CHAPTER 4

Thanks a lot, Galathil. That...that was illuminating, to say the very least.

I have finished relating to you the tales of the First and the Second Ages as I know them, Master of Death. Still my stories are but broad strokes upon the canvas - the true picture yet lacks the countless specifics that gives it its character. It seems to be sufficient, though. You understand Arda far better than you did a fortnight ago when you first entered Lothlorien.

That I do. That I do, Galathil, sighed Harry, leaning back comfortably on his most favourite rock in all of Lorien.

The silence was deep indeed, even the fall of the Mallorn leaves making no sound upon the loamy forest ground. The sunlight filtered lazily through the canopy of the tall trees, reflecting off them and lending the entire forest a fey golden hue. A chill wind ruffled his hair, and raised small goosebumps upon his skin. Galadriel's strength washed over him and the entire forest, keeping it frozen in the image of an age long past.

After listening to Galathil's stories of that age complete with memories for embellishment for the past fifteen days, he could begin to understand why. Lorien was an echo of the glorious power of the Eldar in the First Age of Middle Earth, when their essence had been the strongest. Calaquendi, Galathil had called them - the Eldar who had seen with their own eyes the light of Valinor and the faces of the Valar. No wonder Galadriel felt so formidable; the tales of the Noldor in the First Age brought to his notice the fire and fey strength in them, the subtlety of their mind and hand. From what he understood, Lorien was but a remnant of a glory long past on Middle Earth. It was the result of an amalgamation of Galadriel's desire to create a refuge for the Eldar, and her nostalgia compelling her to preserve a fading memory of the ancient kingdoms of Doriath, Nargothrond, and Gondolin.

It was her way of remembering and honouring the kin she had lost to conflict and weariness over the ages.

He wondered, then, why she had not done as many other Eldar were apparently doing. She had an open path back to Valinor. Her parents were there, her brothers would probably be re-embodied there by now(he was simultaneously jealous and piteous of the Eldar being tied forever to Arda and unable to truly die), and the Valar were there. Aman was apparently isolated from the rest of Arda - it sounded like heaven to him. She'd given enough to Middle Earth, and he had a feeling no one would fault her if she left to rejoin her departed kindred. Even Galathil had scant answers to why Galadriel remained in a realm steadily losing its memories of her race, toiling to preserve something that already existed in abundance in Valinor.

What was it that tied the remaining Noldor to Middle Earth? They were no longer the bright-eyed young race they seemed to have been in the beginning. Now they had clearly had their fill of adventuring and exploring, and their age had revealed to them a need for peace. He could see it writ plain as day in their actions. They were slow to wrath, eager to protect their home, and found what happiness they could amongst their people and forest. It was a fascinating culture, really. Maybe this was what happened when the wisdom of millenia met with raw intelligence and sophistication. And mixed in with more than a little pride and a smidgen of power-hunger, perhaps.

He had much to learn about the Eldar. Galathil hadn't even scratched the surface, even with days filled mostly with long sessions of storytelling and memory sharing.

Oh, there's Galadriel, he thought, watching the Lady of Lorien appear atop a grassy knoll some yards before him, headed towards him. He raised a hand and waved like a child, grinning as she responded with a mixture of a grimace and a grudging smile. He thought she looked rather fetching today, and snorted at himself.

As if Galadriel could be described by inferior adjectives such as 'fetching'. Clad in flowing white robes, flawless skin glowing as if lit from within and lustrous golden hair freely rippling in the wind, Galadriel was better described as a goddess. Hm, what did that make Arwen, then? He spent quite a bit of time deciding who was more beautiful. Was it Galadriel whose lustrous countenance had allegedly inspired Feanor to make the Silmarils, or was it Arwen who was apparently hailed as the second coming of Luthien Tinuviel?

He'd put in good time into resolving this quandary. Objectively, they'd rank similarly on his scale. But what was it that gave Arwen the extra oomph?

Arwen is relatively young, Potter. She still seeks for a meaning to existence, and happiness in it. Galadriel's been there and done that, and is weary. Poor sap that you are, you're always drawn to the more innocent and unrealistic ones. Maybe you live vicariously through them, longing to remember a way to see existence you've permanently forgotten?

Stay out of my head, Hat.

You don't exactly conceal your tells, Potter. You're decent enough when your mind is directly assaulted, but you've grown totally sloppy otherwise. No wonder Galadriel saw through you so neatly that first time.

Yeah whatever. Now go away, he told it, annoyed.

It left with a huff.

The problem with the Hat, or most Legilimencers, was that the only saw fully-formed thoughts; that was a limitation of their craft - they could not see the half-formed notions, subconscious or nascent feelings of the mind. Thus, their reading of mental state was reasonably close to true feelings, but not necessarily an accurate representation of their entirety. Even the storied Founders hadn't been able to grant the Hat that capability. Ravenclaw had been the Legilimencer of their little posse, and he doubted she had had the power to actually see that deep into the mind.

It had kind of been a fairy tale back home in the kind of scholarly circles that concerned themselves with these issues. They'd probably routinely wanked off to becoming a bunch of creepy, mind-invading, psychotic excuses of Wizards. But what else could be expected of people who kept mutated brains in tanks and studied their behaviours and reactions to spellwork? 'The Brain People', as he'd dubbed them so long ago, numbered high on his personal hate-forever list. His thoughts turned dark, going in a direction it had gone to unnumbered times in the past.

Fucking Brain People, he cursed.

They'd earned his everlasting hatred not only for being complete and utter douchebags, but for turning his beloved Luna against him. Oh, it was all scientific curiosity, of course! The way they'd explained it to him, they wouldn't hurt a fly. They simply showed people the truth, apparently. They'd been so quick to wash their hands off everything when his life had imploded around him, and he'd called the lot of them to account before the Wizengamot. He'd put a good bunch of them six feet under eventually, but it had been too late for him and his Luna.

His wife hadn't been naive, but she'd had a curiosity that was a touch more than most sane people had. The truth was everything to his Luna - she'd wanted to know if snorkacks existed, she'd wanted to know if Nargles were real, and she'd wanted to know if a Legilimens capable of slipping into people's minds undetected and glancing deep into their souls were actually a thing. She'd been fascinated by the idea of souls for years, and the idea of actually experiencing the concept firsthand had set the researcher in her afire.

He'd trusted her so implicitly that he'd wholeheartedly supported her shift from her harmless team investigating the nature of ghosts, to become one of the Brain People. Luna going astray? The thought hadn't even entered his mind. Hermione could go astray, Ginny could go astray, maybe the vapid Parvati and Lavender could lose themselves. Not his Luna, he'd thought. Luna, he'd assured himself, was wiser than all of them put together. Luna wasn't some random woman like the others. Luna, he'd been so sure, was probably some sort of angel sent down by a rarely merciful heaven to give him a break from his shitty life.

And that had been the beginning of the end. How was he supposed to know his wife had actually been one of those legendary Legilimencers those idiots were trying to become? She had been the real deal, needing none of the Brain People's idiotic ritualistic augmentations to go deeper with their Legilimency.

She'd been one of their storied Perfect Legilimens.

He knew Luna had started learning more of her talent with the Brain People as a way to protect the children. One thing he hadn't lacked back then were enemies. He'd been threatened multiple times by the old bourgeois of the British Wizarding Society, and so had his family. Luna had been disquieted more than he at the threats - he'd seen her terror at the idea of losing the children, had even held her through several sleepless nights.

He'd assented to her joining those fools just to stay the idea of moving to another country. They'd treated her like their queen, and she'd lapped it up. They praised her and glorified her, proclaiming that their beloved Brain Room was obsolete now that they had her. That their attempts were as nothing compared to the splendor of her powers. She'd soaked in the adulation.

She'd gotten entrenched in their cabal. They'd successfully lured his startlingly wise, but mostly childishly innocent wife away into their warped machinations that sought to look for things better left undisturbed. Luna had become caught up in her own ability. She'd been a capable witch and her intelligence had certainly rivaled Hermione's, but she'd never been particularly powerful magically - not like him at least. Her life had been a sad tapestry of people walking all over her, taking things from her. Maybe she'd liked the security her talent offered her, the fact that she could finally stand alongside him, Neville and Hermione as a peer in magical talent.

His threats to her new friends hadn't worked. His public exhortations had been of no use. Emotional appeals to his increasingly distant wife had been of little avail. It was like she was cheating on him - oh god, he wished she'd cheated on him as opposed to what she'd actually done.

Luna had slowly started withdrawing into herself, displaying a haughty aloofness that had greatly distressed his children and alarmed him. It had probably been the feedback from all the Legilimency she'd done. Legilimency was not a free lunch - you could stare at the abyss all you wanted, but the abyss stared back too. The deeper a Legilimencer looked, the more they'd be influenced by what they were looking at. Luna's success and influence within the Ministry had grown so high that she'd begun looking deep indeed, foolishly believing what those manipulative fuckers had told her about her being the 'superior legilimencer'.

Oh she'd been really good, perhaps even the greatest he'd known, but Legilimency brought with it a whole host of problems that couldn't be dealt with by more Legilimency. He'd dubbed it the Filthy Feedback, for that was what it was: it was the stain that was left on a person when they immersed themselves too deep in a bottomless pool of filth.

According to the Hat, it was possibly for someone to resist the Filthy Feedback with a strong enough self-image, but that hadn't been his wife. Luna was just too innocent and trusting despite her incredible insight, and her entire life had been built around unconditional acceptance by her husband, children, and friends. It was the same for him, honestly, but he could survive even when forsaken by all others. He'd done it till he'd gone to Hogwarts.

He blamed himself for starting all the fights about her irregular hours and neglectful behaviour, and how much he and the children missed her. That had probably struck at the very core of her self-worth, and had likely opened her up even more fully to that accursed feedback.

And Hermione, that bitch.

She'd stood by Luna when he'd sought to tear her away from the Brain People. She'd always blabbered some old tosh about Luna not being 'held back' by her husband, if he remembered right. Hermione had likely projected her frustrations with Ron onto his and Luna's marriage. Bitch. He could have, should have stood up to her but he'd hesitated to initiate a falling out that would have potentially fractured Wizarding Britain. He'd been the one who'd stuck it to Voldemort, but Hermione had been the Minister of Magic. He'd backed down from that fight, stewing angrily even as his own workload had mounted.

He also blamed himself for not actually making the effort to find out what they were making her do - he'd been far too busy blaming and threatening them. It all seemed obvious now - obviously they'd experiment on people no one would miss. His poor Luna had been made to peer into the minds of the evilest scum Wizarding Britain had to offer, in an effort to 'train' her. Wisdom and intellect were one thing, but Luna simply hadn't had the mental strength to stare at such evil and not be scarred by it. That shit had gone on ceaselessly for more than a year before he'd seen the effects on his children manifest in one fateful display, oblivious idiot that he'd been. It had taken his little Lily's sobbing in a cupboard to alert him to the situation.

He was old and weary now, and he'd seen so much death and loss that he felt numb most of the time, but the now ancient memory of his young daughter sobbing in a Cupboard of all places still cut new holes in him.

And that because her mother had shoved her in there. She hadn't been able bear Lily's badgering for candy while she'd done her precious 'research', neck deep in some useless tome on how to ravage someone's mind better.

He still remembered how it had rained that day when he'd finally taken Luna to task, even as their sobbing daughter watched. He recalled with perfect clarity how bedraggled she'd looked, and how her blue eyes had seemed so unnaturally vivid. How they'd revealed nothing. They'd been blank and lifeless. It had occurred to a quiet, contemplative part of him that his wife was possibly not completely stable, but he had been too angry at her to give a shit.

He'd told her she'd had no idea at all how he and the kids had suffered from her neglect. She'd listlessly asked him to explain it to her. Like an idiot, he'd dismissed her and had turned his back on her saying the person she'd become couldn't possibly understand. That she was no better a mother than Sirius', that she was doing to their children what Petunia had done to him. He'd finished off by saying she had become a worthless mother, and that he'd be happy to take the children off her hands if she didn't want them.

He still remembered how his head felt after he'd turned her back to her and said those words, like a troll had thrashed his skull with a warhammer. She had hit him with her vaunted Legilimency, and that had been too much for him. His mind couldn't withstand the onslaught of her peerless Legilimency, and he'd crumbled immediately. A part of him had been happy even as he'd writhed in pain - his wife had finally shown her first true passion after behaving like a cold, power-hungry robot for a year. But that had been a fairly small part of him, because the rest of him had been drowned in rage as she pillaged through his consciousness in a way he had never imagined.

Sheer fear had been his only reaction as she'd rampaged through the pathways of his psyche, violating thoughts meant for none but him. He had felt the anger his words had lit in her, but that was nothing compared to what he'd felt as she violated the last refuge he'd had in the world, his mind. He had been helpless within the prison she'd created for his very thoughts, but he still had some tenuous control over magic.

And so he'd lashed out. His spells had been strong even then, and he'd been trained for conflict. His spell had been designed to subdue adult Wizards once their shields were down, and he was pretty sure Luna hadn't put up any sort of shield in her emotional state. His counter-hex had blazed out in a storm of silver light that wrecked everything around them, and he'd been in no state to cast his spell properly when Luna was dominating most of his mental functions.

Luna had been knocked out. He'd known that for sure because the drums in head had stopped, the ice and lava coursing through his veins had ceased. His vision had slowly cleared, and what he had seen had destroyed his mind far better than his wife could ever hope to do. He distinctly remembered his heart stopping as he stepped over his unconscious wife, and his wand dropping from his nerveless hand.

Even now, standing in the tranquil forest of Lorien, in a world several realities removed from his own...with millenia of experiences separating him from the events that had transpired then, his fists clenched and blood dripped into the forest floor as the self-loathing hit. He'd killed so many since then, and shed so much blood that it could maybe fill an ocean. He'd lost many children, wives, and descendants. He'd seen grief in a thousand lifetimes and still stood tall.

But the memory of his Lily, lying cold and still against the white wall of their home with a broken neck...that had been the end of his world. That had been the end of his existence.

That had been the end of his everything.

You've punished yourself enough, man. Hell would take mercy on you for what you've done to yourself.

Hat…

What're you whining on about, anyway? Your brat didn't exactly stay dead for too long, now did she? She's happy and alive and all that.

Don't mock me, apparel. You know all too well the price I've paid for that to happen.

A brief silence ensued.

I must be a tiresome bore to you, eh Hat? All the moping must get wearying for you, commented Harry, wincing as he unclenched his fists. Hm, he'd gone soft if these kinds of pains were bothering him now. He looked at his palms, considering the four small bloody holes gouged in each by his nails.

You're not a bore, Potter, said the Hat quietly. You're just a wretch who has live far too long past his lifespan, denied the final comfort of death. But this is probably the last leg of your journey. Make the last push, Potter.

The last, huh?

Looks like it. Looks very much like it, honestly. Your wife is almost certainly here.

I'm tempted to end it all, Hat. Seeing Celebrian's family...I don't know why that brought it all back but it did. I'm tired.

You could, but there is no death for you, Potter. You'd have to be erased out of existence, every particle of you, with that abomination of a power you learnt from Elan Morin Tedronai. That's the only way we've found that could have a prayer of a chance at killing the Master of Death. Would you rather prefer nothingness over your family?

It's looking more and more attractive.

You always have the choice, Potter. I wouldn't blame you if you chose to rest after all these eons you've lived. I'll tell your children everything should you choose that path, I promise you. They will know their father.

Hat, said Harry with a crooked grin, that may well be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me. Maybe you do have a heart under all that rotted cloth.

Oh fuck off boy. Ooh, there's Galadriel. She sure took a while to walk up here, didn't she? You think she knew you were up to an extra dose of your weepy moping?

I wouldn't be surprised, said Harry, standing up from where he had lain lazily on the ground, casting off his pall of misery. He'd turned brooding into an art form, really; all the old darkness of his past did hurt, but it didn't pierce as deep as it did in the earlier years. He didn't know whether that was a good or a bad thing, honestly. Maybe it just was. That was what his wife would have said.

"I apologize for interrupting your rest, Mairon," Galadriel said, seemingly gliding over the forest floor like a sprite.

"I noticed you took a while to come up here," Harry remarked cheekily, trying to deflect her attention from the gloom he'd been immersed in. Appearance was everything while trying to establish oneself in a new society. There was no way he could let them know how broody he could get at times.

"I merely wanted to offer you some time to gather yourself. I needed no art to know you were discomfited. A small courtesy was what I offered, though I think it was one I would appreciate were I in your place," said Galadriel, unruffled.

"Yeah you're right. It is appreciated. You have my thanks, Lady Galadriel," he said, deflating a bit at her no-nonsense insight; quite a bit like his Luna had been, really. His beloved had seen through people too, and had always been courteous enough to put them at ease. Well, until she'd gone off the bend, anyway. She'd been scary after that, even to him.

"You are welcome. I hope your conflict has abated enough, then, Mairon, to proceed agreeably with the rest of the day. Glorfindel looks favourably upon your request- he has always been one to readily deal with greatly interesting curiosities such as yourself. He wishes, however, to meet you before making final his decision."

"Cool."

"What has temperature to do with this matter? Ah. A slang of your native tongue, I assume. Your colloquialisms are...interesting to say the least. I daresay I understand Glorfindel's eagerness to accompany a strange unknown such as you, Mairon. He is one of the few whose spirit has been undimmed by the ages, and he sees the world as I remember seeing it in my own youth."

"He's going to need all that undimmed spirit if he's going with me, that's for sure. I can be one irritating son of a bitch," remarked Harry dryly.

Galadriel didn't quite stare, but her eyebrows were raised.

"Slang," clarified Harry quickly.

The last thing he wanted was for Galadriel to start believing that his mother, and ergo himself, were actually of canine origins; stranger things had happened to him on other worlds. Some people could be wise as hell, but they simply didn't get colorful language. Those Adamar monks were such people: wise as a couple Dumbledores each of them, but literal minded to the extreme. He'd learnt to choose words carefully there - they'd not taken some of his colorful curses regarding their privates lightly at all. Why, the stuff they'd done to protect their privates from the things they'd imagined he'd do...the poor fools. He remembered them fondly - they'd been his first island of peace in a very long time.

"Perhaps it is best that you adhere to the pattern of speech used amongst us, Mairon", suggested the Lady gently.

"I'll try, but I've been known to lapse."

"An effort is all I ask. It is best to keep close the truth of your origins. Come", she said, indicating with her hand the path that led back to Cerin Amroth, "Glorfindel awaits us. He has already made ready for the journey, and there are gifts we must give you at our first parting."

Harry brightened. He loved gifts, and he loved to ride off into the sunset to explore unknown worlds for the very first time. The novelty of new worlds tended to wear off within a few years, so he sort of treasured these moments of first contact. With a hop, skip, and jump, he followed Galadriel who began gracefully gliding back towards the city. He just knew Galadriel would probably get all uppity at his 'childishness' - but hey, he was so old he could be considered deep in his dotage. Dotards could be allowed their eccentricities, now couldn't they?

He was pretty sure he saw Galadriel turn her eyes slightly skyward as he executed a smooth pirouette worthy of a ballet dancer back home. God, nothing took his mind off all the doom and gloom like annoying dignified and straitlaced people. He raced ahead of Galadriel, and executed a rather spry backflip for good measure.

Potter, you fucking child.

I know, chortled Harry as he lightly landed on his feet. Look at her. She looks like someone force fed her a particularly sour lemon. Haha.

Galadriel did look somewhat displeased, but she managed to make even that appear part of a regal mien. The Lady may claim no royalty, but she was royal in a way that defied denial. He almost stopped his circus-antics to gawk as he beheld her sedately following him, the entire forest responding to the one that sustained it with her power. He had to remind herself not to anger her too much during the course of his stay in Arda - he did not want to have to fight the Eldar. They were custodians of a timeless beauty that even his old dried up heart wanted to preserve. He'd honestly had enough of torching up beautiful things, and Lorien numbered high among his list of beautiful places.

Oh stop it. It's nothing that complicated. You're crushing on Arwen badly, that's all.

He dutifully ignored the Hat as he plodded along, breathing the fresh air deeply and letting it fill him with energy. Whatever the stupid Hat said, Lorien was fucking awesome. He'd take special steps to help keep it a bit safer before he left. Maybe he could layer another warding spell along its perimeter that did something more dangerous than Galadriel's misdirection.

Hm, that needed a bit of thought. Whistling a happy tune as he sifted through his knowledge of unsavory spells he hopped ahead, his previous grief mostly forgotten. He'd become rather mercurial as far as moods went, truth be told.

You lost it a long time ago, boy, the Hat remarked grumpily.

It grunted unhappily as its words had no effect on its suddenly too happy owner, so it retreated. There was no getting to Potter when he got like this, in its experience. He had to get off his high before it could continue to annoy him.

Eh, it could wait.

…

The much-hyped Glorfindel, Harry was relieved to see, probably deserved all the hype.

Like the Noldor he'd seen so far, Glorfindel was regal and fair with straight golden hair worn long to his shoulders; he was proportioned like the perfect warrior - lithe, broad-shouldered, strong of hand and tall. He could see what Galadriel had been talking about - the Elda wore a genuine smile as fresh as a summer morning as he went about greeting Celebrian and Elrond. His eyes betrayed age perhaps stretching farther back than Galadriel's own, but they burned with a fiery strength that seemed ever ready to subdue the next adversity. Glorfindel's face radiated the same subtle light Galadriel's seemed to - a brightness that was but a memory of Valinor's glory.

Harry was however more intrigued by the nature of Glorfindel's powers. The Elda's strength felt directly offensive, a weapon honed for centuries for the sole purpose of despairing his enemies. And it was vast, perhaps vaster and deadlier than any of the Eldar in Lorien. If Galadriel and Elrond were the insight and wisdom of the Eldar of Middle Earth, Glorfindel could certainly be regarded as a monument to their strength.

Glorfindel is the greatest warrior of the Eldar present in Middle-Earth today, Master of Death. You remember my tales of the Balrogs?

Yo Galathil. Yeah, fallen Maiar who became giant fire-demons, right?

Correct. Glorfindel slew one Balrog ages ago when he was a captain of Gondolin, and his prowess was but a fraction of what it is now. Truly you have the gratitude of Lord Elrond - it is not common for him to part with Rivendell's greatest weapon against Sauron for anyone he does not hold in the highest regard. He must consider you as important to him as his very own family.

Or he just wants me to believe he thinks that way.

No. Such guile is not his wont, Master of Death. It is likelier he sees as deep as Galadriel, and perceives a part of your being that has led him to make the decision he has. Elrond is inclined towards acting on the best he sees in people, while being pragmatic enough to prepare for the worst.

That sounds familiar, actually. Sounds a lot like m-

Further conversation had to be put on hold when Glorfindel stopped before Harry.

"Greetings," greeted the Elf Lord in a voice deep and clear.

"Greetings," replied Harry just as monosyllabically, complete with a look of what he thought was pseudo-dignity.

"Ah, mockery. Elrond did say you were a curiosity - consider mine stoked. Have you found Lothlorien to your liking thus far, world-traveler?" asked Glorfindel pleasantly.

"Eh, it's been good so far," said Harry in a blase tone, wincing at his new title.

What was it with the Eldar and naming things? These guys named, named, and named things until the mind (his mind, at least) simply went dizzy! He'd been given a few more titles to his already pages-long list. It was like they just forgot the name he'd given them, and just made up a new one every time he met them. It was ridiculous, and he was going to put a stop to it right now.

"My name's Mairon. Not 'world-traveler', or 'wind-hermit', or...or 'saviour of the silver queen' ," he added with a firm sort of peevishness.

"Mairon is merely the affectation you chose to be addressed with, wizard. When you honour us with your birth name, we shall honour your wishes of using naught but that name. Until that time, however, your story shall be a bauble for the Eldar to toy with. There is nothing we love more than the wondrous unknown; do not begrudge us that" said Glorfindel mildly, his face was filled with mirth.

"Wondrous unknown he says," muttered Harry.

"It is not often we meet one who has come to Arda from outside the circles of the world! Pray tell me of your origins, Mairon. You are no Ainur. You are a man, but a man unlike any I have seen in the entirety of my existence. I can perceive merely the surface of your strength, and I suspect the depth of it is invisible to any here. Are you even of Eru's creation?"

He looked at the Elda. This was a tricky question - he'd had to wrestle with this sort of thing a lot. People, in his experience, were not favourable to the idea that he was an existence independent of whatever higher power they thought dominated their reality. Giving them the real answer tended to create a crisis of faith: hell, he'd killed an entire village of religious zealots that time in the world of Istahar. But then, they'd been one-track minded idiots who only had space for half a microcosm of an idea in their minuscule brains. Glorfindel, he was pretty sure, was cut from a very different material. So he decided to try the rather strange tactic of telling the truth - it would be interesting to see what happened.

The Elder Wand twitched where he held it in his pocket. Galadriel, who was talking with Celebrian and Celeborn, glanced in his direction as if she could feel the bubble of silence he'd spelled around himself and Glorfindel. Thank god she hadn't tried to nullify anything: that would've led to one ugly struggle for dominance.

"I shall keep secret what you tell me, Mairon." said Glorfindel without being prompted.

"Oh, you can sense it too. Figures," muttered Harry, annoyed.

He'd have to figure out a way to hide his spellwork from the Eldar. It simply wouldn't do for his spells to be detectable here by anyone with a decent amount of strength, it wouldn't do at all. So that meant a few months of getting in tune with Arda and seeing exactly how his power interacted with this world's fabric. It would be an annoying few months of trial and error - he'd have to dust off all that abstract theory of spells Dumbledore had beaten into his head. The old man had been more useful as a Resurrection Stone spirit than he was alive, that was for sure.

"Any Noldor can sense such a disturbance in the Unseen World, Mairon. The change you caused to be resonated to me, and most Noldor in Lorien. It feels not unlike being doused suddenly with a pail of cold water," remarked Glorfindel rather helpfully.

That was uncannily accurate as far as Harry was concerned. Cold was the sensation of death, and his powers as the Master of Death had been described as ice cold by many in the past. Resolving to devote more attention to a detailed study of the interaction of his powers with Arda, he turned to his to-be traveling companion.

"To answer your earlier question: No, I'm not created by anyone or anything you know. I'm not from around here. Not from Arda, not from what is beyond Arda, nor within. Not even from what you call the Void. I'm from...let's just say I'm not from anywhere you can imagine. I'm from outside everything you know," he said, struggling to explain the requisite concepts with his still basic vocabulary of Quenya.

Glorfindel did not look puzzled, frightened or in any sort of crisis of faith. Indeed, he seemed to be aglow with a childlike joy as if gifted with a particularly delightful toy. He began to see what Galadriel was talking about. Most people on other words would either think him insane, cunning or malicious by now. This was an interesting reaction, perhaps one he should have expected from someone as ancient as Glorfindel. Really old beings like Galadriel, Elrond and their like seemed to instinctively grasp the edges of the nature of the Infinity. He knew that for a fact from meeting similar people on other worlds.

"That is simply wondrous!" exclaimed the elf-lord.

"You'll keep this to yourself, I trust?"

"You have my word," said the Elda solemnly, though he still looked elated.

"Thanks."

They held each other's stare for a few more moments as Harry dismissed the bubble of silence. He did not miss the way Galadriel turned once more in his direction, likely sensing that the spell had ceased its function. He also did not miss the fact that it was only Galadriel and Glorfindel who showed any reaction to his spell; Celeborn and Arwen continued their conversation, indifferent to anything that had troubled Galadriel. That was a relief, really. If any old Eldar could feel it when he went about casting spells, things would get tough for him on this world. It would probably get to the point where he'd have to start killing people.

"Mairon?"

"Yes?"

"Regarding our journey further, I am given to understand you have no particular destination in mind as of this moment. Is this the case?"

"Right. I'm looking for my wife, as you may know from Elrond. I have ways to find her path, but I must first walk this world a bit. I am equally likely at this moment, therefore, to find traces of her in any direction we start."

"I understand." said Glorfindel bowing slightly, "I wish, then, to extend to you an invitation to accompany me to Círdan, at the Grey Havens. I have matters I must discuss with him on behalf of Elrond, and it would be fortuitous for you to meet with the eldest of our race still remaining upon Middle-Earth."

"I accept with gratitude" said Harry, bowing back slightly with no hint of his usual mockery.

Grateful he certainly was, because Círdan he knew from Galathil's tales to be so ancient as to remember the days when the first elves were created upon Arda. Círdan would probably be a necessary acquaintance - he wasn't searching for Luna just through the space of Arda, he was searching through time too. There was no telling how many years prior to his arrival Luna had been born upon this world - he was only privy to the fact that there were traces of her path here. He was only able to divine that she had definitely been in Arda - not when, not where, not even if she were alive right now.

"Then you must make preparations. We leave at first light on the morrow, Mairon," said Glorfindel, acknowledging him with a final nod and walking away towards Galadriel.

Harry observed the Eldar, who seemed to tread with a certain increased vigour. He'd even have called it a 'spring in the step' had it been a human, but like all the Eldar, Glorfindel was hardly that unsubtle. He'd trust Glorfindel to keep the secret of his origins, but really it didn't matter overmuch to him. Ancient and wise though the Eldar were, he didn't really believe any other than Galadriel, Glorfindel or Elrond could truly grasp the meaning of what he meant by 'outside'. They'd all probably think him to be some sort of spirit disguising himself as a man, maybe one of the Ainur as they called them.

"Crap!" he shouted, sending the birds chirping peacefully in the trees flying into the air in disarray.

"You are easily startled, my saviour," remarked Celebrian, looking unperturbed as he pulled his hand off her gentle grip and jumped a feet into the air.

"How do all of you keep doing that to me?" muttered Harry irritably, shaking away the few leaves that had landed on his robe back to the ground.

He did his best to ignore Galadriel laughing softly at him, and Glorfindel's mirthful remarks at his expense. Of course, he completely ignored the rest of the Eldar in the clearing who true to their nature began flitting about like butterflies and composing songs about what a jumpy klutz he was. All in extremely elegant Sindarin, of course, but still it was about his jumpiness. God they were such ancient, wise, and refined douchebags.

Potter, they're just including you in their tribe, man. They're being nice, in other words. Look at Celeborn though - now there's one smug douchebag.

Oh yeah. Look at him, Hat. And look at Haldir. You see how they're looking at us?

They're looking at you like you're Orc droppings, which you occasionally are.

God save me, you're adding another world's vulgarities to your already rancid repository.

You got that right, Troll face. Oh wait, I already had that one -

Fuck off, he informed the Hat succinctly.

"We can all 'do this' to you because you are not really here yet, Mairon. Your body is here, and so is your mind - but you are not here. Do you understand me?" she asked seriously, for some reason taking hold of his hand in hers, again.

"I do. I'm working on it" he replied.

She really was Galadriel's daughter, going by how much she perceived of him.

Since he didn't want to piss Elrond off by holding his wife's hand in public (Arwen did seem to be looking at them in an intrigued sort of way - damn if he wasn't a chickmagnet), he chose to do it in private. A blink of his eyes, and they were both no longer among the Eldar. Instead, they were standing upon the lonely hill Galadriel had fetched him from a couple of hours ago.

"Were it that I could move as freely as you do, Mairon!" said Celebrian longingly, looking no worse for wear after suddenly being apparated.

"Where would you go?" he asked her, noting how similar her hair was to Luna's - lustrous silver tresses falling down to the waist.

Come to think of it, her face, eyes, and manners all bore a certain resemblance to his lost wife's. The same demure nature, the same facial structure though Celebrian's beauty was simply otherworldly, and the exact same shade of eye colour. Too bad Celebrian wasn't secretly Luna. That would've been really neat, though it would've sucked fighting Elrond for her. Elrond was a genuinely good bloke and Harry wasn't in the business of stealing other people's wives from them until it was really necessary. Hell, he'd faced a thousand false positives like these in different worlds.

It was just cruel coincidence was all it was. He'd know Luna the moment he saw her, that much he knew in his heart.

"I would hasten to the west in an instant. I find no longer my old joy in Middle-earth, no solace even in the halls of my mother's home. I feel haunted even in the presence of my husband, and my children. My soul feels tainted," confessed Celebrian to him in a whisper.

He squeezed her hand gently, trying to will some comfort into her. He'd been anticipating this meeting the moment Glorfindel had told him they were going to see Círdan. Celebrian had been hurt in ways that were too horrific and deep, and that hurt would not be mended by being reminded of it constantly.

"Let me guess," he said, "you are coming with Glorfindel and I to the Grey Havens. You plan to sail to Valinor thereon."

"Glorfindel is a great warrior, but I feel safest with you. It is fitting that my last journey across Middle-earth is in the company of my greatest protector," she told him, the smile upon her lips shining with the tears she shed.

"Don't you want an army of the Eldar or something?"

"I do not. I have said my farewells to my family. Will you suffer my company in your journey to the havens, Mairon?"

"I shall suffer it, my lady," he said to her, winking involuntarily.

Inside he was cringing hard at how easily he put the moves on someone else's wife. He really was losing it, and he felt even worse when he saw Celebrian blush a bit and laugh merrily at his juvenile behaviour. Celebrian had just escaped a literal hell, and it stood to reason that her sensibilities would not be that clear. As it was, he marveled that she hid her pain this well. Taking advantage of that pliable state of mind was reprehensible, even for an amoral old jerk such as him.

He honestly felt nothing more than the potential for a close friendship with the lady - his heart would be truly aflame only for his Luna, and none else.

Of course, you ogle her with the experience of a centuries-old lecher. Very friendly of you, Potter.

"Convey me back to my mother, Mairon," she told him, still laughing and looping her arm through his.

She merely seeks to be close to your strength, Master of Death. I hope you realize that she seeks nothing inappropriate of you. Eldar find a partner for life. She is the love of Elrond's life, and Elrond is the love of hers.

I know, Galathil. I'm worried about me, not her, sighed Harry as he nodded to the upbeat Celebrian. The disturbance of the fine morning mist was the only trace left of their presence upon the hilltop as he disapparated them back to Cerin Amroth.