Chapter Text
Harry once again plunged his gaze into the worn, battered satchel that Kreacher had given them, his hand clenched so tightly around the rough leather that his fingers had gone white, as if the feverish grip he forced upon the bag could—through some impossible illusion—shield him from what it contained. The folded flap barely lifted before the greenish light spilled out, swirling in the air like a disturbing mirage, a hypnotic pulse beating in time with some ancient, unknown, and desperately alien heart.
The glow was so bright, so obstinate in its luminescence, that it seemed to mock him, and Harry, seized by a sudden, brutal wave of nausea, snapped the bag shut with feverish haste. His movement was awkward, lacking any grace; his hands trembled with apprehension, and that irrepressible shaking betrayed, more clearly than any other sign, the fear gnawing relentlessly at his chest.
Nothing worked. The stone continued to shine in the shadows, stubborn, as if aware of their presence, as if savoring their clumsy attempts to ignore it, as if it knew their efforts were futile and took perverse pleasure in their persistent failure.
But it was not only its glow—beautiful and mesmerizing as the starlight that had once shone over Lindon—that unsettled Harry. It was what he felt when he stared at it too long: a dull weight seeping into his thoughts, a sickly darkness whispering treacherous promises and imperious commands. At times, he thought the stone breathed with him, its rhythm echoing his own. Yet behind this creeping fascination rose a fear—insidious, familiar, utterly loathsome—the bitter echo of Tom Riddle’s diary. The same poisoned seduction, the same invisible hand that had closed around Ginny, nearly consuming her. A soft, cunning manipulation, whose end could only be fatal.
Harry tore his eyes away and exhaled, his lungs aching from holding their breath too long, from being frozen too long in place. His gaze sought Draco’s, sitting just a little farther off, pale as the snow of the Misty Mountains, his features closed in an expression where irritation and worry intertwined. The hour of departure was approaching—soon Elrond would be waiting for their company to set out on the road to Imladris—and yet neither of them had yet found a way to rid themselves of this cursed relic.
Of course, Malfoy had tried. True to himself, with all the dramatic theatricality his Slytherin heritage dictated, he had summoned a Fiendfyre, convinced that the wildest, most uncontrollable flames of dark magic would finally consume the stone. But the relic had not even flinched under the assault, impassive as if fire itself bowed before its power. The tent, on the other hand, had erupted into flames with the fury of an unleashed blaze, and Thranduil had appeared, bow drawn, a multitude of guards at his side, convinced of an attack against the royal family. The explanations—stammered between fits of coughing and choked by the smoke of their failed attempt—had been humiliating. To explain that part of the camp had been reduced to ashes by pure accident was neither pleasant nor easy.
Harry, for his part, had attempted the path of the mind: he had probed the stone with what little he knew of Legilimency, brushed its essence with old ancestral curses and forbidden incantations whispered low in the darkness. But nothing. Nothing had marred its polished, icy surface. Not a crack, not even a chip on its immaculate shell. Only that pulse remained—steady and mocking—like a painfully persistent laughter delighting in their helplessness.
Harry felt a bitter discouragement rise in his throat. It was as if he had been transported back years, facing a Horcrux impervious to everything he hurled at it, except that this time, there was no Basilisk, no venom-drenched sword within reach. And, for the first time in a long while, he caught himself thinking that perhaps there was no way out at all.
“We should tell Elrond,” Malfoy finally said, his voice low and tense. “I fear this is beyond us.”
The Gryffindor lifted his head, ready to flare up, ready to unleash a cutting retort. But the words died in his throat. For a part of him—the part that merged a little more each day with the millennia-old soul of Gil-galad—knew the Slytherin was right. The fear of the ancient king echoed in his mind, an old and frozen fear, as deep as the heart of Angband itself. Gil-galad had dreaded this stone. As much as he had feared Morgoth, as much as he had fought Sauron. And if a being who had defied Darkness for centuries shuddered at the mere thought of its touch, then it was no ordinary pebble.
A cold shiver ran down Harry’s spine. Was it another Horcrux? Another trap of fate, another twist of the sordid misfortune that seemed to shadow him wherever he went? Every part of him screamed that it was possible. Far too possible. And if the future meant setting out once again on an absurd quest, fighting again, losing more in yet another battle that was not his own… he doubted he could survive it. Not after Voldemort. Not after the dungeons. Not after the immense, irreparable loss of his closest friends.
Yet a voice slithered into his mind, icy, biting, like a venomous breath:
You have no choice. You brought it here. And what belongs to you can only be undone by you.
His fists clenched until his knuckles whitened, his eyes shut tight under the strain. Rage, exhaustion, helplessness—all mingled in his veins like a slow, insidious poison. And deep down, despite his will to reject that voice, he knew. It was right. Unpleasantly, undeniably right. The fault was theirs. And that cursed stone had now become part of Middle-earth, like a wound they themselves had inflicted in their feverish attempt to escape their world. It was theirs to fix.
“Not now,” Harry murmured, scanning the camp the elves had pitched at Erebor’s base. Too many curious ears might hear—and covet—the power for themselves.
The long-haired blond elf nodded solemnly, fully aware of the danger such a thing posed. If a Horcrux of Tom Riddle could wreak immense harm in the wrong hands, what could an artifact containing surely far greater power do? The Slytherin had no desire to drag this new world into total war.
“Our old stalker is out…” Draco remarked suddenly, his tone sharp with sarcasm, tilting his chin toward the lower slopes.
Perched atop the colossal wall, Harry and Draco—reluctant kings of elves despite themselves—had a bird’s-eye view of the entire elven camp. Tents and campfires cast dancing shadows on the ground, a living patchwork of light and motion on this cloudy day. Harry squinted and did not miss the tall, gray-clad figure moving slowly among the elves, accompanied by a squat companion—a Hobbit, it seemed—slipping quietly by his side. It was Mithrandir—Gandalf the Grey. The wizard, or Istar according to ancient legend, had decided to follow them closely after the Fiendfyre incident, and his imposing presence was no coincidence. Harry could not tell whether Gandalf doubted their ability to avoid turning the camp into a blaze, or whether he simply harbored strange suspicions about their newly acquired powers. All he knew was that Gandalf always found them, no matter where they hid, no matter how privately they tried to speak.
“I see that,” Harry muttered, jaw tight.
Mithrandir had that frustrating gift of anticipating every gesture, weighing every word, always walking a step ahead as if he knew the world’s unseen threads better than they did. He had that familiar way of scrutinizing, questioning without speaking, that made Harry feel a prick of irritation tangled with admiration. It was like Dumbledore—yes, in his habit of meddling in what was none of his concern—with the subtle, yet infuriating difference that Gandalf genuinely cared for the welfare of others, sometimes even at his own expense. Yet despite this evident good will, his constant presence was nearly suffocating—a perpetual reminder that every decision, every movement, could have consequences Harry and Draco had yet to perceive.
Harry felt his heart beat faster, tension surging through him in a violent shiver, rippling from his shoulders down to his fingertips before fading into his toes. He saw Draco furrow his brow, jaw tense, silver eyes narrowing on the Grey Wizard. The scene seemed suspended in time, a fragile moment where the apparent calm of the camp sharply contrasted with the inner turmoil of the two former kings, both aware that any slight movement might be intercepted by the old Istar.
Thankfully, Bilbo was there. That small, curious, discreet being, devoted to his herbs and pipe above all else, inclined before them with an almost clumsy gentleness, endlessly apologizing for the disturbance, never demanding more than a simple polite greeting in return. Harry let out a faintly amused breath: yes, Bilbo was far more tolerable than Mithrandir. Perhaps he could become an ally—or, who knew, a friend—in this world that seemed to conspire against them at every step.
Inevitably, the Gryffindor’s gaze drifted once more toward his satchel, and Harry felt his chest tighten, aware that the shadow looming over them was far from gone. The stone continued to pulse against him, silent yet insistent, and he knew showing it to Gandalf was a bad idea. Not now. Too suspicious, too sudden, and they did not know him well enough. Who could say what the wizard would do with such an artifact? Harry was not ready to take that risk. Later, perhaps—but certainly not now.
“What wind brings you here, old wizard?” Draco finally called, tone sharp, voice laced with irony. “Are there no more rumors for you in the camp?”
Harry couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Draco was making an effort, that had to be acknowledged. Back in their Hogwarts days, the Slytherin would have almost certainly cast a dark curse on any unfortunate soul bold enough to annoy him so. Now, he contented himself with sharp barbs, veiled insults worthy of the greatest masters. Harry asked no more; he savored this quiet little victory with amusement and a hint of complicity.
Mithrandir, however, showed no sign of offense. He offered them only an enigmatic smile, as if he alone knew something they all still did not, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with an almost joyful gleam. The pipe he brought to his lips glowed warmly, and Harry had to fight the urge to lift his wand and play a trick on him. The rings of smoke that drifted upward in the damp, storm-laden air seemed to dance, almost mocking, as if they were ghosts of their patience tested.
Fortunately, Bilbo intervened, as always, faithful to his role as discreet mediator. The little Hobbit advanced with his brisk, measured gait, the edges of his travel cloak fluttering lightly against his short legs. Impeccably dressed, though dust from the camp already marked his shoes and the hem of his jacket, he bowed with a sincere grace that betrayed both respect and a long-honed sense of propriety. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of insatiable curiosity and restrained mischief, as if nothing happening around him could escape his watchful gaze.
“Lord Elrond has summoned you for this afternoon’s meeting,” he announced in a clear voice, polite warmth softening his tone. “I believe it concerns the arrangements for our journey to Rivendell. We depart tomorrow.”
Harry sighed inwardly, as though the words themselves added weight to an already overburdened mind. Yes, this journey had been looming for days, and he knew it was unavoidable. Elrond had waited, giving time for his High King to recover, but now the hour had come to resume the road. Everything had to be arranged, everything aligned, as if their destiny was moving forward without leaving them any say.
Yet a persistent shadow haunted Harry’s thoughts. The memories of Gil-galad crept ever deeper into his consciousness, erasing his own reference points in places, blurring the line between what he had been and what he was inevitably becoming. He felt a genuine affection for friends he had never met, the burning loyalty of companions fallen millennia ago, the visceral hatred for enemies whose faces now seemed clearer to him than even those of his own Muggle parents.
Images overlaid themselves relentlessly in his mind: the sunlit valleys of Lindon, forests of golden trees touching the sky with roots plunging to the sea, but also the choking smell of ash and blood, the muffled roar of battles, the dust of ruins trampled by enemy armies. And all of it blended with his own history: Hogwarts and its dark corridors, traversed thousands of times by the Golden Trio, Voldemort and his unparalleled cruelty, the dungeons where he had believed—or even wished—to die, the immense, irreparable loss of his two closest friends, the heavy burden of his choices. Two worlds, two lives, jostled inside him, and sometimes he felt suffocated under the weight of this mixture.
“We will go,” he finally said to the Hobbit, his voice betraying forced politeness. “I suppose they wait for nothing but our arrival, since you are here.”
Beside him, Draco snorted loudly, that typically Slytherin blend of irony and disdain, as if to remind him how unnecessary, how utterly ridiculous, Harry’s remark seemed. Without thinking, the Gryffindor leaned over and delivered a sharp punch to his shoulder. Malfoy staggered dangerously at the edge of the wall, flailing for a second before regaining his balance.
“Courtesy, Oropher,” Harry said with a mocking grin, once he was sure his companion wouldn’t fall. “A word you seem to ignore with unhealthy delight.”
The blond responded with a dark look, but the smirk tugging at his lips—almost conspiratorial in its apparent mischief—betrayed otherwise. Neither of them took offense at the other’s jabs anymore: after all they had endured, after all the humiliations, betrayals, wounds, and memories that haunted them, how could they? What bound them now went beyond friendship, even beyond brotherhood in a sense. It was a raw, mysterious force, almost sacred, so potent that no words could truly describe it. Harry did not know exactly what Draco represented to him. But he knew he would burn the world to ash if anything happened to that idiot Slytherin.
“I don’t find Lord Oropher impolite,” Bilbo said cautiously, smoothing the edges of his coat nervously, eyes shifting between the two wizards. “Given the circumstances, I find his company rather pleasant, even.”
The remark—innocent and sincere—drew a surprised laugh from Harry. The Halfing had a strange talent: he always appeared at the most inopportune moment, armed only with clumsy humor and unyielding manners, yet managed to soothe the tension around them. His endless curiosity, his slightly old-fashioned politeness, could not mask the quiet courage he carried within. Facing a dragon demanded more than mere taste for adventure—the Gryffindor had learned that painfully—and Harry suspected Bilbo Baggins hid far more strength behind his innocent air and constant apologies than anyone realized.
“I like Master Baggins,” Draco declared suddenly, feigning solemnity, lips stretched into an aristocratic pout. “I even think I prefer him to you.”
Harry rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance, but he did not escape the fact that the Slytherin’s features softened. Of course it wasn’t true. Nothing, ever, could rival the bond he now shared with Potter. But Draco had to admit, with a hint of genuine amusement, that this Hobbit had something endearing, a disarming simplicity, a quiet loyalty sharply contrasting with the darkness of the days they had endured. And perhaps, he thought bitterly, that was precisely what made him so precious.
“Since we must go…” Harry muttered through his teeth, giving Draco a conspiratorial wink. “Meet you below?”
Draco raised an eyebrow, wary, but immediately understood the plan. Gandalf’s muffled curses reached him at the same time as Potter’s sudden movement: without warning, the idiot had toppled into the void. The wind whipped into his clothes, carrying the dark cloak of the former High King of the Ñoldor as the strangled hiccup of the Hobbit echoed barely below.
Harry Potter. A hothead, always ready to defy common sense as if born for it. A walking cataclysm, drawing attention, often unintentionally, sometimes with audacious provocation. A volatile mix of Slytherin and Gryffindor. Draco was no longer surprised that the Sorting Hat had struggled to place him in a House. He was an aberration all on his own.
Gandalf, irritated and slightly anxious, tried in vain to halt the former High King’s fall, but Harry rolled to the ground with perfect control. The dull impact barely echoed before he rose with panache, as if it had all been a mere amusement. The years of Quidditch were still visible in every gesture: the reckless Seeker plunging headlong for a Golden Snitch, willing to flirt with death for a few points. And Draco, despite himself, had to admit what he had vowed never to acknowledge aloud: Potter had been, and perhaps would remain, the greatest Quidditch player he had ever seen. He did not merely ride a broom—he radiated.
“By Salazar…” he breathed to himself before smiling with the same reckless joy as his companion.
And then, because madness could not be explained and reason had long since abandoned him, he jumped.
The fall was dizzying, a suspended moment between void and inevitable impact, wind lashing his face, a furious roar tearing at his ears. But his Seeker’s reflexes now mingled with the Elvish agility flowing in his veins. When his feet touched the ground, he bent his knees and rolled into himself in a fluid motion, softening the landing with near-unreal grace. He finally stood, blonde hair catching the meager sunlight in a haughty gleam, throwing a triumphant smile at Harry.
That Gryffindor fool was not the only one capable of showing off.
Gandalf regarded them, his eyes only slightly widened—a rare sign of genuine surprise. Then he erupted into a deep, warm laugh that made his long grey beard vibrate, drawing in a long, deliberate puff from his pipe.
“Now that is a sight we do not see every day,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But since you are so eager to join us, let us proceed to the royal tent. I have no doubt that your son Thranduil and Lord Elrond are already waiting.”
Yes, Draco admitted to himself, though he still refused to voice it aloud. Oropher’s son—his son now, though he still sometimes struggled to accept it—must be waiting with a feverish impatience. The royal family of the Woodland Realm had never been known for patience, and Thranduil, without a doubt, had inherited this blazing flaw. But who was he to judge? He himself had never been celebrated for calm patience. In that respect, he and Oropher were perfectly alike.
“Let us hurry,” he said simply, avoiding the gaze of the ever-too-perceptive Istar.
As was their habit, Harry seemed to sense Draco’s inner turmoil and naturally positioned himself between him and Gandalf, his tall frame shielding the Slytherin from the Istar’s scrutinizing eyes. The gesture was simple, yet Draco felt an immediate relief, as if an invisible weight had finally lifted from his shoulders. Free from the old wizard’s gaze, he drew a deep breath and let his mind wander to what mattered most in that moment.
Thranduil. The name stirred a tangled mix of pride, fear, and love within him. Their bond was complex, fragile yet powerful, a cacophony of emotions that no words could ever truly contain. Draco loved him, deeply and without reservation, but that love was anything but simple: instinctive, fierce, so potent it became painful. Yet every breath of Thranduil, every watchful glance, every tender gesture—bringing him an herbal tea to chase nightmares, reminding him to rest when dark circles threatened to grow, ensuring he ate properly even when appetite waned—struck Draco as a constant reminder of the responsibility he bore. A reminder of his failures.
How could he be a father, he wondered, who had never truly known love, who had never held a child in his arms? How could he be a parental figure when he himself was still a lost child, craving attention from the depths of his soul?
Each day felt like a trial: walking, breathing, eating, surviving—all weighed upon him like an invisible mountain ready to crush him. The past still suffocated him, and it seemed it would never relent: the damp scent of prison cells, Potter’s cries of pain, the searing betrayal of his father, the guilt of failing to save his mother, the wounds left by the war… All of it had aged him prematurely, made him old in his youth, broken him so deeply that he could barely care for himself, let alone for Harry. And now he was being asked to protect another being, fragile yet a thousand times stronger, someone more precious than anything else: Thranduil. His son, Oropher’s child. A boy who had grown in a world too harsh for his former innocence. A young elf, strong and brave, capable of bearing the weight of the world for his own.
Yet despite the doubts, despite the constant dread that gnawed at him with the thought of insufficiency, he loved him. Intensely. With every smile, every tender gesture directed at him, Thranduil seemed to show that he mattered more than Draco could imagine. And so Draco wanted to give him the world, happiness, safety—and if danger ever came knocking, he would have burned all of Arda to protect him. This love was silent but unwavering, consuming yet comforting. A beacon in the chaotic storm of his life, one of the few landmarks the wind had allowed him to keep. And behind this burning affection, behind the shame he felt for these reversed roles, he hoped—one day—to gather enough strength from deep within himself and from the legacy Oropher had left him, to give Thranduil what he truly deserved: a father to rely on, not the disillusioned wreck he was forced to be.
Harry, sensing his inner struggle, gave him a quick, encouraging glance, and Draco felt a flicker of affection brush against his heart. That Gryffindor fool, with all his exuberance and legendary clumsiness, had the gift of understanding what truly mattered without a single word exchanged. Perhaps it was the horrors they had shared, or perhaps it was simply that they were not so different after all—but Potter always saw deeper into him than anyone else.
They finally advanced toward the camp, side by side, bound by a destiny and loyalty they would never regret, each aware of Gandalf’s watchful eyes nearby.
The wind, seeming to chase away the last clouds of rain, played with their hair, carrying the scent of nearby forests and the damp stones of Erebor. The sounds of the camp—the laughter of elves, the rustle of tents being opened and closed in haste, the clink of armor—felt both distant and strangely familiar. A strange murmur they had been allowed to hear every day since arriving in this world.
Conscious that the royal tent was now only a few meters away, Draco felt his heart beat a little faster. Not with fear, but with the bittersweet tension brought by Thranduil’s proximity in this world that already demanded so much of him.
“Here we are, Lord Oropher,” said Bilbo’s cautious voice, noticing the Slytherin had drifted into his thoughts. “Do you need a moment before we enter?”
In truth, it was not a moment Draco needed, but an eternity. One did not become a father in an instant, not with a past like his. He wished for days, years, perhaps entire lifetimes to tame this role! Yet time offered no reprieve…
“Let’s go in,” he murmured, voice firmer than he felt. “They have waited long enough for us already.”
He swept aside the flaps of the tent with a determined gesture, and the warmer air inside immediately brushed against his face, heavy with the scents of parchment, wax, metal, and leather. No sooner had Harry and he crossed the threshold than conversations abruptly ceased, like a candle snuffed in a sudden gust. The silence that followed was thick and oppressive, all eyes converging on them in perfect unison.
Uncomfortable, Draco felt his neck stiffen, his heart hammering harder in his chest. The attention of others had always left a bitter taste, a painful echo of gatherings where Lucius would deliberately thrust him into the spotlight, a living showcase of Malfoy pride and ambition. But this time, it was no longer his father people saw through him, nor the pale reflection of an obedient heir. Here, they scrutinized Oropher. Him. His choices, his gestures, his silences. And that, deep down, was what unsettled him the most.
He felt himself slow involuntarily, his steps growing hesitant under the weight of those intrusive gazes. Yet Harry, beside him, continued forward with quiet assurance, posture upright, head held high, almost daring the silence with defiant arrogance. Surely, he was used to such unwanted attention as the Boy-Who-Lived, but the young Slytherin prince was not. That apparent confidence pulled Draco forward, preventing him from freezing in place, as if an invisible hand had nudged him from behind, urging him onward.
And then he saw him.
At the far end of the tent, a figure stood apart from all others. A tall, lithe soldier with hair of radiant gold, standing straight near Lord Elrond. His garments bore the marks of travel, stained with mud and dust, still damp from the rain that had fallen. His boots were similarly flecked with leaves and earth. Yet nothing in his grime or apparent fatigue diminished the nobility of his posture, nor the delicate precision of his features. Leaning slightly over a spread map, his finger traced a border, a road, a strategic path. And though the murmurs had died away at their arrival, his gesture continued to speak—precise and confident, as though still issuing a silent command to the assembly.
Draco was frozen. It was not merely his proud beauty or commanding stance that demanded respect in a hall crowded with lords and leaders. No—it was something else entirely. A strange, luminous aura seemed to emanate from him, invisible yet undeniable, a radiance that dissipated the tent’s sly shadows. His presence warmed the air, drew eyes, commanded silence and attention without a single word. It was far more than the simple charisma of a seasoned warrior: it was an inner light, utterly supernatural, like a miniature sun.
A shiver crawled unpleasantly up Draco’s spine. Never, despite all the weeks spent among the elves since their arrival, had he felt anything of such intensity. It surpassed the cold beauty of his kin, exceeded the imposing presence of those who bore titles for millennia. It was something else. Something unsettling and mesmerizing at once. A tangled mixture of admiration and suspicion knotted his stomach, and he had to look away to hide his unease. He did not know how to react.
Bilbo’s polite cough finally sliced through the silence, bringing a living breath back into the stifling air. The soldier then lifted his eyes toward them, and Draco felt his own breath catch in his throat. In that millennia-old gaze, there was a painful, almost intrusive intensity, as if this being could, by mere presence, probe their souls and unearth their most unspeakable secrets. The sensation was so strong that Draco struggled to swallow, convinced that with a single blink, the elf could reveal the truth to all: that they were not truly Gil Galad and Oropher, but wizards from another world. Suspicion burned with blinding clarity in those clear eyes, and Draco would have wagered his life that he already suspected something dire.
“Lord Glorfindel has come from Rivendell to inquire after my prolonged absence,” Elrond declared suddenly, his deep voice breaking the tension. “He knew nothing of… well, of everything that has occurred over these past weeks. He discovered it all upon his arrival this morning.”
Clear translation: Glorfindel was unaware of their return to life, of this seemingly impossible resurrection. His presence, his piercing gaze, suddenly made sense. To him, they could only be an illusion, a ruse of the Enemy designed to unsettle Arda’s greatest rulers. And how could he cease to doubt it, he who, to his scant knowledge, had never encountered the two former kings? In the icy gleam still bright in his clear eyes, Draco knew they had not yet finished testing them, probing until Harry and he might lose patience. The Slytherin was in no hurry to be alone with him.
It was a hand, soft yet strangely weighty, that abruptly brought him back to reality. Eyes of incandescent blue, almost unreal in their depth, locked onto his with quiet certainty, and fingers closed around his with a firmness that bordered on pain, yet he knew it sought only to keep him from falling. Potter. Always Potter. That damned Gryffindor, incapable of looking away, incapable of letting him wander alone in his worries. Always ready to step into the shadows to save a former enemy he ought to have hated to the end. A fool, no doubt. But a fool whose presence Draco silently blessed, day after day, as a grace he had never dared hope for.
No words passed between them, yet everything was said in that brief exchange of glances. A silent promise, etched into flesh and soul: they would face the storm side by side, come what may. Neither would ever be left behind. No matter the roads, no matter the chasms, one would follow the other to the end, through loyalty, through stubbornness, through a reckless yet vital devotion, as if their very survival depended upon it.
“I am glad to see you again, Lord Glorfindel,” Harry said at last, his voice calm yet vibrating with contained tension. “It has been many years, and I did not expect to find you thus.”
To the great amusement of the former High King, he caught in Malfoy—Oropher—a brief widening of the eyes, fleeting and almost immediately restrained. A crack, a fissure that Draco hurried to seal behind his mask of ice. Apparently, Thranduil’s father had never been aware of the strange, subtle bond that had formed between Gil-Galad and the head of the House of the Golden Flower after his resurrection. Harry himself did not always understand where these images that assailed him came from: Glorfindel clad in deep green and bright gold robes—a nearly ironic combination, Harry thought, blending the colors of Gryffindor and Slytherin. In his visions, the elf wielded his sword with tireless ardor, always poised to defend Arda against Sauron’s shadows. A martial nobility, unyielding, that stirred in him equal measures of respect and challenge.
“The circumstances are most unusual,” Glorfindel replied cautiously, his voice as deep as the rumble of an underground river. “Perhaps we may find a moment later to discuss matters further.”
Harry grimaced inwardly. Discuss? No. Beneath the courtesy, he already tasted the bitter flavor of a future interrogation, a wary curiosity that would, sooner or later, seek to strip away each of their truths to find their weaknesses.
“Why not?” he answered with a feigned nonchalance, shrugging with studied casualness. “Though I thought you preferred clashing steel to chatting over tea?”
There was a sharp edge, a bite to his voice, and Harry felt not the slightest regret. Too often, in the wizarding world, he had had to bend under doubt, suspicion, and judgment. Here, it would be otherwise. The lion cub had learned, through countless wounds, to unsheathe his claws when needed.
At that moment, a wave coursed through him, burning and resolute: Gil-Galad, nestled deep within him, approving each of his words. Neither of them would ever again be silenced.
“Indeed,” Glorfindel conceded, a nearly impudent gleam flickering across his lips. “I have not had the opportunity these past weeks. Would you care to be my sparring partner this evening?”
A strange light passed through Glorfindel’s eyes, a spark that Harry recognized immediately. This was not a mere courteous invitation, nor a polite suggestion to fill a too-heavy silence. No, behind that glint was something else: a hidden will, a keen curiosity, almost a provocation. In those clear eyes, as pure as the clearest water, Harry thought he glimpsed memories of ancient duels, confrontations he had not lived as Potter, yet whose echoes returned to him like a distant call. Gil-Galad had already faced this lord; he knew it without understanding how, and every fiber of his being whispered that this duel was not mere training. It was a test, a measure to see if the High King still lingered within, if he still fought with that deadly grace that had marked history.
A shiver ran down Harry’s spine, a mix of subdued apprehension and euphoric excitement. He answered without hesitation, almost too quickly, as if the words had escaped his mouth on their own:
“With pleasure, Lord Glorfindel. But do not count on my leniency.”
His voice rang like a promise, a challenge issued both to the elf and to himself. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, mingling with ancient memories, with fragments of recollection embedding ever deeper within him. Sometimes, the boundary blurred entirely: who spoke, who decided? Was it still Harry Potter, the boy raised under the weight of a prophecy, or Gil-Galad, the sovereign who had never shied from a fight? The answer eluded him, yet the certainty of his movements did not falter. His hands already knew where to place themselves, his body remembered war before he even had to think. Combat had always been his first language, the sword its natural extension. And if Hogwarts magic layered on top? Deep down, he knew he could stand against Glorfindel—and perhaps even surpass him. Enough, at least, to make his point.
A disapproving sigh rippled through the tent at the sound of his words. Not all viewed this challenge as a wise choice.
“I am not certain this is a good idea,” Elrond said slowly, measured, his voice calm but firm. “We depart at first light tomorrow, and I doubt it prudent to risk injury… or worse.”
Harry understood his herald perfectly. Deep down, he knew his old friend worried for him sincerely, especially after seeing him falter, body broken and spirit still tainted by memories too dark to recount. What Elrond feared was not merely the prospect of physical harm: it was the possibility that those invisible scars, the inner wounds he struggled to bury, might resurface and tear him apart again. That his fëa and hröa might reject each other anew. But Harry refused to be trapped in that supposed fragility, in the bubble they sought to impose. All his battles were his alone. His blood, his choices, his will… all of it belonged to him. He would never allow anyone, not even his most faithful comrade, to decide for him. Not now. Not after Hogwarts, not after the prisons.
“Are you sure of yourself?” Draco asked in a low voice, tilting his head with that sly elegance he maintained even on the brink of a panic attack. “Whatever you choose, I’ve got your back. But I’d like to avoid picking up your burnt and bloodied ass, you idiot…”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh, a brief, nervous, yet genuine laugh. Even in the tensest moments, Malfoy always managed to land a cutting remark. And strangely, it was more a source of strength than anything else—a steady anchor amid the infernal chaos of his life.
“Asshole,” he muttered almost tenderly, before turning toward the Peredhel.
His gaze softened, reassuring despite the treacherous tension coursing through his chest.
“Don’t worry, Elrond. Glorfindel and I are undoubtedly skilled enough not to incapacitate ourselves before the journey. Trust me.”
Far from the noble ceremony the assembly expected, a huff of irritation was all the response he received. Elrond squinted, shaking his head sharply as if to dismiss some absurdity.
“On the contrary,” he said in a sarcastic tone, each syllable as sharp as a Dwarven blade. “That is precisely what worries me. You are both recklessly daring.”
The words snapped through the air like a whip, sending a shiver through the gathering. A tense silence fell over the tent; even the breathing seemed suspended. All eyes turned to Harry, awaiting a reaction from the High King. Even Thranduil, motionless as a statue, betrayed a glimmer of icy curiosity: would he reprimand his second for insolence, or reaffirm his authority with force?
But Harry, to the surprise of many, laughed. Not a forced or arrogant laugh: it was a bright, genuine burst that cut through the tension like a sharp knife through butter. Elrond’s barb transported him back years, to his school days, to those times when he could still hear Hermione’s unmatched sharpness. The pain of her absence briefly tightened his chest, but amid the unbearable ache, the weight of a familiar warmth returned—the echo of true friendship.
“You make us out to be worse than we are,” he protested with a mocking, almost conspiratorial smile.
“I merely state the obvious,” the Peredhel replied tersely, before letting his shoulders drop in a fatalistic gesture. “At least try not to maim yourselves,” he added, fully aware that neither would back down from this challenge.
Glorfindel and Harry exchanged a brief glance before nodding in unison: not out of reckless ignorance, but from a resolution carved into their bones—they would spar without seeking gratuitous harm. That said, acceptance did not promise impunity: they both knew that by nightfall their bodies would bear the marks, the bruises, the pains exacted by the effort they would exert. Their skin itself might carry more than mere superficial scratches.
“You’re such an idiot…” Draco murmured into Harry’s ear as the meeting resumed, his voice low, threaded with concern. “One day, your stupidity will get us killed. I hope you realize that.”
Harry let out a short, relieving laugh, more exhalation than mockery.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, feigning innocence.
Draco snorted, a sound laden with sarcasm and affection. Their exchange, condensed into a few words, carried more weight than a thousand oaths: one would protect the other, perhaps out of foolishness, certainly out of loyalty. The Slytherin had already begun plotting silent strategies, absolutely typical of his old House—coverings, blind spots, quick interventions—as his fingers tapped quietly on his thigh, calculating mentally all he could do unnoticed.
Harry tried to focus on the meeting, but his mind wandered, drawn by the anticipation of the coming night. Yet, for once, they were directly involved; he forced himself to nod at the important points, to retain a few military directives. Still, the spirit of combat, deafening and near, whispered movements, forgotten parries rushing back.
“By Merlin’s balls…” Malfoy muttered under his breath, jaw clenched. “You better kick his ass!”
Harry felt the warmth of a smile rising to his lips—a mix of excitement, respect, and a little dizzying pride.
“You can count on it,” he murmured back, low but full of determination. “Don’t worry about me—I’ll crush him.”
The meeting continued around them, a blend of official voices and rustling papers. Still, an electric tension persisted beneath the tent; the night promised many surprises. And none of the Lords present had any idea what to expect.