move without the world spinning every time he shifted.
Harry glanced around the room again, more aware this time, and noticed a window set into the far wall. Sunlight streamed through it, illuminating the polished wood and casting warm patterns across the floor.
Curiosity stirred within him.
He pushed himself up once more and carefully made his way toward the window, steps slow but steady.
He wanted to see this world..this book with his own eyes.
Standing on his toes to compensate for his small stature, Harry peered outside.
His breath caught.
The view beyond was breathtaking.
Massive trees rose proudly into the sky, their branches wide and ancient, woven together with walkways and homes crafted seamlessly into the wood. Structures of natural beauty blended perfectly with the forest, as if grown rather than built. Everything glowed softly in the sunlight, serene and untouched.
It was stunning.
Holy, even.
Harry stared in quiet awe, taking in the beauty spread out before him, struck by the strange, overwhelming reality of being inside a world he had once only read about.
.
.
.
It was beautiful
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_______
Harry continued to marvel at the view, his eyes tracing the towering trees and the graceful structures nestled among them, when the sound of footsteps snapped him sharply back to reality.
His breath hitched.
Someone was coming.
“Dammit!” Harry hissed under his breath.
Panic flared instantly. He had completely forgotten he wasn’t alone here. He wasn’t safe. He needed to leave now. His heart began to race as he spun around, scanning the room frantically for a place to hide.
Nothing.
No closet. No screen. No shadows deep enough to disappear into.
A sudden breeze brushed against his face cool and insistent, making him stiffen. Slowly, he turned his head toward the wide open window. His throat bobbed as he swallowed eyes flicking between the approaching doorway and the open air beyond.
He tiptoed closer and leaned forward, trying to peer down.
It was useless.
He was too short.
“Bloody Merlin! Short body,” Harry cursed silently.
The footsteps were closer now clearer, heavier.
Desperation surged through him. His gaze darted around wildly until it landed on a chair positioned not far from the bed. Without thinking, Harry hurried toward it. His body protested, muscles trembling with the effort but adrenaline pushed him forward.
He grabbed the chair and dragged it across the floor, the sound far louder than he would have liked. Each scrape made his heart leap into his throat. He shoved it beneath the window, breath coming fast and shallow, then climbed onto it in a rush.
The chair wobbled violently under his weight.
Harry grabbed onto the window frame instinctively, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought to keep his balance. A sharp gust of wind swept past him, tugging at his clothes and hair, forcing him to gasp.
His eyes flew open.
Carefully, heart pounding, he placed one foot onto the window ledge. The moment he looked down, his pupils dilated in shock at the sheer height below.
Harry gulped.
It was far too high.
At least two. maybe three stories down.
Harry exhaled shakily, his breath trembling as he stared at the dizzying drop below. His legs began to shake in earnest now knees weak as his mind raced desperately searching for a way down that wouldn’t end with him broken on the ground or worse being dead.
There was none.
Before he could think further, the sound of a door opening cut sharply through the room.
Harry whipped his head around.
His gaze collided with a pair of grayish-blue eyes.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze.
“You!”
The owner of those eyes shouted, his voice sharp with alarm as the word rang out in Sindarin. The sound jolted Harry out of his daze completely, his pulse spiking as recognition hit him all at once.
It was them.
The two familiar Elves from earlier.
From what he remembered what little he could piece together through the haze it had to be Mablung and Beleg.
'Damn it!!' Harry thought grimly.
Their expressions mirrored what any sane person would feel upon seeing a child perched precariously on an open window ledge shock, panic, and unmistakable fear.
Mablung took a sharp step forward, his eyes wide, while the silver-haired Elf Beleg spoke rapidly, his voice urgent but gentle.
Harry didn’t understand the words but he understood the tone.
Comfort. Reassurance. A plea to stop.
Harry’s gaze flicked from them to the open window and back again. He bit his lip hard, tasting blood, his heart hammering violently in his chest. He could hear raised voices now shouts of alarm echoing behind him but none of it mattered.
He refused.
He refused to stay.
He refused to be pulled into another role, another story where fate dictated suffering, where misery was inevitable. He had lived that life once already.
He would not do it again not as Harry Potter, and not as Túrin with a sharp inhale, Harry turned and leapt.
Shouts of alarm rang out behind him, frantic and terrified but Harry didn’t look back.
Better to die fleeing than to live trapped in another cursed fate.
Harry felt himself collide harshly with something solid before he even had time to process the fall.
A tree.
He slammed into its branches, pain exploding through his body as the impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Instinct took over with a desperate cry, he grabbed onto a branch, his fingers clawing into rough bark as he tried to slow his descent.
It didn’t help.
The branch bent, leaves tearing loose, and then he slipped.
Harry crashed down into a thick bush below, the impact forcing a sharp gasp from his lips as pain tore through his side. Thorns scratched at his skin, leaves rustling violently around him as he lay there, stunned and shaking.
A broken whimper escaped him.
He forced himself to move, pushing weakly against the ground until he managed to stand.
The world tilted dangerously, his vision blurring at the edges. A sharp, stabbing pain flared along his ribs, stealing his breath and he knew instantly something was broken.
He bit down hard on his lip, drawing blood as he fought back a cry.
Focus.
Shouts echoed above him.
Harry looked up through watering eyes and saw them Beleg and Mablung leaning out from the window, their faces pale with alarm, voices raised as they called out urgently.
He couldn’t stay.
Clutching his side, Harry turned and ran.
His steps were uneven and slow, his body screaming in protest, but fear drove him forward. He dodged between houses built into the great trees slipping past pillars and roots forcing himself to keep moving despite the pain that burned with every breath.
Elves moved in the distance too fast, too graceful.
Harry ducked behind thick foliage, weaving between plants and tree trunks, pressing himself into shadows, using the forest itself to hide him. He swallowed back another whimper as agony lanced through his ribs, sweat clinging to his skin as he forced his breathing to steady.
He couldn’t let them hear him.
He knew well enough Elves had sharp senses. Too sharp.
Finally, he slipped behind a dense bush and crouched low, curling inward protectively as he ducked his head. He pressed a hand over his mouth, evening out his breathing, fighting the urge to cough or cry out.
Footsteps thundered nearby.
Voices urgent, worried, calling out.
Harry stayed perfectly still.
Time blurred as the pain dulled into something heavy and suffocating, exhaustion pulling at him relentlessly. His vision darkened, the world slowly fading as his strength finally gave out.
The last thing he registered was the sound of footsteps approaching closer this time and the sudden sensation of being lifted, gentle arms cradling him as consciousness slipped away once more.
.
.
'Ughhh… Bloody Merlin.'
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_________
Harry expected to wake up in the same wooden room again perhaps with a few ropes binding his hands as a reminder of his misadventure but the moment his eyes fluttered open, all expectation shattered.
He was greeted instead by a white marbled ceiling, smooth and polished, catching the afternoon light in gentle, almost ethereal glimmers. He blinked several times, trying to adjust his mind refusing to process the sudden shift.
“What???”
Harry muttered under his breath, confusion thick in his throat.
He pushed himself to sit up, only to wince sharply as a migraine stabbed at his temples.
His hand flew to his head instinctively fingers pressing into the throbbing pain as he forced himself to survey the room.
It was nothing like the warm, polished wood he had grown accustomed to earlier.
This place… this holy place, with its pristine white walls accented with gilded touches, gave him a feeling of reverence, almost like stepping inside a grand cathedral. Gold trim traced the edges of panels and door frames, reflecting the sunlight in soft, warm glimmers. Every surface seemed immaculate, untouched, and somehow sacred.
Sunlight streamed through the large windows, filtering through sheer white curtains and painting delicate patterns on the floor. The light carried the warm hues of afternoon, hinting that the day was already waning, the sky outside painted in shades of orange and rose.
Harry’s gaze traveled around the room, taking in the details.
The bedroom was surprisingly spacious, the kind of room reserved for nobility or someone of significant standing. Cabinets and drawers of matching white and gold stood neatly against the walls, their craftsmanship intricate, elegant, and precise.
Small plants in decorative pots adorned the corners and the edges of the windows, their leaves catching the golden light in a way that made the room feel alive yet serene.
The floor-to-ceiling window dominated one wall, the white curtains flowing gently as if stirred by a breeze from nowhere allowing Harry a full view of the world beyond. The air inside smelled faintly of fresh linen and polished wood, mingled with the soft, subtle scent of flowers from the carefully arranged plants.
For the first time since waking in this strange world, Harry paused taking it all in. The room was not just beautiful it radiated a calm almost divine atmosphere that made him feel simultaneously small and awed.
Every detail, from the golden accents to the careful placement of greenery, whispered a quiet luxury and serenity that contrasted sharply with the chaos and fear he had just fled.
He leaned back slightly, trying to steady himself, still wincing from the lingering pain of his fall and the throbbing migraine, but he couldn’t help but be struck by the sheer unworldly beauty surrounding him.
“I see you’re finally awake.”
The voice cut through the quiet of the room, smooth and melodic, and Harry startled so violently that a yelp escaped him. Reflexively, he grabbed the nearest object his pillow and hurled it toward the source of the voice.
“Take that!” He squeaked, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for whatever would happen next.
“My, my… as expected of Húrin’s son,” The voice said, rich with amusement.
Harry slowly cracked one eye open, peering cautiously over the pillow, and froze.
Before him stood a very tall Elf. Very tall. Too tall, in fact, for Harry to fully comprehend at first glance. His long silver hair cascaded down in smooth, gleaming waves, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to hold centuries of wisdom and an unsettling calm.
He wore a pristine white robe with delicate blue detailing that caught the sunlight streaming through the window, and atop his head rested a circlet shaped like intertwining vines, polished and elegant.
Harry’s throat went dry.
“Who… who are you?”
He asked warily, voice small but sharp, as his wide eyes followed the Elf’s slow, measured steps toward the bed.
Tension coiled in Harry’s body, every instinct screaming danger. He was vulnerable state and this child’s body offered little defense. His eyes flicked around the room, scanning for anything, anything, he could use to protect himself if this gorgeous, unnervingly calm Elf decided to strike.
The Elf merely chuckled, a low, musical sound that only made Harry’s stomach tighten in irritation and nervousness. He paused at the edge of the bed, watching Harry with a faintly amused expression.
Harry’s back pressed against the headboard, body coiled, pillow gripped tightly. He resembled a cornered kitten, fur bristling in defense, claws unsheathed. The Elf’s smile widened slightly, a glint of mirth dancing in his eyes.
“I said—who are you!”
Harry demanded, voice firmer now, trying to assert himself despite the weakness of his small frame. He raised the pillow higher, preparing to strike again.
“Oh dear…”
The Elf chuckled again, shaking his head gently, as though watching an entertaining but mildly exasperating play. Harry frowned, feeling a spark of frustration at being underestimated.
Before he could react further, the Elf moved closer.
Harry shrieked in surprise, eyes widening as he scrambled backward instinctively. Pillow raised, he tossed it in a desperate arc toward the approaching figure.
The Elf caught it effortlessly, still chuckling, his expression unchangingly calm.
Harry’s small body stiffened, all defensive instincts on high alert, ready for any movement the Elf might make. Every muscle was tense, every breath sharp and shallow, as he held his stance, refusing to let down his guard.
“That’s enough… Celeborn.”
The sharp, commanding voice made Harry snap his head toward the door.
A new Elf stood there, tall and composed, with hair like silver threaded with white and eyes the color of storm-touched clouds—soft gray, yet piercing. He wore a robe of deep green that clung lightly to his lean frame, accentuating a disciplined elegance.
Harry tilted his head, taking in the contrast between this Elf and the one named Celeborn, whose amusement and careless grace now seemed even more pronounced though the name was a bit familiar. He just can't remember where he had heard it.
“You do know the child doesn’t understand you, right?” The new Elf said, his tone calm but laced with a subtle authority.
Celeborn froze mid-step, eyes widening as he smacked a hand to his forehead, realizing in that instant he had forgotten an important detail. His gaze flicked toward Harry, who frowned slightly, unable to understand the exchange between the two Elves.
' I wish I could translate them, ' Harry thought bitterly, teeth grinding.
Suddenly, a realization dawned on him. He was so caught up in being cornered and terrified that he had forgotten the most obvious thing he had magic.
He hit his forehead with his palm, groaning in frustration.
' Damn it! Magic! '
His other hand lifted the pillow, pressing it against his face as he let out a defeated sigh. How had he forgotten? He had power, even if he didn’t yet know how it would manifest in this body but of course… this was Túrin’s body and Harry was certain, beyond any doubt, that Túrin was not a magical being.
The only magic here if any was Morgoth’s curse that hung over him.
He was about to continue wallowing in self-pity when, suddenly, he felt himself lifted from the bed.
“Hey!”
He yelped in surprise, squirming instinctively. Pain shot through his side, reminding him sharply of his earlier fall causing him to stop squirming much less hurt himself.
His vision adjusted to find himself cradled in the strong arms of the gray-eyed Elf. The commanding Elf clearly the one who had spoken first looked down at him, expression apologetic yet calm.
“I’m sorry, child,” The Elf said in a language that now Harry understood clearly.
Harry blinked in astonishment, the clarity of the words washing over him like a sudden wave.
He looked up at the Elf carrying him, still gripping the pillow tightly out of habit, while Celeborn at the edge of the bed, merely snorted softly amused by Harry’s flustered state.
Harry’s heart pounded, a mix of embarrassment, pain, and awe coursing through him as he realized that, despite the strangeness of this new world, he was not entirely powerless here.
The Elf’s firm, steady hands held him safely, a reassuring presence in a situation that had moments before seemed hopeless and yet the nagging thought remained in the back of his mind.
' How the hell am I going to navigate this… as Túrin? '
The Elf holding Harry walked with long, steady strides, carrying him effortlessly through the grand hall.
Celeborn followed close behind, his own movements light and graceful, footsteps barely making a sound on the polished wooden floors that were inlaid with intricate designs.
Harry, still gripping the pillow hesitantly, couldn’t stop his eyes from darting around, drinking in every detail of the place.
The walls were lined with rich, carved wood, each panel adorned with elegant patterns and delicate etchings that seemed to tell stories he didn’t yet understand. Light streamed through tall windows, catching the subtle golden accents that ran along the edges of doors, beams, and bannisters.
Every corner was immaculate, yet somehow inviting, a perfect balance of majesty and warmth.
“It’s pretty, right?”
Celeborn said casually, his voice close enough that Harry could feel the calm amusement in it.
Harry blinked at him, confused again as he tried to understand the words. The Elf carrying him, Oropher, let out a soft, deadpan sigh and gave Celeborn a sidelong glance.
“Oops,”
Celeborn said, realization dawning on him as he sheepishly laughed. His words had slipped into Sindarin, a tongue Harry still didn’t understand, and now the amusement on his face was tinged with embarrassment. He smirked awkwardly and gave a small, fake cough to cover it.
“What I mean… it’s pretty, right?”
Celeborn repeated in the language Harry could finally comprehend.
Harry nodded earnestly, his gaze still roaming the magnificent hall.
“It’s really pretty,” He whispered softly, awe threading through his voice.
“So, what’s your name, child?”
Celeborn asked, glancing down at him with a faint, teasing tilt of his head.
Harry froze, weighing his options. Should he tell them Harry? No..that would only confuse matters, considering Beleg had already called him Túrin. He exhaled sharply, straightening his small back, and looked Celeborn in the eye.
“Turin,” He said with quiet seriousness, voice firm despite the lingering pain in his side.
Celeborn’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile, reminiscent of a Cheshire cat, and Harry felt a small shiver run down his spine.
“Well… hello, young Turin,” Celeborn said, voice cheerful, carrying that infuriating lightness Harry hated.
“I’m Celeborn, and the grumpy Elf carrying you is Oropher. Nice to meet you.”
Harry’s mind stalled. The names hit him like a thunderclap.
.
.
.
' Oropher… and Celeborn!? '
Oropher, The father of Thranduil, grandfather of Legolas, one of the great kings who would later die in battle and Celeborn, The husband of Galadriel, future father-in-law of Elrond.
' Goddamn princes, Elven royalty incarnate! ' Harry thought, panic bubbling inside him.
' Which means…'
He began to reason frantically in his head, only to be cut off by Celeborn’s chirpy voice.
“Look, we’re already here!”
Celeborn said, his tone cheerful and commanding. Harry flinched slightly at the happiness in it, the kind of voice he had always found unbearable.
The hall widened ahead, culminating in two massive double doors that rose impossibly high, polished to a mirror-like sheen with gold trimming that gleamed even in the soft afternoon light. Harry gulped, feeling the weight of his impending fate pressing down on him.
“Let’s go,”
Celeborn said firmly, stepping ahead of Oropher and Harry with a practiced motion, he pushed the double doors open. They moved slowly, creaking ever so slightly, revealing the space beyond.
Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. He hugged the pillow a little tighter, bracing himself.
' Here’s now or never.' He thought, swallowing hard.
The fate of Túrin his fate now was about to begin and with a deep breath, he stepped forward alongside Celeborn and Oropher, crossing the threshold into a world where destiny would be rewritten.