Chapter Text
Harry didn’t remember falling asleep
.
.
One moment, he was curled on his side in bed, the weathered weight of The Silmarillion clutched loosely in his arms—its once-bright dust jacket long lost to time, pages yellowed, and the spine cracked from countless readings.
It smelled like old parchment, like something ancient and enduring.
A relic.... just like him.
He didn’t even like Tolkien, not really—not the way others raved about elves and battles. But this book… this book was different.
This was the first thing the Dursleys had ever given him but not out of kindness. It was never even close.
Dudley had outgrown his "fantasy phase," and Aunt Petunia, with her usual sneer, had tossed the book into Harry’s cupboard like a burden.
“Might as well rot in there with your freakishness,” she’d muttered but Harry had taken it in his arms like a lifeline.
He had pressed his nose to the pages and imagined another world—a world where people belonged to something greater, even when they were broken.
A world that wasn’t his cupboard.
He held onto the book like a treasure, even now, long after war and wandlight and tombstones.
It had survived everything...So had he..
_____________________________
Earlier that evening, he’d reread The Fall of Gondolin and just like always, it twisted something deep and raw inside him.
"Maeglin."
He lingered on the name, over and over. He had seen the character not as a villain nor as a traitor but rather as a boy born of a fractured union—isolated, unloved, cast into a world that expected him to thrive while giving him nothing.
And for what? For being angry? For wanting something of his own? Or was he had been misunderstood?
The story painted him in shades of betrayal and shadow, but Harry saw something else...
Grief....Loneliness...Longing.
Maeglin reminded him of "Him." Of how even monsters once wore small shoes and dreamed under the same sky as everyone else...Of how maybe and Just maybe, everything could have turned out differently.....
if only someone had been kind....To save him from the orphanage..
Harry had spent years trying to understand why.... Why it had to be him? Why He had done the things he did. Why the world demanded so much and gave so little....?
He thought, sometimes, that he almost understood.
"If somebody had saved him…" He thought, his fingers tracing a sentence in the text, "…maybe he wouldn’t have fallen...then maybe he could’ve been more."
But what could Harry do? Nothing.
He was tired and even if he did...It had been too late....
Tired of carrying destinies. Tired of reading tragedies. Tired of wondering who he could’ve saved, and who he couldn’t.
And who would save him?...
The war was over. The last curse had fallen. The Boy Who Lived was just Harry now but even now, even here, peace felt so borrowed
.
.
Not earned.
________________________________________________________
Harry sighed softly and closed the book.
The leather binding creaked in quiet protest, as if unwilling to be silenced just yet. He placed it carefully on the bedside table, like setting down a memory that refused to stop whispering.
He slid off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
The lamp clicked off.
Darkness filled the room.
Moonlight filtered through the window, stretching pale shadows across the ceiling. He stared upward, eyes unfocused, not truly seeing anything at all.
His mind wandered.
It had been a year.
A year since the battlefield had grown cold.
A year since the screaming had stopped.
A year since he'd stood among the rubble of what used to be everything.
He had left Britain a month after it all ended, boarding a train with nothing but his luggage… and that battered book.
No letters.
No explanations.
Just silence.
He needed the quiet more than he needed closure.
Ron, Hermione, even Ginny… they didn’t understand. Not fully.
Maybe they couldn’t.
Every conversation felt wrong — like they were speaking to a version of him that had died somewhere in the war, and he was only the ghost left behind.
So he went no contact.
He owed them everything. He loved them. But he was tired of being the hero in their eyes when all he felt was… tired.
Tired of expectations.
Tired of surviving.
Tired of pretending he was okay.
He hadn’t spoken to a soul in months.
He wandered through small towns, took jobs under false names, and let his magic settle quietly in his bones. He wrote in journals he never re-read and collected memories like bruises.
Healing, he told himself.
“You’re healing.”
But the thought felt hollow and it felt not right. He often asked himself wass he? It never felt like enough... like he was enough.
The silence helped, but it didn’t fix the cracks. Time moved forward, yet something inside him remained frozen on that battlefield... surrounded by dust, loss, and the echo of voices that would never speak again.
Only time would tell if he would ever feel whole again.
And as he lay there in the quiet darkness, staring at the pale ceiling, Harry wondered if time alone would ever be enough.
_____
He sighed again, the sound soft and weary as it slipped into the quiet room.
The blanket shifted as he pulled it tighter over his shoulders, curling slightly onto his side. The fabric was warm, grounding in a way that made him reluctant to move. His eyes remained half-lidded, fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling, thoughts drifting in slow, quiet circles.
They always did, when the world grew too silent.
His mind wandered back to Maeglin.
To those last moments..twisted with anger, heavy with bitterness, and beneath it all… unbearably alone.
Not just the loneliness of being misunderstood but the kind that settled deep into someone’s bones. The kind that grew quietly over years, unnoticed until it became something sharp and destructive.
Harry swallowed faintly as he thought of him.
A child without a hand to hold.
The thought came unbidden, soft and aching it reminded of he was like him and just the thought was disturbing.
Harry shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher, as if the warmth could dull the uncomfortable tightness forming in his chest because he knew what that felt like.
The quiet isolation.
The feeling of being unwanted.
Of being something people tolerated rather than embraced.
He exhaled slowly, eyes unfocused and he thought about the fact that it had taken a war for someone to finally give him that hand.
It hadn’t been gentle.
It hadn’t been simple.
It had taken loss, pain, and nearly everything falling apart before he’d found people who stood beside him.. truly beside him.
Would it have made a difference?
The question surfaced quietly, but it lingered everytime he was in daze that he even didn't realize it.
Would it have changed anything? Would someone reaching out earlier… have changed the path Maeglin walked?
Could someone like Harry have changed their stories, if he had been there?
The thought felt foolish...Impossible and yet his chest ached anyway.
It was not for glory, not for victory and not even for happy endings. He wasn’t naïve enough to think every story could be saved like in the past as he had learned it the hard way but still...
Just for a chance.
A single, fragile, golden chance to look at someone like Maeglin like him and say the words that no one had said soon enough.
“You are not the monster they say you are.”
The words echoed quietly in his mind, soft and almost fragile. Harry shifted slightly, staring at nothing even if it was just a silly fantasy story…
Even if none of it was real...Even if it didn’t matter.
He still found himself wishing because sometimes… a single moment of kindness could change everything or at least, he liked to think so.
The silence stretched, calm and unbroken then Harry stilled at first, it was faint. It was barely noticeable.
The soft chirping of birds drifted through the air, gentle and melodic. It sounded distant, yet unusually clear, like the sound carried effortlessly through open space.
His brow furrowed slightly.
As then came something else, it was a bit odd as he could hear...voices.
Soft, musical voices, faint but unmistakable, layered together in quiet conversation. They carried a rhythm that felt different from anything he was used to lighter, almost melodic.
Harry frowned faintly.
And then..the ring of hammers against metal.
Clear.
Steady.
Measured.
Followed by the creak of wooden carts rolling over smooth stone, the sound gentle yet distinct as he a realization came
hit him as something was wrong.
Harry’s eyes slowly opened wider...
That wasn’t..That wasn’t right. His flat didn’t sound like this and his flat was quiet.
Too quiet.
The sounds continued, weaving together into something unmistakably alive distant activity, gentle movement, a town waking slowly beneath morning light.
Harry lay still, listening. The sounds felt real it not like a dream neither not like imagination.
It felt...Real and the thought of it made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
It was…
.
.
Unusual.
Unnatural.. in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
His eyes blinked open slowly, heavy with sleep, squinting against the early golden light that poured through translucent curtains. The sunlight was soft, filtered and warm, like honey spilling gently across the room.
Warmth settled over his skin, comforting and unfamiliar.
For a few blissful moments, he didn’t move.
He simply lay there, breathing slowly, letting himself sink deeper into the softness beneath him.
The sheets were smooth..real cotton, cool against his legs and far softer than anything he owned. The pillow beneath his head smelled faintly of something herbal and wild, like crushed leaves and fresh air after rain.
It was peaceful....Too peaceful.
For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to enjoy it. To pretend that this quiet warmth was normal, that the gentle sounds drifting faintly through the air belonged to another ordinary morning then it hit him.
.
.
Wait.
His brow furrowed slightly, sleep beginning to loosen its hold.
' Wait…'
' Something felt… off' Harry thought and the thought grew louder, more insistent.
Wait, wait—just wait a minute!
His room didn’t smell like this. His room didn’t sound like this and his bed definitely didn’t feel this soft.
'Where the hell—'
Harry jolted upright, heart hammering violently in his chest, the last remnants of sleep vanishing instantly. His gaze darted around the room, wide-eyed and alert.
This wasn’t his flat.
Not even close.
The walls were pale stone, smooth and unmarred, glowing faintly under the morning light.
They weren’t plain either but delicate, elegant motifs were etched faintly across the surface, strange words and flowing designs that seemed almost alive in the sunlight.
Wide arched windows stretched along one side of the room, framed by trailing vines that spilled gently inward. Violet blossoms clung to the edges, their petals swaying softly in the warm breeze drifting through the open space.
The furniture was modest, yet beautifully crafted. A small desk carved from pale wood stood near the window, its surface polished smooth with care. A chair beside it looked simple, yet elegant, the kind of piece that felt both old and well-loved.
Everything in the room radiated a quiet, ageless grace.
Nothing felt mass-produced.
Nothing felt modern.
A woven tapestry hung above the writing desk, catching his attention.
Harry’s breath caught.
Stars stretched across dark woven cloth, silver threads glinting softly in the morning light. Silver trees rose beneath unfamiliar constellations, their branches delicate and intricate, their leaves shimmering faintly.
The design was both simple and breathtaking.
Humble.
Yet beautiful in a way that made his chest tighten.
A strange pull settled deep within him, soft and persistent, like something long forgotten trying to surface.
Strangely enough…
' This place feels… familiar.' Harry thought as the thought came unbidden as he gaze around at the room.
And then like a tidal wave crashing violently into his mind..they came.
.
.
Memories.
They were not gentle ones. Not the distant ones but sudden, overwhelming, and not his own.
Pain exploded through his skull like wildfire.
Harry let out a strangled gasp, the world tilting violently as he stumbled off the bed. His knees hit the floor hard, but he barely noticed as his hands clutched at his head.
It felt like a thousand voices screaming all at once as images flickered behind his eyes.
Thoughts.
Feelings.
Laughter.
Grief.
As sunlight spilling across white stone halls. A city hidden within mountains as voices calling across courtyards.
Names....So many names.
.
.
.
Fingon.
Warm laughter and bright, fearless eyes.
.
.
Turgon.
Quiet strength, distant and thoughtful.
.
.
Idril.
Gentle warmth, silver sunlight, soft smiles.
.
.
Ecthelion.
Steel and loyalty, the sound of water from marble fountains.
.
.
Glorfindel.
Golden light, fearless and bright.
.
.
Maeglin.
Dark eyes.
Lonely silence.
Harry’s breath hitched painfully...He knew them. He remembered them but that wasn’t possible.
They were characters.
Characters in the book he had just finished reading.... so how..?
Why—
The pain surged again, sharper and deeper, dragging more fragments to the surface. Memories layered over his own, blurring the line between what belonged to him and what didn’t.
Confusion twisted violently in his chest because he didn’t just recognize them.
He remembered them.
Not as a reader but as someone who had been there...Who had seen them.
Spoken with them.
Lived among them.
His breathing grew uneven... but how? And why? The questions echoed in his mind, unanswered then something else surfaced.
It was not a place...not a face but rather a name. It was soft...faint yet deeply familiar.
.
.
Estelion.
.
.
Harry froze.
The pain pulsed once more, quieter this time, but heavier.
The name lingered in his mind, echoing softly like something long forgotten trying to return.
" Estelion."
Harry muttured didn’t recognize it. Not from the book, not from memory and yet something about it made his chest tighten.
His fingers curled slightly against the floor, breath shallow as confusion deepened.
Who was Estelion?
His hands trembled.
Uncontrollably.
Harry pressed his forehead against the cool stone floor, the chill seeping into his skin as he tried to ground himself, to anchor his mind before it fractured completely. His fingers curled against the smooth surface, nails scraping faintly as he focused on breathing.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Steady.
Ride it out.
The pain surged again...sharp, blinding, like lightning tearing through his skull. Fragments of memory flickered violently behind his closed eyes, too fast to grasp, too heavy to ignore.
He breathed through it.
Forced himself to stay still. Forced himself not to panic and gradually… slowly… the storm began to fade.
The sharp agony dulled into a throbbing ache, lingering like bruises beneath his thoughts. The dizziness remained, along with a sickening twist of confusion that churned deep in his stomach.
Finally, after what felt like hours and though it could not have been more than minutes. Harry pushed himself upright, sitting back on his heels.
He felt dazed like he had woken from a dream… except the dream refused to fade.
The memories lingered.
Soft.
Faint.
Like echoes.
A childhood spent beneath white towers as sunlight spilling over pale stone. Laughter echoing through high halls.
A city hidden in the mountains, protected and secret, untouched by the world beyond.
A father who spoke in gentle tones, his voice warm and steady, like he had all the time in the world.
A hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
Pride.
Affection.
Safety.
Harry’s chest tightened and then..A name.
It surfaced slowly, like something rising from deep water. It was Estelion as the word echoed in his mind.
Soft...Familiar.... Beloved.
"Estelion."
It was like the name was whispered gently in quiet corridors. Called across sunlit courtyards.
A name that was spoken with warmth and spoken with pride.
Harry’s lips parted slightly as the weight of it settled into him. His heart clenched.
“…You’ve got to be bloody kidding me.”
The words slipped out, hoarse and faint in the quiet room.
Of course.
.
.
Of course this would happen.
A tired, hollow laugh almost escaped him, but it died halfway.
Of course he had to poke at fate.
Of course he had to care.
Of course he had to lie awake wondering about someone like Maeglin, about lonely children and stories that could have been different.
And now fate had grabbed him by the collar, it had thrown him straight into the pages of a story that was never meant to be changed.
Harry scrubbed a hand through his already messy hair, fingers catching briefly as he let out a groan.
“Bloody Potter luck,” he muttered under his breath.
Careful what you wish for.
Because apparently, the universe listened.
Slowly, shakily, Harry pushed himself to his feet. The room tilted slightly, and he steadied himself against the edge of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
It did, eventually.
Though the weight in his chest remained.
His gaze drifted toward the arched balcony doors, where sunlight spilled softly across the stone floor. The golden light seemed almost inviting.. warm and gentle, like it belonged to a different world.
Maybe it did.
He moved toward it, steps unsteady but deliberate.
The wooden latch felt smooth beneath his fingers. He hesitated for just a second, heart beginning to pound again for reasons he couldn’t fully explain then—
Click.
The latch opened softly.
Warm wind greeted him instantly, brushing across his face and stirring his hair like a quiet welcome.
Harry stepped forward into the sunlight and froze.
Below him sprawled a city of white stone and luminous towers, nestled like a dream between the cradling arms of green mountains.
The sight stole the breath from his lungs.
The city stretched wide and radiant, its pale walls gleaming under the morning sun like polished pearl. Slender towers rose elegantly toward the sky, crowned with silver and white, their shapes graceful and almost ethereal.
The streets below were alive.
Laughter drifted upward, soft and musical.
Voices mingled like a distant melody.
Bright banners fluttered in the warm breeze, their colors vivid against the pale stone. People moved through wide streets and winding paths, their clothing light and flowing, their presence calm and unhurried.
White stairs curved around towers like ribbons of stone.
Bridges arched high above open courtyards, connecting rooftops and terraces.
Fountains sparkled in the sunlight, their clear waters glittering like scattered stars. The sound of running water drifted faintly upward, blending with the gentle hum of life below.
The architecture felt… alive.
Not harsh.
Not rigid.
But graceful — as though the city had grown naturally from the mountain itself, shaped by care and patience rather than force.
Greenery climbed along walls and balconies, flowers blooming in soft bursts of color. Sunlight danced across polished stone, warm and welcoming.
It was peaceful.
Untouched.
Perfect in a way that felt almost fragile.
It was…
Beautiful.
Harry clutched the edge of the balcony, fingers tightening against the stone as his breath caught in his throat because he knew this place.
Not just from memory. Not just from the book but from something deeper, something newly woven into his mind.
Recognition settled heavily in his chest...Soft and Inevitable.
.
.
.
“…Gondolin,”