Chapter Text
Harry crept silently, hidden by his cloak of invisibility. He cast the strongest notice-me-not charm in the history of that charm. He paired it with a muffliato and scent erasing charms. He was in full undetectable stealth mode on the mission of a lifetime.
The fortress of Angband was dark and desolate, a place where hope died. It was a citadel of pure, malevolent evil that he thought he could handle from his experiences with Dark Lords and evil.
Hah, he underestimated it at first.
It took a few months to acclimate his body to warding away the evil from his person without being overcome. He threw up immediately the first time he scouted the area from the aura of suffering and abominable dark magic it emitted from what he found out was a godlike version of a Dark Lord. Months of building up a tolerance had led him to enact his self-proclaimed mission.
He was going to pull off the heist of the century.
When he originally arrived in this new world, he’d done the smart thing. He’d scouted around, learned the languages through copious use of handy language magics he’d learned specifically in preparation for his journey to a different world (thanks to Luna and her foresight).
He learned quickly that a random elf would be noticed (someone literally chased him when he first made contact), so he stayed under his invisibility cloak while learning history and current events.
And he didn’t like what he heard one bit.
A godlike figure turned evil and released into the world by other godlike figures because they wanted to show mercy? Pfffffft. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard. It was baffling and beyond absurd. Like… of course this evil being would start up his evil ways once again. It didn’t take a genius to piece together the obvious outcome. And these are gods? Man, he did not have faith for this universe’s future.
He’d learned this evil entity stole a smith’s greatest work, causing the victims of the fallout to hastily make a binding oath that compelled them to commit atrocities they otherwise would never have done.
Yeaaaahhhh, no. It was within his means to break the oath, so he’d do it.
While scouting Angband, he’d also learned of the torture dungeons where captive elves were given no mercy. Some had been there for years and years!
His saving people complex twitched harder than ever before.
So, he’d carefully reigned in that infuriating instinct, then he planned because he was no longer a foolhardy child rushing into things without thought. Months of planning culminated in this fateful night.
He’d tossed confundus left and right indiscriminately at the dark creatures under Morgoth’s command leaving a clear path to the locked torture dungeons. He unlocked the large black metal door with an alohamora.
Some elves instantly whimpered from the creaking of the door thinking their next torture session was upon them. Some glared defiantly – they looked like relatively new captives with some parts of their body still clean of grime and injuries, others looked resigned to their fates, broken by years of torment. Still others watched with eyes of hawks, looking for weaknesses to exploit.
“Hello, I’m here to save you,” he spoke in a tinkling voice so unlike his own from before this world changed him.
Shocked faces looked around for the source of the young voice, but he remained hidden. Torture victims could be unpredictable.
“Do not be afraid. When next you wake, you will be away from this abominable place and healing to the best of my ability.”
He cast a silent area wide somnulus, and the elves sagged down against their bindings, fast asleep. Freeing them from their chains was easy from there. He’d gently used levitation charms to lay them side by side, one after another, trying to be mindful of injuries. He figured they’d been well enough for whatever torture they’d endured so they could endure a few more hours until he could treat them properly.
Over a hundred and fifty elves later, and he pulled out the long rope he’d enchanted into a portkey to safely evacuate them to his tent. He used a sticking charm to make sure none would be lost in transit.
“Portus,” he whispered, and in a flash, they were gone.
He veiled himself once again and turned towards the tower he’d scale towards his goal. He could not fly on his broom…yet. During his tests leading up to the heist, he found out the tower had a barrier preventing flying animals from entering when he bounced off it, nearly giving himself away. Lesson learned! Climbing sounded fun anyway!
Cautiously, one foot after another, sticking charms and a featherlight charm on himself, slowly onwards to the topmost window of the tower. The focal point of evil.
Despite all his efforts to acclimate himself to the vile aura, sweat slid down from his forehead. Physically he was fine. ‘Twas not even a workout. Mentally, however, he was fighting an abomination to the natural order, and it was taking its toll. But onward he went, determination shining throughout his very being. Harry was an unyielding force of nature meeting another opposing force who sat in his tower unaware of the silent battle taking place just below him.
He did not falter. He did not cower. One foot. One hand. Step after step, he climbed.
The end was in sight, and it was both easier and harder than he imagined.
Hidden behind his cloak, he went unnoticed by the corrupted valar as he silently cracked open the window, just enough to accomplish his goal.
Confundus, accio silmarils, cast silently. He was thankful for his dragon hide gloves as he handled the tainted jewels. Quickly, he made a replica. Gemino. He floated the fakes back to the abomination’s mockery of a crown. Fitting for a fake ruler to have fake gems.
Harry cackled internally while he stored the real gems inside his moleskin pouch. They’d have to be cleansed before he could hand them over to their rightful owners. They were cursed from prolonged contact with the corrupted valar, and he could feel a slight compulsion to keep them for himself, but it went away as the jewels were shut securely into the pouch.
Not that it could’ve gotten through my mental shields anyway, he cackled. Man, he enjoyed messing up the plans of Dark Lords. It was like his ultimate calling in life. (Of course, being groomed into a Dark Lord slayer left its mark, but he refused to acknowledge that).
Flying into the tower wasn’t possible, but flying out? Nothing would stop him.
He scaled down the tower several meters, enlarged his firebolt, hopped on, and flew towards the precipice of the Thangorodrim where a redheaded prisoner hung by a single shackled wrist, body dangling with no strength to hold himself more comfortably.
This guy was the reason he decided to risk so much so quickly – two months seems like a long time, but it went by fast. As he cased Angband one day planning the heist, flying high in the air, he noticed the jeering foul creatures shouting black speech as a tall red-headed elf was hung for all to see. Like a taunt to any who dare oppose the darkness.
Well, Harry couldn’t tolerate such cruelty.
He just had to do something to save the elf, but he knew he’d have to wait and plan. Hit all his objectives at once. From scouting, he learned elves were a hardy race, so he hoped the redhead could hang onto life while he worked out the details. It wasn’t like he wanted to be caught and imprisoned himself – that was not something he wanted ever again after the whole Malfoy Manor thing. It wasn’t nearly as bad as what this deranged Valar would do to him.
Occasionally, he’d spell some water and soup into the poor guy’s stomach. He wasn’t sure if the tortured elf could tell the difference, but he hoped it helped to alleviate some of his suffering.
He flew his firebolt over to the elf, and pulled up in front of him, out of arm’s reach just in case he reacted without thinking.
“Hello. I’m here to save you,” his voice tinkled.
The elf’s head shot up, looking around wildly for the source of the voice.
“Calm down. When next you wake, you will be healing to the best of my ability.”
“Who are you? You sound like an elfling,” the elf croaked.
“That’s not important,” Harry said. “Fall asleep, strong one. Don’t fight it.”
He cast somnulus like on the others, and the ellon dropped limp, still hanging from his arm. This was a tricky rescue because he wanted to make sure an illusion spell covered the area for at least a few hours before falling. It took quite a bit of energy compared to the magic he’d been using, but he’d practiced it for weeks.
A wave of the elder wand, and a muttered illusio, and he built the illusion piece by piece, copying the ellon into a near identical match. Once that was over, he stuck another portkey to the ellon’s forehead. He cast alohamora on the shackle and immediately said, “Portus.” The ellon disappeared, but the illusion remained.
If one looked at that exact moment, they would’ve seen a slight break in the illusion as the ellon’s feet were doubled for a brief second. The foul creatures on guard mistook it for imagination with how quickly it was there then gone. One rubbed their eyes, thinking they hallucinated it, then continued the monotony of guarding the hanging elf.
Harry took off swiftly, flying over the desolate land towards a spot he’d scouted and warded prior to the heist. It was just outside of Angband, far enough away for him to land safely for apparition.
He had wondered during planning if he could’ve portkeyed away with the hanging guy, but it was honestly a bit complicated trying to control a broom while performing advanced illusion magic. Not to mention broom travel and portkeys did not mix well with the broom enchantments interacting weirdly with the portkey.
Upon landing, Harry shrunk his broom, pocketed it, then spun. He apparated away from that cursed place like he could not get away fast enough. He really wished he could’ve just killed Morgoth and ended his reign of despair, but there was some entity that literally prevented him from ending it.
He would swear that entity had even whispered to him at some point during his climb of the tower to tell him, “Morgoth is not yours to kill, child. It’s not yet time for his doom.” He brushed it aside as a stray thought during the climb, but the warmth of that entity was hard to shake now that he was away from the blight of the world.
And Harry was a lot of things, but he was not someone who could ignore that benevolent deity. Literally. Even if killing the slimeball would probably prevent a lot of bad things. He’d have faith that whatever happened was for a bigger reason than he understood. He was just thankful nothing prevented him from saving the torture victims and obtaining the silmarils.
He arrived at his camp with a crack in desperate need of a nap, but he wasn’t confident his sleeping spell would last, so he pushed through the fatigue. He popped potions to help boost his energy and his magic, then breathed deeply.
He looked forlornly at the elves in his care. There were a lot. He knew there would be, but healing them was a daunting task with the various bodies strewn about his magical tent.
One step at a time Potter, you got this, he pumped himself up. Heal a few helpers, give them instructions, then sleep.
One by one, he levitated elf after elf onto the comfy cots he’d set up in preparation. They all had enchanted runes for warmth and peace of mind. While he levitated them, he did quick triage to assess who had it the worst, and who could help him. There were four elves who were less tortured than the others, so he decided to help them first to have extra hands.
Thank goodness they were easy to heal. He was dead on his feet and could really use some help. Some cleaning charms and a few drops of dittany were enough to set them straight. He’d also magically swapped out their scraps of prisoner clothes for some clean and comfortable clothes he’d prepared for the group.
He took a good look at the four chosen helpers, and he could easily tell one looked stern even in sleep. He seemed like a good leader of the four to give his written instructions to, so he woke the guy up first with a rennervate.
The elf gasped awake and flailed around in preparation to defend himself against whatever terrors he’d been living for however long he was captive. Harry really couldn’t blame him – he’d been there done that during the wizarding war.
“Hello, friend. You are safe. I rescued you from Angband. You are safe. Look around you,” Harry said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. He wasn’t quite sure because the ellon startled badly and stared at him with his mouth gaping widely.
”Apologies for startling you, dear one. I have expended a lot of energy for the rescue and I am in need of your assistance to aid the others,” Harry continued, bowing his head to hopefully show he meant the ellon no harm. He raised his arm and waved it to the table where he sat. “Come, share in food and drink for sustenance. Are you able to move?” He made to stand to help the ellon over, but whatever he said seemed to have snapped the ellon into awareness, but the look of absolute incredulity never left the ellon’s face.
“An elfling?” the man asked in a shaky voice.
“No? I’m fifty. I’m no elfling, good sir,” Harry said in a slow voice, clearly indicating he was questioning the man’s sanity. Internally, he wondered if he should have woke up someone else instead. “Should I perhaps wake someone else while you catch your bearings, sir? You looked like you could aid me, but please speak up if I misjudged.”
The ellon closed his eyes like he was compartmentalizing whatever issues he had upon awakening. He cleared his throat, “I will assist you, little one.”
“Excellent. I’m not sure how long I will stay conscious, but I wrote out instructions for the different healing potions made for this task. Eat first, I am well enough to see to your needs.”
The ellon slowly rose from his cot. He braced for pain that never came, and shock took over his features once more. “How am I not in pain?” he wondered aloud.
“Ah, I healed you,” Harry replied. “Come, sit. Eat while I brief you.”
The ellon numbly collected himself once more and took a seat across from Harry. Harry had prepared a lot of nutritious soup for the victims one they were stable enough to eat. A portion of the soup was steaming from a bowl in front of his guest, and a goblet of clean water awaited him. Once the ellon took his first bite, Harry smiled warmly at him.
“It looks like I was right to choose you after all. Having an appetite is a good sign,” Harry commented tiredly. “There are three others I will wake up to aid you before passing out. They were less injured than the others, like you.” He paused briefly to look around him for where he placed his parchment of instructions. He let out a quick squeak of excitement when he found the parchment and set it down on the table. “I prepared notes for the potions with instructions for use, among other things to aid you while I regain my strength.”
Harry felt shaky, but he pushed himself a little more. “Please make sure they eat before worrying about the others. I warded the area and it’s secure.”
As soon as he muttered rennervate to the other healed ellons, he slumped in his chair as exhaustion overcame him.
***
Erestor had never been more confused in his life than when a literal elfling had to calm him down from his trauma upon awakening.
The elfling who claimed to have rescued him – and everyone else – from Angband.
The elfling who did not seem to think he was an elfling despite admitting to the mere age of fifty years.
Um… what?
One minute he had been in the worst place an elf could find himself, and the next he had been woken in a comfortable bed in a hall of healing, soothed by someone so young. The little elfling had even prepared food for him.
Eru! Real food after weeks of rotten bread.
He might have cried, had he not had an elfling scrutinizing his every move so the poor little thing could finally rest… after breaking them out of Angband, of all places.
Like he said, he was very confused.
He dearly hoped he was not hallucinating, but the food tasted real, his clothes were fresh, his wounds were mended, and the cushioned chair he sat upon was comfortable. The beds surrounding him held the very ellons and elleths who had been imprisoned with him in the torture dungeon.
Either this was the most elaborate illusion Morgoth had ever devised to lull him into a sense of security…
Or this was real.
The absence of the slimy darkness that festered in Angband had him leaning toward the latter.
So, he listened to the exhausted elfling, nodded a few times, and continued to eat.
Before he knew it, the elfling waved a hand and three other panicking thralls were waking. But what truly set him moving was their little savior suddenly slumping over, dead to the world.
His heart had never beaten so fast from worry in all his days.
He launched across the table and caught the elfling before his head could strike the wood. The clatter of dishes against the tabletop drew the attention of the three other thralls, who bolted upright and looked around wildly – only to freeze at the strange sight of him frantically checking an elfling for a pulse.
He let out a quiet breath of relief when he found it.
Whatever else might come, this young one was his priority.
Someone so young, who had faced what he must have faced to rescue them all, was nothing short of a blessing. Erestor would see him live a long life – if it lay within his power.
He rose, gathering the child carefully into his arms. Only then did he truly register how light he was.
Too light.
Frowning, he carried him to the bed he himself had only just vacated and laid him down with all the care one might give something fragile and irreplaceable. He drew the blankets up and tucked them securely around the small form.
Then he turned to the other thralls.
They still stared, eyes glazed with shock, their minds struggling to catch up with their sudden deliverance. Coincidentally, or perhaps not, these three had been on patrol with him when they were taken. It seemed their rescuer had a discerning eye for capable hands.
“Faelion. Aegnoril. Daerion.”
Erestor’s voice cut cleanly through the haze. They snapped to attention at once, instinct overriding confusion.
“This little one saved us from Angband.”
He raised a hand, forestalling the inevitable outburst.
“He left instructions. He has exhausted himself during the rescue.”
Erestor paused, allowing them time to process.
“The first instruction: you will eat before we begin tending the others.”
They gaped at him as though nothing he said could possibly be real.
He could relate.
He glanced back down at the parchment. A diagram of the tent had been sketched with surprising precision, each area clearly marked for ease of use. The organization endeared him further to the strange elfling.
“Soup is over there,” Erestor said, pointing toward the kitchenette. “I am going to familiarize myself with this.”
Surprisingly, their disorientation cleared quickly once given direction as they headed over to the large pot, taking a bowl and filling it with the rather tasty soup.
That left him free to study the parchment in earnest – and to attempt, unsuccessfully, to keep a cool head.
The potions the elfling described did things that should not have been possible.
And yet, Erestor flexed his hand, staring at his formally mauled finger that had fresh, unscarred skin.
He would trust for now. Questions could come later.
And he had many, many questions. And several feelings.
He would very much like to strangle whoever had been responsible for raising this elfling. Who taught a child to carry such a savior’s burden at the expense of his own well-being?
When he found them, they would learn precisely what it meant to cross him.
“Is that Lord Maedhros?” Faelion asked hoarsely with a disbelieving tilt to his voice.
Erestor’s head snapped up, following the direction of his gesture.
For a long moment, he could only stare.
Then he closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his brow.
On one of the highest priority cots lay Maedhros – son of Fëanor. The same ellon who had hung from the heights of Thangorodrim. The same lord used by orcs and Úmaiar alike to break the spirits of those imprisoned below.
Erestor exhaled slowly.
He took back everything he had just thought.
This elfling was going to kill him from stress long before he could ensure the child’s long life.