Archive of Our Own ^beta

Strange things had always happened in the House of Fëanor oddities, arguments, and explosions both literal and figurative but the people of the household were long since used to it.

They had learned to live with the chaos, to accept that life under the sons of Fëanor was never dull. Yet, this… this was new. This was something not even Caranthir, with all his patience and practiced indifference had expected to walk in on.

He had spent nearly the entire day in the library, losing himself in the comfort of ink and parchment.

The latest volume on business and economics had finally been conquered, his notes carefully written and his thoughts ordered before returning to his room, he had taken the time to finish a weaving project dark threads intricately interlaced in patterns only he seemed to appreciate.

The finished piece had been folded with precision and placed safely in his chambers, hidden from the grasping, careless hands of his brothers. If even one of them tried to “borrow” it and ruined the texture, Caranthir was not certain he would be able to stop himself from throttling them.

Satisfied with his productivity he decided at last that he deserved food. Perhaps something warm from the kitchen a break from thought, from books, from numbers but as he stepped into the room the scene before him nearly made him retreat altogether convinced that exhaustion was conjuring illusions before his eyes.

There, perched on the edge of the kitchen table, was Celegorm, Tyelko himself, sporting an impressive black eye that was already beginning to swell.

Maedhros was standing over him with a damp towel pressed gently against the bruise his jaw set in a way that spoke of equal measures of patience and thinly restrained amusement.

To the side, leaning against the counter, Aredhel was laughing...no, snickering, a sharp sound that danced on the air with an almost cruel delight but what unsettled Caranthir most, what truly made him pause and blink, was the look on Celegorm’s face...Dreamy... Dazed.

He looked nothing like a warrior of fire and fangs, nothing like the cousin who would wrestle wolves bare-handed or chase stags into the mountains. No.. he looked like some lovesick fool out of a minstrel’s tale and the effect made Caranthir shiver.

“What happened?”

Caranthir finally asked his voice a little sharper than he intended as he stepped fully into the kitchen.

His eyes narrowed, scanning from Aredhel’s wicked smirk to the damp cloth in Maedhros’s hand, and finally settling on Celegorm’s idiotic, starstruck expression.

Aredhel snorted, clutching at her sides.

.

.

“He’s in love.”

The words hit Caranthir like an arrow to the chest. He faltered mid-step, nearly slipping on the polished floor as he turned toward her, his mouth falling open in shock.

“In love?”

Caranthir repeated, his tone dripping with disbelief. He jabbed a finger toward Celegorm his face darkening as if the mere sight of his brother was offensive.

“How does a black eye relate to him being in love?”

“Oh, it relates,”

Aredhel replied gleefully, her grin wide enough to rival the mischievous light in her eyes. She bit down on her knuckle to stifle another laugh, but failed miserably.

Maedhros sighed, shaking his head as though he’d already replayed this explanation in his mind a dozen times.

“You might as well tell him,”

He said, pressing the towel more firmly against Celegorm’s swelling eye.

Caranthir arched a brow, his expression expectant, already signaling that Aredhel had better speak before he lost his patience entirely.

She took in a breath, straightened her posture, and then delivered the tale with all the drama of a bard.

“We were at the market, looking for Huan. Somehow, your dear brother managed to lose the hound again.”

She gestured lazily toward Celegorm, who remained oblivious to the jab.

“When we finally found him, Huan was happily playing with an ellon. And Tyelko..oh, you should’ve seen him looked at the Ellon once and decided he was his true love.”

Aredhel broke into another fit of laughter, her voice echoing off the stone walls of the kitchen. Maedhros coughed, his lips twitching as though he was barely restraining his own amusement though he hid it well behind the façade of elder brotherly responsibility.

Caranthir’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion blooming. He folded his arms across his chest the lines of his face carved into exasperation.

“That cannot be the entire story. Go on.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Aredhel said, delight practically radiating from her.

“So, Tyelko grabs Huan, right? But before we can drag him away, he suddenly out of nowhere proposes to the Ellon. No greeting, no introduction. Just falls to one knee in the middle of the market and declares undying love. The poor boy was so shocked he punched Tyelko straight in the face, then stammered out an apology and bolted like a frightened deer.”

Her words ended in laughter so loud it filled the halls, her mirth echoing long and sharp.

Meanwhile, Celegorm, still clutching the towel to his face, looked as if he were floating in a dream. His lips curved in a soft, dazed smile.

“My soulmate,” He murmured to no one in particular, his voice distant and reverent.

“I’ve found him at last…”

Caranthir closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as a familiar ache began to throb in his temples. He took a deep steadying breath but it did nothing to ease the tension rising inside him.

Of course. Of course this would happen. It could only ever be Tyelko.

‘No wonder,’

Caranthir thought grimly, shaking his head even he who despised needless violence would punch anyone who proposed to him out of nowhere like some lunatic in the marketplace.

Except he wouldn’t merely punch them he’d destroy their pride first break them down with words sharper than steel and then leave them groveling in the dust for daring to act like such a creep.

“I’m telling you, he is!”

Celegorm’s voice cracked as he shouted, his lower lip jutting forward in a sulky pout that looked wholly absurd paired with the swelling bruise under his eye.

Aredhel immediately dissolved into fresh laughter, doubling over against the counter as though she might collapse from the sheer ridiculousness of it even Maedhros, who had been trying valiantly to keep his composure finally gave up.

A quiet chuckle slipped from his lips, his shoulders shaking slightly as he pressed the damp cloth more firmly against Celegorm’s face.

Caranthir, however, was not amused. He leveled his brother with a stare sharp enough to cut glass, dead in the eye, his arms crossed as his patience thinned by the second.

“And how, pray tell, can you tell?” He asked dryly, each word laced with skepticism.

Celegorm heaved another sigh, the sound so dramatic and wistful it made Caranthir’s lips twitch against his will.

“It’s like the world had stopped,”

Celegorm said dreamily, lowering his head onto the table with a dull thunk. He winced, half from the motion and half from the bruise, but continued on with the expression of a hopeless romantic.

“All that I could see was him. Only him.”

Caranthir raised one unimpressed eyebrow, his gaze sliding toward Maedhros in silent question. Nelyo met his eyes, shaking his head slowly as though to say, Don’t even start.

Caranthir’s mind, however, was already ticking. He had heard this before. That very same description the world falling away, vision narrowing to one single person it was not original. Not in the slightest.

It was the same thing his father used to say.

He remembered the nights when their parents sat together, his father animated as ever, telling the story of how he had first laid eyes on Nerdanel.

Fëanor had claimed the world itself seemed to still in that instant, that she was the only one in the room the only one who mattered and Nerdanel with her patient smile had listened as though she hadn’t already heard the tale a hundred times over.

But Caranthir also remembered something else another instance of that same sentiment, voiced with far less subtlety and far more audacity. Fingon, the eldest son of Uncle Fingolfin had once said the exact same words except his declaration had been directed at Maedhros.

The memory made Caranthir’s ears burn.

It had been at a family dinner, one of those rare occasions where both households came together, with all the usual tension barely kept at bay.

Fingon had stood, raised his glass, and in front of everyone..everyone announced his intentions to court Nelyo. The words “love at first sight” had come tumbling from his lips with all the shamelessness of a warrior charging into battle without armor.

Caranthir had nearly wanted the ground to swallow him whole. The second-hand embarrassment had been unbearable, so thick he had wanted to crawl under the table and never return. He had glared into his plate the entire evening cheeks hot while Fingon grinned and Maedhros tried not to combust from mortification.

And Feanaro..oh, their father had not taken it well. His outrage had been volcanic, words sharp enough to cut the air his glare promising fire and doom. Yet despite his fury despite his insults Fingon had not backed down. He had simply smiled, repeated his vow to court Maedhros, and stared their father down without flinching.

In the end, Fëanor had given a grudging acceptance, though not without muttering curses under his breath for days afterward.

Caranthir exhaled slowly at the memory, pressing his fingers against his temple.

The resemblance between Fingon’s bold confession and Celegorm’s current dreamy sighs was uncanny. The very thought that Tyelko might be walking the same humiliating path made his stomach twist.

He opened his eyes and looked again at his brother. Celegorm was still slumped on the table, whispering something about “golden light” and “soulmate,” oblivious to the fact that his siblings and cousin were watching him like he had lost his mind. Aredhel was still laughing, Maedhros still smirking quietly and Caranthir… Caranthir could feel the migraine building, sharper now, insistent.

‘Oh,’ He thought grimly.

No wonder.

Even his father’s passion and Fingon’s shamelessness had set the precedent. It was only a matter of time before one of his brothers decided to throw themselves into love at first sight with all the grace of a falling rock.

He shook his head, the weight of inevitability heavy on his shoulders.

No wonder.

“So did you at least get this ellon’s name?”

Caranthir asked, his voice strained as he pinched the bridge of his nose. His patience, thin to begin with, was fraying further with every dreamy sigh that escaped Celegorm’s lips.

‘At least he should have gotten his name, right?’ Caranthir thought darkly.

Surely even Tyelko, fool that he could be, would not fling himself into a ridiculous proposal without so much as asking the poor Ellon who he was. Surely there had been a moment of reason but as Aredhel broke into another burst of laughter and Celegorm visibly deflated like a punctured wineskin Caranthir felt the pit of dread settle heavy in his stomach. The answer was as bad as he had feared.

“You didn’t,”

Caranthir muttered flatly, though it was not a question.

Aredhel wheezed, clutching at the edge of the counter for support as her laughter echoed in the kitchen.

“He didn’t!”

She confirmed gleefully, as if she were announcing some great achievement.

Caranthir’s jaw tightened. He rubbed at his temple, willing the headache not to worsen, and tried again, though his tone had sharpened to a blade’s edge.

“Then do you have anything—anything at all recognizable about the ellon? Something beyond the nonsense you’ve been sighing about?”

He was not hopeful. Celegorm, after all, seemed to have abandoned every shred of sense he once possessed, throwing it all to the dogs..no, to Oromë and his endless hunts.

Perhaps that was why his brain seemed to rot more each passing year, surrounded as he was by hounds and huntsmen rather than reason and study and speaking of hounds..Caranthir frowned suddenly.

‘Come to think of it… where was Huan?’

The thought made him glance around the kitchen. Normally the beast was glued to Celegorm’s side, following him from room to room, an ever-present shadow even in the baths, the hound found ways to linger nearby patient and faithful yet here now, there was no sign of him. Odd and oddly troubling.

Before Caranthir could give voice to the question, Celegorm perked up, his bruised face brightening as though recalling a precious memory.

“He has dark golden hair,”

Celegorm said, his voice full of conviction. He nodded firmly to himself, as though that one detail was more than enough to identify a stranger in the vast city.

“And beautiful emerald eyes. The brightest I have ever seen.”

His tone was reverent, almost worshipful, and he sighed again, lost in the memory.

Aredhel groaned with laughter collapsing against the counter entirely now, while Maedhros pressed his lips tightly together, the corners twitching despite his attempts at composure.

Caranthir, meanwhile, considered the description with narrowed eyes.

‘Dark golden hair and emerald eyes…’

Golden hair was rare among the Noldor, far more common among the Vanyar. Those descended from Indis often bore it as did the elusive kin that still lived apart from Tirion and now, with Indis’s family visiting, there were more than a few golden heads wandering the streets of the city.

‘Vanyar?’

Caranthir thought, lips pressing into a thin line. That would narrow it down..somewhat. Blond heads in Tirion numbered in the hundreds at least if one counted the mingling of Indis’s bloodline with the Noldor. Yet emerald eyes? That was rarer perhaps rare enough to use as a marker.

His mind worked through the details swiftly.

Yes, he could deduce it. It was not beyond him besides, perhaps it was better to try. If only to put this nonsense to rest before Tyelko flung himself into further humiliation and Celegorm… for all his idiocy, for all his lack of thought… he had helped Caranthir often.

Fetching strings for weaving, bringing supplies without complaint even dragging Aredhel or Finrod away when she grew too bothersome. It was not much but it was enough perhaps this could be his way of repaying the favor.

Caranthir exhaled through his nose, sharp and resigned. He straightened, casting another long, unimpressed glance at his brother’s foolish, lovestruck face.

‘Dark blonde and emerald eyes,’ He thought again.

.

.

How hard could it be?

.

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__________________________________________________________

Harry was not having a good day.

In fact, it was the sort of day that made him question what cosmic deity he had offended. Waking up in another body was already bad enough he had been through his share of strange even horrifying experiences but this? This took the bloody cake.

He was now, somehow, Gildor Ingoldo.

Of all people.

A minor character, barely even a footnote in the tangled history of the Eldar, remembered only in passing in The Lord of the Rings or was it in the Hobbit?

Harry would have laughed at the sheer absurdity if he wasn’t too busy wanting to slam his head into the wall and to make matters worse, this wasn’t Middle-earth at the time of the Fellowship.

No, he couldn’t have been dumped into something survivable like The Hobbit where at least he could have taken a page out of Bilbo’s book, found a cozy hole and stayed far away from danger.

No, fate or whatever had cursed him had thrown him into the Silmarillion.

Of all timelines, of all places it had to be this one.

The book infamous for bloodshed, betrayal, tragedy and enough death to make even Voldemort look like a children’s story. Every tale was soaked in doom, every line dripping with foreshadowing. Harry had read it, years ago, and remembered vividly just how badly things ended for nearly everyone but thank Merlin there was a sliver of luck.

He was early.

Far earlier than the worst of it. The Feanorians were still alive and unbroken, living in Tirion with their brilliance untainted by bloodshed. Melkor had not yet been released to sow his lies, the Silmarils were not yet forged, the Oath not yet sworn and Finwë still lived. There was no fire, no exile, no kinslaying.

It was relatively speaking safe....
.

.

For now.

Harry took a slow, steadying breath, trying to ease the tension coiling in his chest.

He had managed to escape worse fates before. He could survive this. Surely, if he just kept his head down, played the role of Gildor and stayed out of everyone’s way, he might..just might get through this without being caught in the inevitable disasters to come.

That was the plan, at least.

Except, of course, the universe had other ideas because this morning he had been summoned.

Summoned of all people by his aunt. Indis.

The Indis.

The woman who had married Finwë after the death of Míriel, sparking rifts in the family that had echoed through generations. That Indis.

Harry groaned aloud just thinking about it.

Apparently, Indis had decided that since her side of the family would be staying in Tirion for the next decade it was the perfect opportunity to introduce her other nephews to the rest of her kin. Which, of course, meant mingling with them.

The Feanorians.

Harry had choked on air when he first heard it.

The idea of sitting at the same table as Fëanor and his brood was enough to make his blood pressure spike. Every instinct in him screamed danger, danger, danger. He knew the kind of chaos those sons carried with them. Brilliant... yes...Beautiful, yes but also dangerous, passionate, reckless, and doomed.

Yet he could hardly refuse.

Which was why he now found himself in front of a polished mirror, tugging uncomfortably at the fine clothes laid out for him, staring at a face he did not recognize.

The reflection staring back was… unnerving.

Soft, delicate, glowing with that unnatural elvish light that made him look less human and more like something carved from moonlight. Skin pale as ivory, flawless and unmarred, so unlike the tanned, scarred body he had earned in his old life. His lips pursed in irritation, the stranger’s expression mirroring his own inner annoyance and then there was the hair.

Harry had always known himself by the mess of black, untamable hair. The signature of the Potter line, sticking out in every direction no matter how he tried to tame it but now? Now it was gone.

Instead, long, straight hair spilled down his back like molten metal, dark gold with faint glimmers that caught the light and shone with almost unnatural brilliance. It was so long it reached his waist heavy and silken when he ran his fingers through it. Perfectly neat, perfectly straight, as if it had never known a bad hair day in its life.

Harry scowled. He hated it.

The weight, the way it clung to his shoulders, the fact that he couldn’t even tie it up without making it look like some kind of elaborate ceremonial braid. All of it was irritating. His first thought had been to cut it, to shear it down to something manageable, something familiar but, of course, nothing was ever that simple because here, hair length had meaning.

Mourning, kinship, the bonds of blood and oath..hair was tied to it all. To cut it without cause would not only be strange it would be insulting.

Which meant he was stuck with it.

Harry glared at his reflection, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He would have given anything for his old, messy nest of hair back but no..he was Gildor Ingoldo now and Gildor, apparently had long, straight, golden hair that reached his bloody waistline.

Harry pressed his lips into a thin line, shoulders tensing.

Merlin help him.

This was only the beginning and he already hated it.

To be honest, Harry had mixed feelings about his new looks.

It wasn’t him...not even close.

The boy..no...The man he had been, the one who had fought, bled, and carried scars of both body and soul, was gone from the mirror.

Instead, what stared back was something else entirely. Someone delicate. Someone pristine. Someone that looked as though the world had never touched him, never scarred him, never burned him down to bone and rebuilt him in fire.

It unsettled him to the core.

It felt as if someone had stripped him bare, peeled away the layers of identity until he was nothing more than a mask..Gildor Ingoldo.

Who was Harry Potter anymore? And if the mirror showed this perfect blond, pale-skinned elf, then where had Harry gone?

The thought made his throat tighten, and he had to drag in a deep, steadying breath just to stop the frustration from boiling over.

Wordlessly, he reached for a strand of his too-perfect golden hair and began to braid it slowly, his fingers moving with mechanical precision as he kept his gaze fixed on the stranger in the mirror.

At least there was one thing left of him.

The eyes.

Emerald, vivid and sharp, just as they had always been. His mother’s eyes. His eyes. The one anchor he had left to himself, to the boy who had once been called Harry Potter. He found some measure of comfort in it even as the rest of his appearance mocked him with its alien perfection.

Still, it raised questions.

In this family line, blue was more common, the occasional pale green but never this shade. Never the kind of bright, piercing emerald that marked him so distinctly. He had already caught more than a few glances lingering on him with curiosity, whispers trailing in the air.

Harry scowled, tugging the braid tighter.

They could fuck themselves off.

He didn’t care what they thought, what stories they made up in their heads. He was Harry, emerald eyes and all, and if the rest of them had a problem with it, that was their issue, not his.

With gritted teeth, he braided another strand at the side of his head, his fingers moving faster now as irritation bubbled in his chest. His mind drifted back unwanted, unwelcome to yesterday’s humiliating disaster.

The market.

It had been their first day in Tirion since arriving from Valimar. Valimar..the city so pristine, so unbearably “pure,” that it made Harry’s skin crawl.

Everything in that place reeked of self-righteousness and shallow sanctity, as if the Valar’s shadow clung to every corner. Everyone smiled too much, bowed too deep, and acted as though as if nothing bad could ever happen. Harry’s eye had twitched the entire time he’d been forced to endure it but worse than Valimar itself were its so-called rulers.

The Valar.

Harry had tried, really tried, not to stand out. To keep his head down, act the part, avoid drawing attention but no matter how carefully he moved, how silent he tried to be, they always seemed to notice him.

The Maiar.

They appeared too often, always with some excuse about “passing through” or “on errands" and every time they would glance at him, amusement dancing in their eyes, as though they knew something he didn’t.

Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew when he was being watched.

He was not impressed. Not one bloody bit and then there was him.

Olorin.

A Maia of Manwë, silver-grey eyes, too soft-spoken for his own good and always carrying that infuriating look of gentle amusement. Harry had recognized it instantly.

Those blasted twinkling eyes.

It was Dumbledore all over again.

Harry’s jaw clenched at the memory, his knuckles whitening where he gripped the strand of hair. He could still feel the itch in his fists, the ache of wanting desperately wanting to punch that face.

He was grateful, at least, that Olorin was not yet cloaked in the skin of Gandalf. If he had been..if Harry had been forced to look into the face of that old wizard who had manipulated him for years he didn’t know if he could have held back.

Damn the Vanyar, damn propriety, damn the consequences he would have punched the Maia square in the jaw.

Because Olorin knew.

Harry could see it in the way the Maia watched him, as though he were waiting, baiting him, trying to coax some reaction out of him. As though he held some secret Harry had yet to unravel and every look, every smile, every glimmer of amusement only made Harry’s blood boil hotter.

The bastard was having fun.

He knew something Harry didn’t and Harry Potter hated being left in the dark especially by someone who wore Dumbledore’s eyes.

Harry then took a deep breath as he finished the last of the braids, fingers stilling against the golden strands.

He let them drop against his shoulders, exhaling slowly as though to push away the strange tension weighing in his chest. His reflection in the mirror watched him back, calm and regal..everything Harry himself was not.

Then came the knock.

Sharp, yet not demanding. A polite rhythm.

“Gildor? Are you finished?”

The voice was light, feminine, and familiar in a way that tugged at the edges of memory. Not his memory..Gildor’s.

Harry straightened instinctively. His back stiffened, the role settling onto his shoulders like a mantle he could neither shrug off nor refuse. He knew that voice now. His...no, Gildor’s mother.

“Yes, Amme,”

Harry answered after a pause, his voice steady, carrying a smoothness he had learned to mimic. Not the clipped tones of Harry Potter who had spent his childhood spitting defiance at whoever dared to command him. This was measured. Polite. Controlled.

Turning back to the mirror, he reached for the circlet resting on the polished wooden table beside him.

It wasn’t extravagant, not like the ornate ones he’d seen on others of their kin. Its design was simple, unassuming yet it carried a weight that felt undeniable. A narrow band of silver worked with subtle etching, its centerpiece a single emerald stone. Bright, vivid, alive just like his eyes.

Harry had to admit, he liked it.

It was the one piece that didn’t feel like it belonged to someone else. The emerald glimmered in a way that resonated with him, a reminder of who he was beneath the mask of golden hair and flawless skin. It was his anchor.

He slipped it on, letting the cool weight settle against his brow.

Then he brushed at his robes, shaking loose the dust that wasn’t really there but gave him something to do with his hands. White, with elegant threads of gold tracing the hems and green embroidered patterns that caught in the light..too fine for his taste, but undeniably beautiful. Beneath, the tunic and leggings clung neatly to his form, paired with boots that fit as though they had been crafted with care just for him.

Everything fit too well. Too perfect. As though this world had been waiting for him to step into a role that wasn’t his.

With one last glance in the mirror, Harry adjusted the lay of his circlet and moved to the door. His hand lingered on the handle for a heartbeat before he opened it.

The sight waiting for him was warm.

His mother stood there.. A vision of the Vanyar’s beauty. Her hair was the color of sunlight on new wheat, cascading past her shoulders, her eyes the purest shade of blue. She radiated gentleness, a kind of serenity that struck Harry in the chest with both comfort and pain.

Indis’s younger sister. Which made Indis Finwë’s second wife..his aunt.

“Would you look at you~ My adorable youngest~” She cooed, her voice rich with affection.

Before Harry could brace himself, her hands were cupping his face. Warm palms against his skin, soft, tender, so unlike the rough, fleeting touches he had known in his other life. She tilted his face this way and that, as though to take in every detail, then pressed a light kiss against his temple.

Harry froze.

It was so simple. So ordinary. Yet it hit him harder than any curse had.

He swallowed, trying not to let the ache show on his face.

“Let’s go, Amme?”

He asked quietly, his voice almost too careful, as though afraid he might break the moment if he spoke too loud.

Her smile in return was radiant. Pure. She nodded and tucked her arm gently against his as they began walking down the halls together.

The corridors stretched before them, white stone and golden light pouring in from tall windows, everything pristine, perfect clearly untouched by war or shadow. The silence was filled only with the sound of their footsteps, soft against the polished floor.

Harry let himself be guided, though his thoughts wandered where his heart dared not.

He shouldn’t feel this way.

He shouldn’t feel the pang of guilt tightening in his chest but it was there, sharp and insistent. Every time his mother looked at him with love in her eyes, every time her hand brushed against his arm with unconscious affection, every time she called him “son”—he remembered.

He wasn’t Gildor.

.

.

Not truly.

Somewhere, in some twisted thread of fate, he had taken this place. Stepped into a life that wasn’t his. A life where he had parents who loved him, siblings who cared for him, a family that would have protected him fiercely had danger ever come near.

It was everything he had wanted once. Everything he had dreamed of as a boy sleeping in a dark cupboard under the stairs, listening to the sound of laughter he was never part of and now it was his.

Except it wasn’t because he wasn’t really Gildor and no matter how much he tried, that guilt would not leave him.

As they walked together down the gleaming halls of Tirion, Harry smiled faintly, but his heart whispered truths that stung all the more.

He could not shake the weight of knowing he was living a life that should have belonged to someone else.

A life he had no right to claim and yet, he could not help but wish.
just for a moment..

.

.

.

That it had always been his.

.

.

He had arrived in this place on the day Gildor..the original Gildor nearly drowned.

Harry remembered it clearly, even if it was through a haze.

A group of elflings, no older than children with sharp tongues and cruel instincts, had pushed Gildor into the river near their home his lungs had burned, his body convulsed and in the panic of thrashing water, Harry had suddenly been there. He had surfaced sputtering and coughing, breath hitching in a body that was not his own.

From that moment onward, he had assumed the worst: that the original Gildor had died and yet… something about it gnawed at him.

If Gildor’s fëa had truly departed, then Lord Námo...Mandos himself would have taken notice. No fëa escaped the Halls of Mandos..not even for a moment. That was the rule, the unbreakable law of Arda.

So where had Gildor gone?

The thought left a sour taste in Harry’s mouth. Theories swirled maybe he had been pulled into Harry’s own world in exchange, or maybe Mandos had been… distracted? Or worse, maybe some higher power was playing games again, as had always seemed to be Harry’s lot in life.

But no matter how he twisted it, no answer brought him comfort. So Harry shook his head and shoved the thoughts away. He couldn’t afford to linger on it now because they had arrived.

The great doors opened, and the brilliance of the Hall spilled forth.

White stone glimmered beneath golden light pouring in from high windows, the vast space filled with the murmur of many voices. Gathered here was the full House of Finwë, with Indis’s kin among them.. A mingling of Noldor and Vanyar bloodlines woven into one tapestry.

Everywhere Harry looked eyes turned toward them. Curious, assessing, whispering. Their presence, after so long apart, was not easily overlooked and some gazes were sharper than others.

Harry’s eyes snagged almost immediately on the Sons of Fëanor. Their presence was impossible to miss, clad in their unmistakable red robes, each embroidered with the eight-pointed star that marked their house. They stood together like a flame amidst softer lights, their gazes piercing.

And some of those gazes lingered on him.

Harry felt the burn of it like a brand against his skin, though he kept his face carefully neutral. Whoever it was, they were studying him too closely. His steps didn’t falter, but inwardly his stomach twisted.

He had no idea why they would take such interest in himbbut with the Sons of Fëanor, it could never bode simply.

His mother’s hand tightened on his, steady, guiding him forward. They moved with grace through the parted crowd, every line of her posture radiating poise and pride.

Then the voice rang out.

“Naltiel, you have finally arrived.”

Harry turned his head, and there she was.

Indis.

Her beauty was no less than the songs claimed, her golden hair flowing like captured sunlight, her presence serene yet commanding. She stepped forward, her expression softening as her gaze fell upon his mother.

The two women met like sisters reunited, their hands clasping tightly, their cheeks brushing in a tender greeting. The warmth between them was genuine, an affection that transcended the shadow of Finwë’s second marriage and then Indis’s eyes fell on Harry.

Recognition sparked.

“This must be little Gildor,”

She said, her voice alight with fondness. Without hesitation, she reached for him, cupping his cheeks between her palms before giving them a firm pinch.

Harry went rigid.

The awkwardness settled on him like a heavy cloak. He had endured battlefields, faced Voldemort countless times but nothing prepared him for the indignity of being treated like a child pinched cheeks and all.

His emerald eyes darted desperately around the hall, searching for escape. And they landed on salvation.

His older brother.

Standing nearby, amusement dancing in his expression, his brother caught Harry’s look of silent pleading. Their eyes locked and in that moment Harry all but begged for rescue.

His brother’s lips twitched. Then, mercifully, he stepped forward.

“Aunt Indis!”

He called brightly, his voice carrying just enough enthusiasm to draw her attention away.

Indis’s head turned toward him, her hands falling from Harry’s face as she responded, her interest caught.

Harry exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Relief flooded through him, mingled with gratitude so sharp it almost hurt.

He shot his brother a look that was equal parts thanks and promise of repayment later and as Indis was drawn into a new conversation, Harry finally allowed himself to sigh, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

For now, he was safe.

“You must be Gildor, Indis’s nephew.”

The voice came smooth, almost melodic, from behind him. Harry stiffened instinctively his instincts honed from years of war and paranoia kicking in as he turned around sharply.

Before him stood an ellon clad in the unmistakable crimson robes of the House of Fëanor, the eight-pointed star embroidered proudly upon the fabric. The sight was enough to make Harry’s skin prickle he’d read enough to know that wherever the Feanorians went, trouble was never far behind.

This one, though, carried himself differently.

He was striking, his features sharp and refined, his hair dark as a raven’s wing and his silver-grey eyes gleaming with a strange mix of intensity and warmth but what caught Harry’s attention most wasn’t the man’s face, nor the robes but the harp slung with casual familiarity in his grasp. Its polished wood and fine strings glimmered under the hall’s light, clearly well-loved and often played.

“My apologies,”

The Ellon said, inclining his head just slightly, a courtly gesture that seemed both formal and friendly.

“I am Makalaurë, the second son of Fëanáro.”

Harry’s mind raced even as his body reacted on instinct. He gave a shallow bow, the sort he’d practiced in his Hogwarts years when forced into Ministry galas and gatherings of the Wizengamot. Polite enough to acknowledge rank, but not too servile.

“I am,”

Harry replied, keeping his tone carefully measured, the polite cadence he used when dealing with nobles who thought themselves higher than the rest of the world. It had kept him alive before now it would have to serve him again.

Makalaurë.

Or rather, Maglor.

Harry’s heart gave an uncomfortable thump. Here he was, standing face to face with one of the infamous sons of Fëanor—the same Maglor who would one day be the last surviving brother, the haunted wanderer by the shore, the foster-father of Elrond and Elros.

The same man who, by all accounts, had been gentle almost kind-hearted despite the blood and doom that clung to his family name.

It was… unsettling, to say the least.

Maglor studied him with a quiet scrutiny, his silver eyes narrowed slightly, as though measuring something invisible. Then, softly, almost as though speaking to himself

“You don’t look like one.” He mumbled.

Harry blinked, his brows knitting together.

“Pardon?” He asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Maglor blinked back at him as though just realizing he had spoken aloud. Then with a sudden easy smile he waved one hand dismissively the other still steady on the harp.

“Oh, I just remembered something,” He said cheerfully, almost too cheerfully.

Harry’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The answer was too quick, too neat like a cover thrown hastily over something better left hidden.

Years of experience dealing with manipulative Slytherins and manipulative politicians had taught him one thing when someone laughed off a remark too quickly, there was more to it than they wanted you to see.

Still, Harry inclined his head again, the gesture smooth but his emerald eyes sharp with suspicion.

“I see,” He said quietly but inwardly, his thoughts churned.

Maglor was watching him too closely. Studying him in a way that made Harry’s skin itch as though he saw something that shouldn’t be there and Harry knew with cold certainty that he hadn’t imagined the flicker of recognition in those silver eyes.

Come to think of it, each brother had something about them, some mark of recognition or reputation that set them apart from the others.

Harry let his thoughts wander there, a safe distraction as he stood beside Maglor both of them simply watching the hall and flow with conversations, greetings, and quiet rivalries.

For once, he was glad Maglor wasn’t pressing him with more questions. The Ellon looked thoughtful his silver gaze occasionally flicking toward Harry as though weighing a puzzle but at least he wasn’t speaking that suited Harry well enough.

What didn’t suit him were the side glances.

He could feel them measured looks sliding toward him before darting away again, subtle as whispers he had long learned to ignore them, to keep his chin steady and expression blank.

It reminded him far too much of his Hogwarts years, when the whispers of “The Boy Who Lived” trailed behind him everywhere he went. Different world, different name but the same bloody feeling.

Still, Harry let his mind run over what he knew of the infamous brothers.

Maedhros..Maitimo, in this tongue was perhaps the easiest to recognize. Tall, statuesque even among the Noldor, with that mane of vivid red hair that marked him apart in any gathering.

He carried himself with the effortless grace of someone born to command and even now Harry noticed how many around the hall seemed to follow his lead with their eyes, even without realizing it. He was more than just Fëanor’s heir..he was seen and, of course, there was the matter of his constant shadow.

Fingon.

Harry’s lips twitched despite himself at the memory of the story. The inseparable duo, cousins bound more closely than brothers, inseparable to the point where even in tragedy, Fingon had braved the fires of Angband to save him.

The tale read almost like something out of a fairy tale story back in his own world except instead of some noble prince on horseback rescuing his beloved from a tower, there had been Fingon with his sword and the steed was no horse but an eagle of Manwë.

A grimmer story than any fairy tale yet with the same undertone of devotion.

Then, beside him, was Maglor..Makalaurë, the ellon whose very presence hummed like a half-heard melody. The harp in his grasp was not a prop nor ornament but an extension of himself, a reminder that he was the greatest minstrel among the Noldor. Songs, ballads, the weaving of music that even the Valar themselves admired such was his gift.

Harry could easily imagine why Maglor had been so beloved, sought after not only for his voice but for the way his music seemed to touch even the most guarded of hearts.

He thought fleetingly of Finrod, Finarfin’s eldest son, and how often the two were said to have sung together in duets that left audiences spellbound.

Finrod, whose path would end in darkness and wolf-claws, a tragedy that Harry had once read as just another line of text but now felt heavier, knowing he might someday see it come to pass.

Then there was Celegorm..Tyelkormo.

Harry could almost hear laughter at the mere thought of him. Of all the brothers, Celegorm seemed the least “royal,” though still every inch the child of their infamous father.

He had more of the wild about him than the court, spending his days in Oromë’s forests trailing after the Vala as though he belonged there more than in Tirion’s halls. Aredhel, Fingolfin’s daughter was often seen at his side, the two of them hunting and running through woods with little care for the rigid etiquette of their house.

It was Oromë who had gifted him Huan, the great hound who would later weave his own legend into the songs of Beleriand. Harry almost smiled at that because even now, Huan was remembered better than his master.

But Celegorm himself had another mark of recognition, one he alone bore among his brothers. His hair.

Unlike the rest of Fëanor’s sons, who bore the dark hues of their father or the coppery burn of Maedhros’s, Celegorm’s locks were pale..light, almost silver to white, like sunlight on snow. It was a gift or perhaps a curse, of inheritance passed down from a woman long dead yet never forgotten.

Míriel Serindë.

The first Queen of the Noldor, The first wife of Finwë and the true mother of Fëanor himself. A woman of such skill that her name lingered even beyond her fading, even after her fëa had departed this world.

It was her blood, her legacy, that Celegorm bore upon his head.

A shimmering, unmistakable reminder of a grandmother he had never known and a line of grief that stretched back to the beginning of their family’s turmoil and as Harry’s eyes flicked again to the cluster of red-robed brothers, he couldn’t help but feel the familiar heaviness settle in his chest.

Each of them bore something. A mark, a gift, a curse and each of them would someday bear the full weight of the Oath that would ruin them all.

Then suddenly a realization came in as Harry’s eyes widened double checking as he look at Celegorm, if he was seeing it right as their eyes clashed.

Harry could feel his palms sweating as he shifted his weight from one foot to another, trying his best to look casual while his eyes darted anywhere but in Celegorm’s direction yet no matter how hard he tried, he could still feel the hunter’s gaze burning a hole through his skin.

The intensity was far too sharp to be mere coincidence, and it was not helped by the smug little grin Aredhel wore whom Harry had recognized, as though she were silently reveling in Harry’s misery.

Harry cleared his throat, tugging slightly at the sleeve of his tunic. He desperately wanted to sink into the floor or vanish behind one of the tall goblets of wine that servants passed around on silver trays.

The grand hall was filled with the low hum of conversations, laughter, and the occasional notes of harp strings being tested for another performance, but to Harry, it all faded into a muted blur compared to the pounding of his heart in his ears.

‘Bloody hell. Out of everyone… it had to be him,’ Harry thought bitterly.

The memory replayed itself in his mind without mercy, the dog, large and almost wolf-like, had bounded toward him with its tail wagging furiously.

Harry, soft spot for animals intact had crouched down and buried his fingers into the thick fur, smiling at the friendly beast then, just as suddenly, the Elf had appeared his pale hair gleaming under the light, his smile wide and far too confident as he clasped Harry’s hands.

“Marry me,”

The Elf had said with such certainty, as if Harry’s agreement were inevitable.

The sheer absurdity of it had made Harry’s panic reflex kick in before he’d known it, his fist had connected squarely with the Elf’s face and the next thing he remembered was running down the marketplace with his ears burning and the horrified gasps of the bystanders ringing in his head.

Now, that same Elf..Celegorm, the famed hunter, cousin to Aredhel, brother to Maglor, and one of Feanor’s sons was staring directly at him. Worse, the black eye was still there, painted over clumsily with makeup that did nothing to soften the shadow beneath his gaze.

Harry groaned inwardly, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. He couldn’t decide what was worse the guilt of having socked one of the most infamous Elves in Tirion or the bone-deep dread that came with realizing Celegorm might very well still mean that ridiculous proposal.

He risked a glance back, only to find Celegorm had pushed himself off the pillar and was now murmuring something to Aredhel. Her smirk widened into something more mischievous, and Harry’s gut twisted like a rope.

“Fantastic. Just brilliant....I’ve made an enemy of the hunter,” Harry muttered under his breath.

Maglor, still at his side and now absently plucking a few soft notes from his harp, raised a brow but said nothing. Harry was grateful for his silence, though it unnerved him slightly to notice that Maglor’s eyes had also caught the brief exchange.

Harry shifted again, his boots scuffing lightly against the polished floor. He told himself he would apologize tomorrow that surely it would all smooth over if he just swallowed his pride and muttered a few words of regret.

Celegorm couldn’t possibly hold a grudge forever, right? Nobles were dramatic, yes but surely even a son of Feanor could forgive a panicked blow to the face.

Still, Harry’s stomach sank at the memory of the Elf’s bold, unflinching proposal. That hadn’t been a jest not in the way he’d held Harry’s hands, not in the way his voice had carried so easily, as if the entire market ought to have borne witness to the vow.

“Merlin,” Harry whispered faintly, rubbing his temple.

“Out of all the bloody people I could’ve punched, it had to be the hunter.”

The laugh that bubbled up in his chest was half-hysterical, half-resigned, but he smothered it quickly knowing full well the following days in Tirion were going to test every ounce of his patience. He could only hope..pray, even that Celegorm would take his apology and let them go back to being strangers but deep down, Harry already knew better.

The way Celegorm had looked at him… the memory of that absurd proposal… no, this was not going to end quietly.

‘It’s probably a joke, right?’

Harry told himself again, though the chill that went down his spine told him otherwise.

.

.

The following years in Tirion were anything but quiet, though Harry..now going by Gildor in this life would have much preferred it that way.

The city still glittered beneath the Light of the Trees, festivals still erupted in bursts of music and laughter and Feanor’s brood continued to spark both admiration and exasperation among the Noldor but none of that held as much attention as the spectacle that was Celegorm’s relentless courting of Gildor.

What had begun as one mortifying encounter in the market spiraled into a courtship so shameless and persistent that it became the talk of Tirion. Every noble, every craftsman, even the apprentices in the forges whispered about it behind hands and chuckled when they thought Gildor wasn’t listening.

Celegorm, the fierce hunter of Orome’s train, the son of fiery Feanor had reduced himself into something like a dog chasing a stick except the stick was Gildor, who wanted nothing more than to disappear whenever the hunter appeared.

Celegorm’s advances varied wildly, leaving the city both entertained and bewildered. Sometimes he followed Gildor down the marble streets with a bouquet of wildflowers still tangled with roots, mud dripping onto his polished boots. Other times he brought gifts that could only be described as absurd: a live hare in a gilded cage, a necklace of wolf fangs, a carved whistle that made a noise so shrill it nearly shattered glass.

Once, he even tried to serenade Gildor at dawn beneath his balcony, his voice carrying half a league and waking the entirety of the household, who leaned out their windows in groggy disbelief.

Each attempt earned him laughter, side eyes, or sympathetic sighs from the people of Tirion, but Celegorm was undeterred. In fact, the laughter seemed to fuel him.

To his mind, he was making progress, for he had noticed keen hunter that he was that Gildor had stopped snapping quite so sharply at him and sometimes just sometimes Gildor’s lips twitched as though hiding a smile before he turned away but the pinnacle of Celegorm’s efforts came during the grand midsummer celebration when the Noldor and Vanyar alike gathered for feasts, song, and poetry.

No one expected Celegorm, brash and often crude, to stand before the assembled hosts and deliver verses of such startling sincerity. The poetry was not elegant in the way Maglor’s compositions were, nor did it shimmer with the skill of Daeron’s famed lays, but it was raw, heartfelt, and so embarrassingly direct that Gildor wished the ground would swallow him whole.

“You are the light I chase, the star my hound cannot catch—
The bow I draw but dare not loose, for fear you’d vanish yet.”

The hall erupted in cheers and laughter, half for the boldness and half for the sheer audacity. Gildor’s face flamed so brightly that he hid behind his hands, his ears burning while Celegorm basked in the uproar like a victorious rooster. Feanor, watching from his seat, pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered to himself about “wasted genius” and “sons without shame.” The other princes exchanged knowing glances; even Maedhros cracked the faintest smile.

From that day on, the betting pool was born. Whispers spread like fire as nobles and common folk alike placed their wagers: How long until Gildor’s walls crumbled? How long until the hunter claimed his quarry? Even Ingwe, High King of the Vanyar and Gildor’s own uncle, joined in, stroking his chin with barely concealed amusement as he laid down a hefty wager. For all their dignity and grandeur, the Elves could not resist the drama unfolding before them.

And indeed, the signs were there. Gildor no longer flinched so violently when Celegorm appeared. His retorts, though sharp, carried less venom. Sometimes he even lingered after Celegorm’s ridiculous antics, as though waiting to see what the hunter would try next. Married couples began sighing fondly at the sight, nudging each other with whispers of, “Do you remember when you chased me so?” or, “Ah, young love—always the same, no matter the years.”

But just when the city thought it inevitable, when coins and gems piled high in the betting ledgers and the people leaned forward for the final act, something changed. Celegorm’s relentless pursuit faltered.

At first, it was small..he no longer shadowed Gildor’s steps so closely. He did not thrust gifts into his hands at every corner, nor did he interrupt conversations with bold declarations.

Then, the absences grew. Days would pass with no sight of the hunter at all, his booming laughter no longer echoing through the markets or his hound bounding at his heels.

Speculation spread like wildfire. Had he given up? Had the son of Feanor finally admitted defeat? Some mourned the loss of their daily entertainment, while others..Feanor among them heaved sighs of relief. For Gildor, it was something else entirely.

Relief, yes. Peace at last. And yet…

One evening, as he sat by the fountain in the twilight, he realized he was listening for the distant pad of a hound’s paws, for the brash voice calling his name. His chest tightened with something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

He tried to shove it down, reminding himself how ridiculous the entire ordeal had been and yet when his eyes drifted across the crowd and failed to find that familiar silver-haired figure, the absence gnawed at him more than he cared to admit but to Gildor’s growing unease, Celegorm’s withdrawal was not the end. It was only the beginning.

For soon he noticed odd behaviorbquiet glances, whispered conversations, the way Celegorm seemed to linger at the edge of gatherings, watching but not approaching.

The hunter’s smile had changed, softer and almost unreadable, and it unsettled Gildor in ways his loud antics never had and the people of Tirion, ever eager for spectacle, began to murmur.

Celegorm had not abandoned his pursuit, they said he was simply changing his tactics and that realization, more than anything, made Gildor’s heart skip a nervous beat

.

.

Until…

The library had always been Harry’s refuge in Tirion.

The quiet halls lined with shelves upon shelves of parchment and bound tomes reminded him faintly of Hogwarts, though without the musty air or lurking ghosts. Here, he could pretend for a while that he was only a student, not a misplaced soul wearing someone else’s life. It was a fragile peace, and he guarded it fiercely.

That was why the slam of the door startled him so much.

He jerked upright, nearly dropping the book he had just pulled from the shelf, while Taryon muttered a curse under his breath. Their eyes met Harry’s wide, his brother’s narrowed in irritation and both leaned forward to peek around the tall shelves.

Two figures strode into the room with all the subtlety of a storm. Identical, tall, and unmistakably Feanorian, the Ambarussa made their entrance as if the library were their personal stage.

Their flame-red hair gleamed like burning copper in the filtered light, and their identical grins carried the kind of mischief that made even the most composed elves groan aloud.

“Ah,” Taryon muttered, his voice flat but tinged with wariness.

“The twins.”

Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at his brother’s expression equal parts dread and resignation.

He knew Taryon had always been a favorite target of the Ambarussa’s mischief, though never in cruelty. They thrived on confusion, games, and pranks that left everyone guessing which twin had done what. They were a whirlwind of energy, impossible to pin down, and even their own cousins fell victim to their antics.

Everyone but Harry.

That fact, more than anything, amused him to no end. The twins could trick and trip anyone else but Harry had a knack for spotting the tiny details that set them apart details most people overlooked. The way one’s eyes flicked to the left when he lied, or the slight tilt of the other’s head when he was about to laugh.

To him it was like reading a chessboard. To them it was maddening and judging by the way both of them spotted him almost immediately, their grins stretching wider, they hadn’t forgotten.

“Well, well, well,”

One drawled, his tone sing-song as he sauntered closer, his brother trailing at his side like a mirror.

“If it isn’t our favorite Brother-in-law.”

“And his most noble brother, Taryon,”

The other added, bowing with mock solemnity that only made Taryon’s frown deepen.

Harry felt his lips twitch despite himself. There was something infectious about the twins’ energy, even when it spelled trouble.

“What do you want?”

He asked, feigning exasperation as he tucked the book under his arm and leaned back in his chair.

“Want?”

The first twin echoed, feigning innocence as he placed a hand over his chest.

“Us? We want nothing,”

The second continued smoothly, his silver eyes glittering.

“But we heard things.”

Harry stilled, though he kept his expression neutral beside him, Taryon groaned softly and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Eru help us all,” He muttered.

The twins leaned in as one, their matching faces far too close, their identical smirks sharp as knives.

“We heard,” said one.

“That Tyelko has finally given up on you.”

“Poor hunter, tail between his legs,”

The other added, shaking his head in mock pity.

“All that poetry wasted. All that effort… gone.”

Harry stiffened before he could stop himself, and of course the twins noticed..they always noticed.

“Oho,” They chimed together, voices bright with mischief.

“So it is true, then. You miss him.”

Harry’s cheeks heated instantly, a flush rising up his neck to his ears. He glared at them both, trying for intimidation, but the traitorous warmth on his face gave him away. Taryon, the bastard, snorted quietly into his hand, clearly enjoying the show now that someone else had taken the twins’ attention.

“Brother!”

Harry snapped, rounding on him with indignation, only for Taryon to raise his brows and smirk knowingly. The heat in Harry’s cheeks only deepened, and he spun away, stalking toward the nearest sitting area with the air of a man escaping execution. He dropped into a chair with a huff, setting the book down a little too firmly in his lap.

Behind him, the sound of stifled laughter echoed. The Ambarussa, of course. They had gotten what they came for amusement at his expense and they were reveling in it. Harry clenched his jaw, resolutely ignoring them, though the tips of his ears still burned.

But even as he tried to focus on the words of the book before him, the ache he’d been denying for weeks stirred again. The ache of absence. Of quiet where there had once been noise. Of space where Celegorm used to stand too close.

He missed him and that realization made his stomach twist with both dread and something far more dangerous.

Harry then sigh as he shook his head and look at the twin. H had been around long enough to know when trouble was brewing.

The Ambarussa sitting on either side of him like a pair of vultures circling their meal was a sure sign. He clutched his book a little tighter, already bracing himself for whatever ridiculous scheme they were about to drag him into.

Amras leaned closer first, lowering his voice until Harry could feel his breath tickle his ear.

“We want you to help us with something.”

Harry frowned, suspicion rising immediately. The twins never looked serious never. Their usual grins, bright and mischievous, had dimmed just enough to make his instincts flare. Slowly he turned his emerald eyes from Amras to Amrod, who was watching him with equal intensity.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry muttered, setting the book down on the table beside him.

Amrod’s lips twitched, as if fighting back a smirk, but he didn’t break character. Instead, he leaned in, his voice equally hushed, eyes glinting with uncharacteristic seriousness.

“We need you to talk to Tyelko.”

Harry blinked. Of all the things he had expected smuggling wine, sneaking into the palace kitchens, switching robes with one of their cousins to cause chaos..this was not it.

“What?” He asked flatly, turning his gaze between the two.

“You heard us,” Amras said, his tone almost pleading now.

“You’ve noticed, haven’t you? He’s…”

The twin trailed off, and Harry realized with a jolt that they weren’t grinning not because they were scheming, but because they were worried.

Amrod continued where his brother had faltered.

“ Tyelko hasn’t been himself these past months. At first we thought he was sulking, licking his wounds after you brushed him off so many times. We laughed, thought he’d bounce back with a new poem or a new ridiculous stunt.” His silver eyes softened, the teasing gone.

“But he didn’t.”

Harry’s chest tightened, though he schooled his face into something neutral.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do about it? If he’s tired of chasing after me, that’s his problem.”

Amras shook his head fiercely. “No, you don’t understand. He still talks about you. He still looks for you even if he’s stopped making a fool of himself in public. It’s like he’s… fading, in a way. Like he’s lost his spark.”

Amrod’s hand landed on Harry’s arm, startling him with its weight.

“You don’t have to accept him. You don’t even have to like him back but you could speak to him. Remind him the world doesn’t end because one Ellon said no. He listens to you..even when you’re scolding him, he listens.”

Harry stared at them, stunned into silence. The twins, usually the embodiment of chaos, were deadly serious. He could see the sincerity etched into their mirrored faces, the kind of raw concern only family could have.

His heart twisted uncomfortably. He remembered the ache he’d felt in the library, the emptiness when Celegorm’s antics stopped.

He remembered the hunter’s gray eyes meeting his across the hall, the blackened bruise around one of them from his punch and the unshaken determination beneath it and now here were the Ambarussa, practically begging him to intervene.

“Why me?” He finally asked, voice quieter than he intended.

“Because,” Amras said softly.

“You’re the only one who’s ever made him look at someone the way our father used to look at our mother.”

The words hit harder than Harry expected. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Bloody hell,” He muttered, earning twin hopeful smiles.

“Fine. I’ll talk to him. But don’t expect miracles.”

Amrod and Amras exchanged a look, their grins returning at last, though gentler this time.

“We’ll take what we can get,” Amrod said.

Harry leaned back in his chair, glaring half-heartedly at them. “You two are worse than someone I know, you know that?”

The twins blinked.

“Who?” They asked in perfect unison.

Harry only shook his head, lips quirking despite himself. “Never mind.”

Harry exhaled, long and deep, a sigh that carried the weight of both frustration and resolve. Slowly, he rose to his feet, the chair legs scraping lightly against the polished marble floor.

"Well, excuse me,"

Harry muttered, more to himself than to them, though his tone carried enough determination to make both twins glance at him.

"I have an Elf to visit."

He gathered the book carefully, holding it close to his chest as though it were something precious, and made his way toward the library’s exit before leaving, Harry stopped by the librarian’s desk offering a courteous nod and a quiet explanation that he would be leaving the book in the librarians hand for a moment.

The Elf behind the desk inclined their head in silent approval, and with that, Harry strode out, his steps purposeful.

Had Harry turned around, he might have caught the swift exchange of mischief that passed between the twins the very moment the doors shut behind him.

Amras and Amrod’s solemn composure cracked instantly, identical grins stretching wide across their faces without hesitation, they smacked their palms together in a sharp, celebratory high five.

"Mission accomplished," One whispered with a grin.

The Other chuckled softly, eyes gleaming.

"Indeed."

Meanwhile, Harry pressed forward through the streets of Tirion, the book still secure in his grasp.

The late light of Laurelin spilled gold over the white stone roads, casting warm hues upon the elegant towers and domed roofs that lined his way. His pace was steady, though inwardly, he could not shake the mixture of worry and urgency that had settled into his chest.

The streets buzzed quietly with the presence of Elves, their soft voices and laughter echoing faintly but Harry barely noticed them. His focus remained sharp, directed toward his destination..the House of the Fëanorians.

By the time he arrived, the sight before him was enough to still his steps for a brief moment. Standing before the entrance of the grand house, its gates open in silent welcome, were Fëanor and Nerdanel.

Their figures were striking Fëanor with his dark hair and sharp, commanding presence, and Nerdanel with her calm, steady grace. Yet their faces were marred by something far less common for either of them: worry. Deep, unmistakable worry.

Harry drew closer, and at once the two turned their attention toward him. Surprise flickered across their faces when they saw him approaching, the young figure clutching a book close to his chest as though it were a lifeline.

"Your Highness,"

Harry greeted with a polite inclination of his head, his tone respectful though his pace never faltered.

Fëanor gave a single, brief nod in response, his eyes sharp as always, though his expression did not soften.

"He is inside,"

Nerdanel spoke then, her voice gentle, her tone almost as if to reassure Harry himself.

Harry inclined his head gratefully. "Thank you."

He lingered only a moment longer, his gaze briefly meeting Nerdanel’s kind eyes before he moved past them. With quiet determination, he stepped into the house, disappearing beyond the doors.

Behind him, silence stretched for a heartbeat before Fëanor shifted slightly, one hand rising to his chin. His long fingers brushed against it thoughtfully, his dark eyes following the path where Harry had vanished from view.

"Mmm…" He mused aloud, his voice low but edged with intrigue.

"Tyelko has chosen a good one."

Nerdanel, however, only smiled soft, amused but with a spark of mischief glinting in her eyes. It mirrored the very same light that had danced earlier in the twins’ expressions.

When Harry stepped inside the house, the first thing that struck him was the silence. It was strange..unnatural even. Normally, the House of Fëanor was never truly quiet. At least one of the sons was always about, their voices carrying through the halls, or footsteps echoing as they came and went with restless energy.

But now… nothing. The marble floors reflected the light of the high windows, the air still, almost heavy. Harry paused in the entryway, the book still clutched firmly in his hand, and let his gaze sweep across the grand interior.

Empty.

He frowned slightly. It wasn’t as if he had expected a welcome, but the absence of noise unsettled him. He’d grown used to the Fëanorians’ constant presence even when he hadn’t wished for it. Shaking the thought away, Harry squared his shoulders and moved forward, his steps echoing faintly as he made his way deeper into the house.

Without hesitation, his feet carried him toward the staircase that curved gracefully upward. He didn’t stop to question why he knew where to go..why Celegorm’s room in particular had become etched into his memory. He just knew. He had been here often enough dragged along on one pretense or another until the house itself had imprinted on him.

The quiet pressed on him as he ascended, but his thoughts strayed. Over the years he had spent in Valinor, Harry had not only become acquainted with the sons of Fëanor but had in his own way gathered an odd assortment of companions.

Caranthir, for one, with his sharp temper and sharper words, had somehow become a friend. Their strange camaraderie had surprised even Harry himself and then there was Argon.. the youngest son of Fingolfin.

Their meeting had been entirely by chance.

Harry’s lips tugged in the faintest, unwilling curve of remembrance as he recalled the day.

The grandchildren of Finwë, restless and ever eager for games, had decided upon a spirited round of hide and seek in the woods. "More thrilling," They had said, dragging Harry and his siblings along before he could protest.

Harry remembered grumbling under his breath as he trudged through the forest, long sleeves shielding his arms at least he had the foresight to wear them, for the branches and undergrowth would have left his skin raw otherwise. He had no fondness for this kind of game as it reminded him to much of his childhood though he had been forced into it often enough.

He had spent nearly ten minutes weaving between trees, slipping into blind spots whenever the seeker drew too near, when he stumbled upon the sight of Argon. The young prince sat hunched behind the thick trunk of an oak, his face pinched, one hand gripping his leg as though in pain.

Their eyes met. Argon’s expression shifted immediately, lighting up with boyish joy despite the discomfort clearly etched on his features.

"Hi! Brother-in-law!.. I mean, Gil!" Argon greeted brightly, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Harry’s face darkened instantly, his jaw tightening as though the phrase alone had struck a nerve.

‘It’s the brother-in-law, again,’

He thought bitterly, teeth clenched. He could practically feel the irritation crawl up his spine at the unwanted title.

It had started innocently enough or so it seemed. The Ambarussa with their endless mischief had first coined the term in jest using it to poke fun at him but once the words were spoken, they had spread like wildfire. Others took it up whether in amusement or mistake until it had become a name attached to him in whispers in laughter, in greetings.

Harry despised it.

His siblings had gleefully taken advantage of the torment, echoing it whenever they sought to tease him even his parents of all people, had joined in the chorus, smirking as though it were some harmless jest. Worse still, the city itself seemed to have conspired against him Tirion’s people letting the title slip with knowing smiles, amused at his expense.

And as if that weren’t enough, there was that blasted Maia..Olorin who wielded the words with the same infuriating twinkle in his eye.

Harry’s grip tightened on the book in his hand as he remembered, his steps carrying him up the last stair. The title clung to him like a curse, one he could not quite escape, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

"Hello, Your Highness. What happened?"

Harry’s voice carried a steady calmness as he moved closer to the young prince, his emerald eyes filled with quiet concern. He lowered himself to one knee so that he was level with Argon, the book in his hand now resting against the grass beside him.

Argon blinked, startled at first, then let out a sheepish laugh.

"Hahaha, don’t call me Your Highness, Gil,"

He said, waving his free hand in dismissal as though the title itself were a joke. His smile was bright, almost childlike, though his posture betrayed discomfort.

"Besides, we’re family, aren’t we?"

Harry exhaled slowly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the word “family,” but his eyes shifted down to the leg Argon was trying so hard to hide. The elf’s face was cheerful, yet his ears betrayed him reddening as he looked away.

"I just clumsily slipped,"

Argon mumbled, his voice lower now the embarrassment in his tone unmistakable. He turned his head aside, unable to meet Harry’s gaze.

Harry sighed quietly, watching him with the same expression he had often worn during darker times when faced with students too frightened to admit their fear or comrades too stubborn to confess weakness. His frown deepened, but his movements were decisive.

Without a word of warning, Harry leaned forward, slipping an arm beneath Argon’s knees and the other behind his back. In one smooth motion, he lifted the younger elf into his arms, cradling him as though he were no heavier than a child.

Argon let out a startled yelp, his hands instinctively clutching at Harry’s tunic. His wide eyes stared up at Harry, utterly shocked by the sudden action.

"Y–you—!" He began, but the protest died in his throat.

"You're injured,"

Harry said firmly, cutting him off. His voice was sharper than before, threaded with an authority that left no room for argument. The look in his eyes was unyielding, and Argon, for once, found himself without words.

The young elf swallowed hard, the heat in his ears spreading to his cheeks. Whatever reply he had died on his tongue replaced instead by silence from that moment on, something shifted.

Argon had kept close to Harry after that day, shadowing him with almost childlike attachment and Harry though he would never say it aloud had fallen into the habit of patting his head in quiet reassurance, as if Argon were one of the frightened first years he had once comforted during the war.

The gesture had become second nature.

The memory tugged at Harry now, drawing a sigh from him as he shook his head and pushed the thought away. His boots met the polished wood of the second floor landing with a muted thud. The silence of the house returned, pressing heavily around him as he walked down the hallway.

And there, at the left side, before the familiar door, sat Huan. The great hound of Celegorm lay across the threshold like a silent guardian his massive frame blocking passage. His eyes lifted at the sound of Harry’s approach, ears twitching.

"Huan," Harry called softly.

The hound’s demeanor shifted at once. His ears perked fully, and a joyous bark burst from his chest as his tail thumped heavily against the floor. In a bound, he rose and trotted toward Harry, his excitement radiating in every movement.

Harry raised his free hand, palm outward in a firm stop motion.

Huan halted mid-step, obedient despite his obvious eagerness. His great tail wagged furiously, but he held his place, eyes locked on Harry with recognition and loyalty.

"Is he in there?" Harry asked, his voice lowered but steady.

Huan’s reply was immediate: a sharp, decisive bark, his head dipping in a nod-like gesture as though to affirm the truth.

Harry’s lips curved into a faint line, part relief, part lingering worry. Reaching forward, he placed his hand upon the hound’s head, fingers brushing against the thick fur with an absent sort of affection.

"You’ve done well," He murmured, patting Huan gently before giving a small wave of dismissal.

"Go on. Downstairs."

The hound hesitated only a moment before obeying, turning to trot down the staircase, tail still swishing behind him.

Harry stood alone now in the hallway, the door to Celegorm’s room before him. The book was still clutched in his other hand, his knuckles white around its spine as he stared at the door in silence.

Harry moved toward the door where Huan had sat guard, his steps steady though his chest carried a strange heaviness. He paused before the carved wooden frame, staring at it as though it might answer him back.

For a moment, he only stood there fingers tightening around the book he still held. Then, with a deep breath drawn slowly into his lungs, he lifted his hand and knocked..gently at first, as though afraid the sound might splinter the fragile quiet within.

The knocks echoed faintly in the hallway, but the silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. No reply.

Harry’s brows furrowed. He tried again, this time with a firmer rhythm, waiting with patience sharpened by years of coaxing answers out of silence. Still, nothing.

A quiet sigh escaped him, and he lifted his fist once more, knocking a third time his knuckles pressing a little harder against the grain of the wood.

This time, a voice answered from the other side strained, raw, and hoarse with the weight of unshed grief.

"Go away, Atar! Amme! Leave me alone!"

The shout cracked midway, betraying the tears that had been shed, or still lingered. It was unmistakable. Celegorm.

Harry let out another slow exhale, his shoulders sinking with it. The anger in the words did not fool him; it was pain dressed up as defiance, something he recognized all too well. For a brief moment, he hesitated..he was not family, not truly, and by all rights he should have respected the plea. But the sound of that voice… it struck him, carved deep into his chest.

He pressed his hand to the doorknob. It felt cool beneath his palm and he turned it carefully, half-expecting resistance, the click of a lock denying him entry but the latch shifted freely under his touch, opening as though the door itself had been waiting for him.

Quietly, slowly, Harry eased the door open and leaned forward, peeking inside.

The sight that met him pulled at something in his chest.

The room was far from the polished perfection he had come to associate with the sons of Fëanor.

Papers lay scattered across the floor in careless heaps, ink smudged where they had been trodden or tossed aside. Shelves lined the walls, weighed down with trinkets, small treasures, and strange pellets tokens of the hunter’s life, though in their current disarray they seemed more like abandoned remnants than prized possessions.

On the far side of the chamber, a bow hung askew, and a quiver leaned against it, half-spilled. A swing stood idle in one corner its rope swaying slightly from some earlier movement though now the room was still.

Cabinets framed the eastern and western walls, their doors half-ajar as though rummaged through in haste. Near the bed, a desk stood cluttered, a table crowded with neglected objects parchment, quills, a cup turned on its side, leaving a dark stain that had bled across the wood.

And there, beneath the dim green glow of curtains that filtered the sunlight into muted streaks, was the bed itself.

Celegorm lay upon it, his form turned toward the curtained window, the light from outside cutting shadows along the curve of his shoulders. A blanket had been pulled up over him, dropped haphazardly across his body like a shield. Only the faint tremor of breath betrayed him, the rise and fall beneath the fabric too uneven, too shallow.

Harry closed the door softly behind him, the latch clicking into place with a gentleness that seemed almost deliberate.

The sound was small but final shutting out the house beyond. He stepped forward his boots quiet on the floor as he crossed the distance between them, weaving past scattered papers without a glance.

At the bedside, he paused. His eyes lingered on the outline of Celegorm beneath the blanket, his face hidden his pain palpable.

Slowly, Harry set the book he carried down upon the edge of the desk, its weight thudding softly against the wood and then he turned fully toward the bed, standing over the figure lying there, as the muted light filtered through green curtains and fell across them both.

Celegorm’s voice was hoarse, raw from use, when it broke through the still air.

“Go away! Just go away!”

He sounded broken, frayed at the edges, and Harry could tell instantly that whoever Celegorm thought was on the other side of that blanket, it wasn’t him.

Harry didn’t leave. Instead, he lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

He could feel the softness of the cover beneath his palms, and he let his gaze linger on the lump of Celegorm’s form beneath the blanket. The elf was curled tightly his back turned shutting himself away from the world.

“Tyelko,” Harry said softly, the name leaving his lips in a gentleness he rarely used.

The effect was immediate. Celegorm froze, every muscle in his body going taut as though the single word had pierced through his defenses. A second later, the blanket was yanked back revealing his flush tear-stained face. His hair was disheveled his eyes wide in shock at the sight of Harry sitting there.

“You… You! Why are you here?!”

Celegorm’s voice cracked as he scrambled upright, instinctively pulling back, putting distance between them on the bed.

Harry noticed the movement instantly, and something twisted inside him. It was small at first, a twinge he didn’t want to acknowledge, but it grew sharper the longer Celegorm kept himself away.

He had grown so used to Celegorm’s constant presence, the way the elf hovered close, unrelenting and stubborn, that the sudden distance felt… wrong. It left Harry unsettled in a way he didn’t like.

“The Ambrussa asked me,” Harry replied bluntly, the words slipping out before he could soften them.

For a moment, hope flickered in Celegorm’s swollen eyes but it extinguished just as quickly, crushed beneath the weight of Harry’s statement. His shoulders sagged, his whole frame deflating like a punctured balloon.

“Oh… then you can go now,”

He muttered, the dismay in his voice cutting deeper than Harry had expected. Celegorm turned away, lying back down, his broad shoulders closing off as his back faced Harry. It was a dismissal quiet but final.

Harry’s jaw tightened. Something in him refused to let it end like that.

“Tyelko,” He said again, this time more firmly.

Celegorm stiffened at the sound, his body going still. But he didn’t turn around.

“Just go away, Gil!” His voice cracked, and the words came tumbling out in a rush of pain.

“Didn’t you always want me to get away from you?! Now go away to your lover!”

Harry blinked, confusion hitting him like a splash of cold water. He leaned forward, brows furrowing.

“…What lover?”

Celegorm gave a sharp, broken sigh, his back trembling faintly.

“The Maia who always visits you,” He muttered, the bitterness in his voice only half-hidden beneath the ache.

“You should have told me you had a lover rather than just hide it… Now go away!”

His voice faltered near the end, cracking and breaking as though the words themselves were too heavy to carry.

Harry froze, realization dawning, and his expression darkened immediately. His lips curled in visible disgust, his eyes narrowing as his thoughts landed squarely on the only Maia who persistently intruded on his life in Tirion.

Olorin.

The pesky, insufferable, ever-meddling Maia who reminded Harry far too much of Dumbledore..if Dumbledore were shinier, younger-looking and twice as irritating.

Harry’s face twisted his revulsion plain. Of all the things Celegorm could have thought, of all the conclusions he could have drawn..it had to be that.

And in that moment, staring at Celegorm’s turned back and hearing the cracked, pained edge in his voice, Harry realized just how badly this misunderstanding had cut him.

The only Maia who kept visiting him in Tirion was none other than Olorin. The pesky annoying Dumbledore 2.0 version but shiny and younger.

“He is not my lover…”

Harry’s voice was low, soft enough to be nearly swallowed by the heavy silence of the room. His words lingered in the air, fragile yet firm.

He had meant to go on, to explain, to reassure yet halfway through the forming of his next words, Harry stopped. His chest rose as he drew in a deep breath then fell as he released it slowly, the sound weary.

Why was he explaining himself? Why did he feel the need to justify anything? He didn’t owe anyone that not Celegorm, not anyone.

His lips pressed into a thin line.

“If that’s what you want, then I’m gonna leave. Goodbye, Tyelko.”

The words felt heavier leaving his mouth than he had expected. Harry’s gaze lingered on Celegorm’s form for a moment longer, on the hunched shoulders and the curtain of hair that half-shadowed his face.

An unfamiliar ache pulsed faintly in Harry’s chest, a strange tightness he did not care to name. Shaking his head he pushed it down. He slowly rose to his feet, the bed creaking softly at the shift and turned toward the door but before he could take more than two steps, something warm and firm closed around his hand.

Harry startled slightly, his head whipping back. Celegorm had sat up, one hand clutching Harry’s tightly, as though afraid that if he let go, Harry would vanish completely. His eyes were wide, uncertain, searching.

“Is he really not your lover?”

Celegorm’s voice trembled faintly, but there was no mistaking the desperate hope behind the question.

Harry froze for a long moment, emerald meeting silver, before his expression softened. He gave the smallest of nods, slow and deliberate.

Relief washed over Celegorm’s features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His lips parted and before Harry could prepare himself, a bright, unrestrained joy spread across the elf’s face.

It was so sudden, so pure, that it nearly erased the earlier gloom that had weighed him down.

“Then… can I court you again?”

Celegorm asked eagerly, his voice brimming with anticipation, almost boyish in its boldness.

Harry blinked. For a second, he wondered if he’d misheard. Court him. again? His brows furrowed and he tilted his head slightly. He was speechless caught off guard not just by the words but by the fact Celegorm asked permission now when in the past he had never bothered.

Tyelko had always been brazen pursuing Harry with relentless persistence heedless of protests, heedless of rules and now, after years of that stubbornness, here he was waiting for Harry’s answer, as if it mattered.

.

.

.

.

“No.”

The single word left Harry’s lips with quiet finality.

Celegorm’s expression crumpled instantly. The bright flame of joy that had flared in his silver eyes flickered out, and he deflated like a punctured balloon. His hand slipped from Harry’s as though it had lost all strength, falling limply between them. His whole posture sagged in defeat, his shoulders hunched and heavy.

The sight was almost pitiful, and Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing not out of cruelty, but because Celegorm’s sudden resemblance to a sad, abandoned puppy was so absurd it was comical. Still he kept his face composed, holding back the small tug of amusement at the corners of his lips.

Even so, the image lingered, unshakable. Celegorm, once so proud, so determined, now sitting there with his silver eyes downcast and his hand empty, was almost too much and Harry couldn’t quite decide if the ache in his chest had eased or deepened.

Harry may have been in denial about many things, but one truth that had finally but quietly settled in the depths of his heart, one he could no longer ignore.

He liked Celegorm.

When or how it began, he could not say. It was not some dramatic instant of realization, no lightning bolt of clarity. Instead, it had crept in slowly quietly like ivy winding its way into the cracks of stone, rooting itself in places he hadn’t noticed until it was already too late.

Every time he had claimed to be annoyed when Celegorm appeared outside his window, when stones had been thrown to rouse him or absurd verses of poetry were shouted in broad daylight, Harry had insisted to others and to himself that it irritated him.

Yet the truth was far gentler, far warmer. He had been secretly glad, because each ridiculous act, each reckless display, had been Celegorm’s way of showing something genuine. That persistence, foolish as it seemed, had been real.

But with that truth came fear.

If everything here was still destined to unfold as it had in the book he remembered, then Harry already knew the path Celegorm’s story would take.

He knew the tale of Lúthien, the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar, and how Celegorm would become enthralled by her beauty and when that moment came… where would Harry stand?

He imagined himself cast aside, left behind in silence, his heart abandoned in favor of a brighter star. The thought dug into him like a thorn, sharp and merciless. He could not bear to let himself hope, not when hope could only end in heartbreak.

And yet..he could still feel Celegorm’s gaze now, burning into him desperate and unguarded. He had always been terrible at hiding his feelings and Harry for all his denials could not ignore what shone in those eyes.

His hand tightened around the doorknob. His mind wavered between fear and longing, denial and truth. His heart thundered as though urging him forward.

Finally, Harry drew in a steadying breath. He made his choice without turning back, without letting himself falter, he spoke his voice calm but resolute.

“No need to continue courting. Let’s just official our relationship.”

The words left him with startling clarity, final and sure, and before Celegorm could even react, Harry pulled the door open and stepped out, closing it firmly behind him.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, from within the room, the sound erupted loud, unrestrained shouts of joy and laughter, Celegorm’s voice ringing through the halls in sheer exhilaration.

Harry paused halfway down the stairs, the corner of his lips tugging upward despite himself. A soft huff of amusement escaped him as he shook his head, continuing his descent.

He had made his decision. He would give this a chance.

If fate still dragged events along the same path as the book foretold, if Celegorm’s heart ever strayed toward another, then Harry would bear the heartbreak when it came. That would be his burden, his mistake for daring to try.

But for now for however long this might last...he would let himself love even if it was only temporary.

Unseen by Harry, hidden deeper within the house, two identical figures crouched behind a corner, grins stretched wide across their faces. Amrod and Amras clasped their hands together in a triumphant slap, their eyes gleaming with delight.

“Mission accomplished,”

They whispered in unison, their voices filled with smug satisfaction, before dissolving into quiet laughter.

.

.

.

.

Their plan had worked.