As of December 4, 2019, this story is being revised and condensed before it is continued. The first arc (previously chapter 1-8) will now be condensed into chapter 1.

It is a joy to come home. He's been away for so long that the pale tree trunks feel nearly like strangers to him, rather than familiar and beloved friends. He walks through the wide spaces between them, wandering without intent. How long has he been basking in the aura of the wood? Minutes, days, years? The earth is cool beneath his feet. He plucks the strings of his silver-white harp, fingers twisting deftly to produce a sweetly haunting melody. The spirit of the wood swells to meet him, singing up through his feet until its song bursts from his lips:

O Gil-galad i Edhelchír
dim linnar i thelegain:
Im Belegaer a Hithaeglir
Aran ardh vethed vain a lain.

Old and new, known and unknown. Home, but not. He's never been here before, except that he has. Perhaps he has never been anywhere else. Understanding flickers like the flame of a candle. He's taller than he should be, his voice deeper and more beautiful than he remembers. His eyesight is keener and clearer than ever, despite his lack of glasses.

Gariel maegech Gil-galad,
Thôl palan-gennen, ann-vegil;
A giliath arnoediad
Tann thann dîn be genedril

He is eternal, older than comprehension. He is the youngest thing in the forest, and his mother is coming to meet him.

Dan io-anann os si gwannant
A mas, ú-bedir ithronath;
An gîl dîn na-dúath di-dhant,
vi Mordor, ennas caeda gwath.

"Stop," she says. Daro. He should not recognize the word, much less understand it. But the ethereal, velvety voice is one he has known since his earliest days. Joy swells in his heart. He turns smoothly on his heel to face her, his fingers at last stilling on the harp strings.

She stands a few lengths away, a tall and graceful figure in a sweeping, shimmering silver dress, glowing like a fallen star against the pale wood. Long silver-gold hair spills in waves over her shoulders, threaded through with glimmering wire and gems that weave together to form a circlet on her brow. Intense, unnaturally blue eyes pierce him through. A mind brushes against his own, inquisitive, beloved, home. But she does not recognize him. The time has not yet come.

"Who are you?" she asks.

He smiles sympathetically at her, considering the question and the answers he could give. Silence falls, even in the earth beneath him. A golden leaf drifts to the ground, swooping in a graceful arc to land at his feet.

What a tragedy, to be unknowing. What a tragedy, to be like him. He lowers his eyes and gently shakes his head.

"I don't know," he says.

She draws in a sharp breath, power receding like the tide, and—

—and suddenly it is Harry James Potter who is blinking up at the ceiling of the Hospital Wing, awake a just a few hours after Voldemort's inglorious defeat. He blinks at the blurry ceiling, bafflement fading into distress.

Not even a day, he thinks somewhat hysterically, sitting upright and burying his face in his hands.

It's not as though these dreams are new. He remembers having strange—well, he doesn't want to call them visions exactly, considering they never seemed to actually communicate something to him. Just vague impressions of songs and people and places he had never even heard of, either before or since.

Early in his childhood, he had attempted to tell his Aunt Petunia about the strange, beautiful places he couldn't quite remember. It earned him a sharp smack, a command to dispense with his "freakishness," and a day spent locked out of Privet Drive in the blistering sun. Little Harry prudently kept his odd dreams—along with all the rest of his "freakishness,"—to himself after that.

He had considered telling one of the Professors once he had come to Hogwarts, but to an insecure eleven-year-old child it seemed just one more thing to set him apart from his already distant peers, and as he grew older that feeling had only intensified. After first year it wasn't even the strangest thing about him, so he had simply accepted it and moved on.

But this dream… he knows this dream is important. This dream he can remember. In this dream, a person appeared, a person who spoke to him. A person he felt as though he should—or would—know.

Contrary to popular perception, Harry is not an idiot. A bit impulsive, sure, but he's actually an intelligent wizard, if not a particularly studious one. The part of Harry that's tired of mystery and destiny and all that ludicrous mumbo-jumbo desperately wants to dismiss the dream as a product of the extreme trauma he just endured, an attempt by his frazzled mind to complete his remaining mystery and tie everything up into a neat little bow. But the intelligent part knows the dream for what it is, no matter how unpleasant, and this dream is clearly a portent of things to come.

If there's one thing he's familiar with, it's harbingers of doom, and this one's a doozy.

So, Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Man-Who-Conquered, wizard-who-is-actually-quite-intelligent, and person-who-really-hates-hyphenated-titles reaches around his back, snags the pillow, buries his face in it, and screams in muffled rage.

Not even a bloody day!

Harry dreams of the pale woods every night for a week, though the golden-haired lady never makes a reappearance. He merely wanders with his harp and his song, returning to the waking world only once the last syllable has fallen from his lips. Though he is perfectly content in the dreams, peaceful even, in the real world he endures a near-constant feeling of apprehension. Madam Pomfrey finally releases him from the Hospital Wing on the seventh day, and by then he is desperate enough to seek out Hermione and ask her to find him an Occlumency teacher. Though visibly surprised, she agrees with a truly alarming amount of enthusiasm and promptly vanishes.

It is with a profound sense of relief that the young wizard goes to bed that night. Surely, he thinks, I'll be able to block the dreams once I've studied properly. All I have to do is be patient. I can be patient.

Relief is a hell of a drug. He's asleep within minutes.

He sits comfortably on a thick limb of a dark tree. There must be open sky above him, somewhere—he can see the way the upper canopy glows dimly from the light of the sun—but the under-canopy is so thick that the forest seems to be steeped in eternal twilight.

There is nothing but air beneath his bare feet and the ground far below. A polished silver flute lays lengthwise across his lap, contrasting sharply with the dark green fabric of side-lace leggings he wears. He traces the fine gold filigree that curls across the silver, tapping his fingernail against the tiny, pale gems embedded within the delicate swirls. The flute glows in the dimness, twinkling as if covered in stardust.

It is a joy to come home, though he feels grief at the darkness that covers his beloved forest. The place of his birth, sullied by evil and decay. He should have come sooner. He should have come at all.

No wind stirs through this dark forest, leaving the air to envelop him in a miasma of pine and tree sap and unspeakably dark things. It is uncomfortable, like a chill up his spine, but not frightening. He is safe. He has finally come home, has come to right the wrongness.

He wets his lips, a satisfied smile curving upward for reasons unknown even to him, and raises the flute to his mouth.

The first note is deep and low, and he holds the fluttering sound for a long time. He closes his eyes and feels, deep in his bones, as it reverberates through the whole of the forest, passing from tree to tree, ringing through gully and vale, stirring up leaves and agitating stagnant waters. He feels the whole of the forest slowly stop and turn its eyes to him, the whispers of the trees quieting as he commands their attention. He stops blowing across the mouthpiece and inhales deeply, listening with satisfaction as the ethereal echoes of the note fade away. When he is certain that all is still and quiet, he raises the flute back to his lips and begins his song.

It begins with a reflection. He must show his land what it has become. The melody is deep and dark, dipping low with only tantalizing suggestions of lightness, like the sun dancing on the canopy high above, unable to pierce the darkness. His hair, long and dark, falls like a veil across his face as he bows his head. He is mourner, speaking for the past of that which has passed. In death, life; in hopelessness, hope.

He is a caller, a summoner, bringing forth those who would answer. Who among you would see this wrong righted? he asks.

With every answer, the song changes slightly. The ponderous darkness fades away, though the notes are still deep and visceral, for it is the nature of these woods to straddle the line between wildness and darkness. With quick flicks of his fingers, he introduces bursts of light and happiness—like sunlight finally, finally, falling through the leaves—carrying the tune into lively territory. His flute sings new life into the air, fresh and vibrant.

The greens become greener, the darkness lighter. The canopy far above him begins to rustle as wind sweeps across the forest. He never finishes the song—a laugh, joy too strong to hold back, bursts from him. His father is coming to meet him.

"Stop!"

The voice is angry, bewildered, frightened. Daro, it says, commands, and even in anger it is a welcome sound. Their minds brush, one hostile and one joyful.

He opens his eyes and lowers the flute.

He knows this man, who crouches in an adjacent tree, clad in deep green and shining silver armor with twin swords strapped to his sides. His hair is long, straight, and pale as wheat where it falls free over his shoulders. He glares with suspicious grey-blue eyes from under thick brows, and a crown—finely crafted, yet made from twigs and leaves—sits upon his head. A king, perhaps. A maybe-king.

"Who are you?" he asks, though it is nearly a command.

Oh, what a tragedy. What a wonderful, joyful tragedy that neither of them knows who he is. He smiles and does not have to consider his answer.

"I don't know," he says, spreading his hands and laughing helplessly. He is afforded one look at the maybe-king's surprised and perplexed expression before the dream fades away and—

—and he is once more Harry James Potter.

The dark-haired wizard stares up at the shadowed ceiling for a long, silent moment, speechless with the conflicting feelings of fading joy and growing terror; a bark of cynical laughter escapes his lips.

"So that's going to be the way of things, eh?" he mutters to himself, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until white stars begin to burst across them. The parallels between his meeting with the golden-haired lady and the maybe-king are obvious enough to be chilling and serve only to heighten Harry's feeling of impending doom; he did not like the pale wood and he likes this new, dark forest even less. The put-upon young wizard chuckles hysterically and scrubs his hands across his face.

"I can't...I can't keep doing this." He exhales a shuddering breath. "You better find me that Occlumens quick, 'mione."

Harry finds himself unable to fall asleep again after waking from his dream, so when he finally bows to the inevitable and gets up in the morning he is tired and ill-tempered. However, the edge is quickly taken off his temper by a beaming Hermione, who comes power-walking up to the makeshift breakfast table he is eating at with Horace Slughorn in tow.

"Oh Harry, I don't know why I didn't think of it yesterday," she says, plopping down beside him, "but Professor Slughorn is both an Occlumens and a Legillimens! He's agreed to teach you."

"I would be more than happy to tutor you, Harry," Slughorn cuts in smoothly, a benevolent smile on his face. Harry doesn't know what he's angling for in this agreement—no, actually, he does. It's probably more than enough repayment simply to be able to say that he tutored the Savior of the Wizarding World. "Occlumency is quite useful," Slughorn continues, "especially if you still want to become an Auror. We can start immediately if you'd prefer."

Harry's tensed shoulders relax, profound relief washing over him, followed by a pang of guilt for being so suspicious of his motives. "Thank you very much, Professor," he says, flashing a genuine smile at the rotund man. "I'm willing to start now if you are."

"Excellent, excellent!" the professor says jovially. "My office escaped the brunt of the destruction. We can start there as soon as breakfast is over."

"Of course. I'll meet you there," Harry says. He turns to Hermione as Slughorn walks off, slinging an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a grateful hug. "Thanks, Hermione."

The bushy-haired witch shoots him an odd look, though she smiles as well and returns the embrace. "It was no trouble, Harry," she says, then hesitates. "And… of course, if… if anything's wrong, you can always talk to me, you know? Or Ron."

The dark-haired wizard looks guiltily back down at his breakfast, wishing he'd told her in their first or second year. He wants to tell Hermione now, especially after everything they've been through together, but he feels it would be cruel to burden her with his worry so soon after everything. Besides, it won't be a problem as soon as he gets a handle on his Occlumency. It's probably better to just stay quiet. So instead he looks back up, smiles reassuringly, and says "it's nothing, Hermione. I'm just… I just need this after everything that's happened." It's not a lie, exactly.

Hermine's eyes soften with realization at his words, and she pats his shoulder sympathetically. "Oh, of course, Harry. Listen, I'm going to go find wherever Ron went off to, alright?" She pats his shoulder again and stands.

Harry waves her off. "Go find the lout," he agrees with a nod, "I'll save some food for you, yeah?"

She flashes a grateful smile over her shoulder as she dashes off, leaving Harry to stew in his guilt alone with only a plate of slowly congealing eggs for company.

Harry meets Slughorn twice a day every day after that, once after breakfast and once after dinner. If the professor is surprised at Harry's newfound enthusiasm for the mind arts, he's tactful enough not to say anything; if he's surprised at Harry's unsubtle questions about how one can block dreams out, well, he's tactful enough not to say anything about that either.

The dreams of the dark forest follow the same pattern as those of the pale wood, with one difference: with each new day, the darkness and evil of the forest lessen, until he barely has to play at all to restore the life in it.

Despite Harry's best efforts, and despite Professor Slughorn's exemplary tutoring, seven days is simply not enough time to learn something as complex and advanced as the complete blocking of dreams. When Harry goes to sleep on the seventh night, he knows what will happen.

It is not a forest he is in or a tree he walks from beneath, but instead a high, arching portico fashioned from pale wood and stone. He steps barefoot onto the cool flagstones that have been laid so smoothly to form a path. The portico extends into an elegant colonnade that shelters the flagstone path, and he follows it with the ease of familiarity. It is a joy to be home, here in the safe haven of his childhood.

This place is new and old, strange and familiar, just as he is. He fits, here. He is a stranger in a strange land. He is the youngest in a thousand miles, young and loved and nurtured. He is an ancient tree, reborn in a fresh sapling. Peace flows over him like a gentle stream of water.

His feet carry him on a familiar unfamiliar path as he hums softly, meandering through the walkways that surround the grand house. He ascends a wide staircase cut into a tall outcropping of rock, following the pale lanterns on either side to an elegant stone gazebo at the top. He crosses a short bridge, passes through an archway, rounds the stone table that sits under the center of the dome, and mounts a few final stone steps onto an East-facing platform that juts out over the river far beneath him.

The valley below is enshrouded by predawn mist, the white stone of the surrounding cliffs painted in a pale lavender color as the night sky begins to lighten. He reaches up and pulls the hood of his robe down, allowing the cool wind to sweep through his hair. A violin and bow, both very finely crafted from dark, reddish wood, rest in one hand; he takes the bow in his free hand and raises the violin, cradling it securely between his chin and shoulder. This is familiar. This is home, and it is a joy to return. He can't wait to know it, to know this place. With his eyes on the slowly lightening horizon, he inhales deeply and begins to play.

The sweet notes ring out through the valley, clear and bright as moonlit crystal. He smiles, a deep and peaceful love swelling in his chest. He plays a song of adoration. As the first rays of dawn peek over the distant mountains, he begins to sing.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon!
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
o menel palan-diriel,
le nallon sí di'nguruthos!
A tiro nin, Fanuilos!

His smile stays even as his voice weaves in and out of the violin's lilting notes, filled with such genuine adoration for Elbereth Starkindler that tears well in his eyes, though they do not spill over. Can there be any greater blessing than to be here, steeped in tranquility, singing to the Lady of the Stars herself? He is home, and his father is coming to meet him.

He is not surprised when, after the final syllable rolls off his tongue and the final note echoes through the valley, a voice speaks from behind him.

"Stop."

This voice is like neither of the other two. It is masculine but not deep, cautious but not hostile. In fact, it is quite soft and inviting, the voice of one prepared to welcome a stranger if they themselves are not hostile. This is a voice that speaks of help and safety. He knows it in his bones and welcomes it.

He lowers the violin and turns, smile still gracing his lips.

Indeed, the speaker's appearance harmonizes perfectly with his voice. A very tall man stands on the opposite side of the gazebo, clad in long burgundy robes of silk brocade, high-collared and long-sleeved. He knows how that fabric feels beneath his cheek as he drifts to sleep. The man's skin is pale, his keen eyes the soft gray of a spring storm cloud, and his long brown hair is swept back over his shoulders, held in place by an intricate silver circlet. His exposed ears are pointed, of course. He is an elf.

"Who are you?" the elf asks softly, the tension in his shoulders easing at the mutual lack of hostility.

What a tragedy, that he should not know. What a tragedy, that he cannot tell him. But he is at peace here, the sting of such a wound so distant that he cannot feel it. He smiles tenderly, eyes soft as he looks upon the man who was and would be and might be his shelter.

"I don't know." He gestures with the bow, light glinting on the polished wood as the sun finally rises above the horizon, haloing him in the rays of dawn. And—

—and he is once more Harry James Potter.

The young wizard, curled up on his side, stares into the shadowed corner of the room. The peace of his dream does not fade away. No, it is replaced, violently, with a surging fear born of incomprehension. Pointed ears, he thinks, brain grinding to a halt. An elf. Not a house elf, a bloody High Elf with bloody pointed ears. An elf. What—?

Harry turns his face into the pillow, teeth gritted to the point of pain, and proceeds to recite every curse word he ever learned from the Gryffindor Quidditch team (which is quite a lot of very naughty words, coincidentally). When he runs out of curses, he sits up and pummels his mattress for good measure, a scream of rage locked behind his teeth.

"What the bloody fucking hell!" he scream-whispers, slumping back down onto the mattress and staring incredulously up at the ceiling. "An elf? What the bloody hell is that even supposed to mean!"

He sits up abruptly and throws his legs over the side of the bed. "No, you know what, fuck this," he growls, standing. "I'm done. I'm not dealing with this." He stomps off to the burnt-out shell of the Quidditch Pitch and spends the rest of the night flying at speeds that could be generously termed 'reckless', trying in vain to forget the strangeness of the dream and his own slowly increasing sense of terror.

Harry throws himself into his occlumency studies after the violin dream. Whenever he's not meditating, he searches through the damaged library for any surviving books that might offer him some insight into his curse. Professor Slughorn accepts his near-rabid intensity with equanimity, though he casts puzzled, concerned glances at Harry's back whenever he thinks the younger wizard isn't looking. Ron and Hermione, busy with rebuilding efforts, keep their own concern to mild comments and understanding smiles; no one else sees enough of Harry to be truly concerned.

Luna looks at him soberly, the one time she passes him in the library. "You can't tear out your own eyes, Harry," she says. "You'll do more harm than good."

But Harry can't stop trying, because the dreams aren't following the same pattern anymore. In both of the forests, he wandered the same path–alone–after meeting one person on the first night. But after the first night in the valley city, he finds himself wandering different paths and gardens while playing the violin and occasionally singing. He passes multiple tall, well-dressed elves, all of whom stop to stare in shock and amazement as he glides past. They never say anything, never make a move to follow him, but the memory of their intense stares unnerves him when he wakes up. He knows them, even though he can't possibly have met them before. Even though they can't possibly exist.

He never does see the first elf again, though.

Six days pass. Despite Harry's manic efforts, he's no closer to blocking out his dreams than he was when he first started. The worn-out young wizard considers not sleeping at all on the seventh evening, but he knows that would be only a temporary solution, if he even managed to stay awake all night. And he's so tired. He's so tired of fighting and struggling and hoping. Trembling and furious with himself for it, he crawls under the covers and quickly falls asleep.

He stands a sandy shore at sunset, the clouds above heavy with impending rain. The sun descends slowly toward the horizon, painting the sky in a pale orange color that reflects across the waves and the wet sand. The sea is a dark, greyish-green color, undisturbed by large waves. He stands on the edge of the water, small swells breaking over his ankles, and looks out to the horizon.

It is a joy to be home, here on the edge of the waves. What a joy to grow in a place of farewells, to know and accept the transience of all things. What a joy to be promised rest. He hopes that he will one day discover this shoreline and the one beyond.

His loose white pants are rolled up to his knees in order to keep the hems dry as the waves break over his feet. A few strands of black hair have twisted free of his braid to whip around in the wind. A shining golden trumpet reflects the dying light where it rests loosely in his hand. He does not immediately raise the instrument to his lips, but instead stands motionless for a long time, drinking in the beauty of the sea, feeling the cool caress of the wind across his skin, and tasting the salt in the air. It is only as the sun finally touches the horizon that he licks his lips and raises the trumpet.

The notes ring out over the water with an unnatural richness, as if a great many musicians are playing instead of just one. The song is slow and solemn–a grand farewell. Specter-like white ships seem to glide across the water far before him, disappearing into the West, but he cannot tell if they are real or merely some hallucination on his part. He raises the trumpet higher, watching the specters, and bids them goodbye in gentle, brassy notes.

The sun sinks completely beyond the horizon as the last ship vanishes into its golden rays; the final measure of the song reverberates over the gentle ocean swells just at the first stars make their twinkling appearance in the night sky. This time, after he lowers the instrument and smiles at the hiss and crash of the waves, a few moments of silence pass before someone speaks. It is no matter. He is patient and his father is coming to meet him.

"Stop."

The voice is not particularly deep in tone, but it is smooth and solemn, and certainly a man's. He knows its wisdom, knows that it is the product of countless ages. He knows something of that himself, though he is barely older than the ships that sailed away into the sun. A mind brushes against his, soft and inquisitive.

He turns to face the wise one.

A tall male elf stands on the sand a few lengths away, regarding him with pale blue eyes from underneath bushy white brows. He wears an ornate tunic of pale gray; his pants, stark white, are rolled up. His hair is long and white, swept back and tied with a simple leather thong at his neck; a white beard, unadorned but neat, falls to his breast.

"Who are you?" he asks, just loud enough to be heard over the wind and waves.

It is no tragedy that he does not know. Here, there is more than enough time for both of them to find out. It is a blessing to have something so wonderful to discover.

So he smiles, playful, and says: "I don't know."

The elf is not surprised or saddened by his words. His eyes are nothing but patient, and–

–and then he is once more Harry James Potter.

Harry is just… tired. He throws one arm over his eyes and goes limp, too exhausted to summon up any fear. This is...final, somehow. He can feel it. Finality saturated the song he played, and he knows it was meant for him as much as those ghostly ships.

What's going to end? he wonders. What else can I lose? How long will I just...keep on losing things? People? Or maybe its...me? My end?

Death sounds like a pretty good deal right about now, at least in Harry's opinion. Everyone he loves is safe. He can go back to the train station, get on the train and move on this time, see his parents and Sirius and Mooney and everyone who died again, if he just...

He shakes his head in disgust, curling up on his side and pulling the blanket up over his head. What am I thinking? he wonders. I'm stronger than this. I'll beat it, of course I will. Merlin, I beat the bloody Dark Lord! I can beat this. Whatever is coming, I can take it.

But then what? Something whispers in the back of his mind. You didn't even have twenty-four hours of rest before this started. What if that's your curse? What if every time you defeat some great evil, solve some great mystery, another begins? The thought is terrifying.

More terrifying is the fact that it seems entirely possible. Why not? It started before he was even born, didn't it? Why wouldn't it last forever?

A kind of grim determination settles over him. He throws the covers back and sits up, grabbing his wand and glasses. I will stop these dreams, he tells himself firmly, standing and walking quickly out the door, his destination the library.

I just need more time.

Harry gets less than eight hours of sleep over the next three days. Collectively, that is. He would have been in a much more coherent state at the end had he even approached six hours of sleep at night. The same pattern repeats: he falls asleep, exhausted, and dreams of the sea. It soon becomes clear that the stretch of coast he walks along belongs to a port city, seen far in the distance, and with each night the distance lessens drastically. By the third, he is standing on the outskirts.

The city really is quite beautiful, with its pale carven stone, brightly flowering gardens, and elegant architecture, but Harry can only feel terror as it draws closer. He wakes in a cold sweat, gasping and trembling. Panic claws at the young wizard's throat, and each night he does not—cannot—go back to sleep. He sneaks through the silent castle, invisibility cloak draped over his shoulders, and slips into the library to continue his desperate search. That Madam Pince, so fiercely protective of her library, doesn't bother to kick him out for sneaking in at night is a testament to just how much leeway Harry's defeat of the Dark Lord has earned him.

It is on the third night that the dark-haired savior of the wizarding world is forced to face reality. In the deep hours of the night, with books and papers scattered haphazardly over a reparo'd table, a single lantern painting his hidden alcove in buttery light, Harry buries his face in his hands and finally breaks down.

There's just no way, he thinks despairingly, hunching over the table. It's impossible. I don't have enough bloody time to learn this! And he knows, oh he knows, that his time is running out, like sand slipping through the neck of an hourglass. The day of reckoning is drawing closer, and Harry has the terrible feeling that it will come in exactly four days' time.

It takes a long while to claw his way out of his despair, but claw his way out he does; Harry is an unyielding Gryffindor, and this is hardly the lowest he's ever been.

It takes quite a lot to beat walking willingly to your own death.

So Harry rallies himself. In the ashes of his hope he reforges his resolve, a new fire building up in his chest. With hair in wild disarray and deep, dark circles under his eyes, he pushes the occlumency tomes to the side, seizes the lantern, and delves back into the depths of the library with a new question to answer: just what—or where—is he dreaming of?

Hermione, predictably, intervenes on the fourth morning.

"Harry, this isn't healthy," she says bluntly, startling Harry from his reading as she sits down on the other side of the table.

"W'zzat, 'mione?" he slurs, rubbing at his crusty, bloodshot eyes. The world swims around him.

Hermione's disapproving frown deepens. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. You need to sleep, and eat, and—and go outside! Merlin, Harry, when was the last time you even showered?"

The dark-haired wizard stares blankly at her for a long moment before his eyebrows knit together incredulously. "Hermione Granger," he says slowly, "the queen of putting her own personal needs aside in favor of research, is telling me, Harry Potter, to stop researching and go outside?" He sits back, eyebrows raised in astonishment. "Someone call the Daily Prophet, quick!"

Hermione has the grace to blush. "Yes, well," she coughs awkwardly, "you and Ron are the ones who get me to take a break, so now it's my turn." The bushy-haired witch nods firmly at her rationale, crossing her arms and meeting Harry's gaze defiantly.

"Hermione…" he pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath, and sighs, his exhaustion crashing down on him all at once. "I just… 'mione, I just can't." His voice cracks. "I have to solve this. I just—I have to." Harry leans his elbows on the table and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing the parchment-and-ink-scented air in slowly, calmingly.

"Harry…" A slender hand touches his arm, but he doesn't look up. "Harry, what's really going on?"

His resolve shatters utterly at that single whisper, and with a dry sob the whole story comes spilling out, from start to finish. Hermione sits in silence, listening intently to every word, and quickly becomes deeply thoughtful. When Harry finally trails off and dares to look up, she's leaning on the table with one hand against her mouth, staring vacantly but intently down at the book Harry was reading earlier.

"Another world," she mutters after a few minutes of tense silence. "I've come across some theories about other dimensions and worlds, but they all seemed so…so tangential, so apocryphal, like the ramblings of madmen." Hermione looks up, an eager sort of fire lighting up her soft brown eyes. Harry recognizes that fire. In fact, he's intimately familiar with it, as it originally appeared in their first year and has appeared every year since.

It's quintessential Hermione, and Harry feels a sudden, intense rush of fraternal love for his best friend of nigh-on seven years.

"I know exactly where to start looking," she says with obvious relish, then stops and frowns severely at him. "But," she says sternly, "if I'm going to help you, then you have to promise me you'll go shower, eat something, then have a lie-down, alright?"

Harry's eyes widen in surprise and alarm. "Hermione, I can't…what if it—?" He trails off with a helpless shake of his head.

"Harry, you still need sleep," she says, the fire of fervor in her eyes dying down to warm concern. "At least try? Please, for me?"

He looks away with a soft curse. Hermione's puppy-eyes are a dangerous, dangerous weapon.

"Alright," he relents after a moment. "I'll try. For you, you damn cheater." The last part he adds as a grumbled aside.

Hermione beams.

Harry does dream, but only because his much-needed nap lasts from noon to two a.m. the next day.

This time he walks through the port city, playing a low, sweet melody on his trumpet. Just like in the valley city, the familiar-unfamiliar residents of the town stop and stare in shock and amazement at his passing. The stares still unnerve him in the waking world, but this time he has more to ponder about these strange elf-people. For one thing, the elves in the coastal city are dressed in less finery. In fact, where the valley-elves seem like some kind of nobility, the coastal elves seem like craftsmen and sailors, dressed in beautiful but sturdy and practical clothing.

He still wakes up in a cold sweat.

He doesn't try to go back to sleep, but instead heads back down to the library. He finds Hermione slumped over his table, out cold. Her cheek is squished against the wood, her mouth slightly agape, and gentle breaths stir the errant tendril of curly brown hair that drapes over her nose. Smiling fondly, Harry carefully levitates her body and walks her back to the Gryffindor common room, where he lays her on a couch and covers her with a blanket. Ron is asleep in a wingback chair, presumably having fallen asleep while waiting for Hermione to return. Harry covers him with a blanket as well and heads back out to continue his research.

The dark-haired wizard works through the literature Hermione pulled while he was sleeping, not even attempting to decipher her cryptic notes. The witch herself shows up at around eight and drags Harry off to breakfast with a fond but exasperated roll of her eyes. Ron joins them, joking good-naturedly about having 'two Hermiones now, blimey!' They part ways at nine, Ron going off to continue rebuilding and Harry and Hermione heading back to the library.

They find very little, only vague and mad-sounding references to a similar world, named in one rambling account as "Arda."

A fierce frown crosses Hermione's face at this revelation.

"Arda," she murmurs. "Arda, Arda, Arda. Where have I heard that name before?" Then her eyes widen, and before Harry can say a word she leaps up, sprints out the door, and disappears without so much as a muttered goodbye. The green-eyed young man stares after her in surprise but doesn't attempt to follow. He knows all too well that such an effort would be in vain.

Hermione doesn't reappear that night.

Harry falls asleep at their table in the library, despite his best efforts, and dreams of the port city again. This time he walks alone, and only a short way. He solemnly boards a white ship, shaped like a swan, and wakes just as the boat begins to move. It is possibly the shortest dream he's ever had.

"Harry!"

It's Hermione's voice and face he wakes to, sitting upright in his chair with a gasp and a jolt.

"'mione?" he croaks, wiping the drool from the corner of his jaw and squinting at the half-illuminated figure looming over him. "What…?"

The witch in question is utterly disheveled; her hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, wand stuck through, and her grim face is smeared with dust, as are her muggle-style clothes.

"Harry, I know exactly what you've been dreaming of," she announces, setting down the thick, dust-covered book in her hand. It doesn't appear to be ancient, quite the opposite actually; it appears modern, though neglected, and on the cover reads a one-word title:

Silmarillion.

Harry stares down at the dusty book, this Silmarillion, with a blank and uncomprehending stare. He looks back up, confusion clear in his exhausted green eyes. "Hermione, what on earth are you on about? What is this?" he asks as she sits with a thump in the chair beside him.

"Well," the bushy-haired witch hesitates, uncertain of how best to answer her friend. "When we found that name, Arda, you remember"—she looks for confirmation from Harry, who nods— "I remembered that I heard my mother mention it once, when we were talking about Professor Tolkien's legendarium. So, naturally, I went home to ask her about it." The witch rolls her brown eyes in exasperation. "And as it turns out, all we needed to do to solve this mystery was ask my mother."

Harry stares in silent disbelief as his mind struggles to catch up to his ears.

"So…" Harry says slowly, "what does that have to do with this book?" He slides a finger across the dusty cover, grimacing at the greyish residue that collects on his fingertip.

"That's just it, Harry," says Hermione gravely, "all the answers are in this book. The Silmarillion covers the entire history of Arda."

Harry's eyes widen. "What!?" he explodes, flailing his hands. "How?! All the references we found were half-mad and nearly incomprehensible! How did you just waltz home and come back with a complete history of some dream world that shouldn't! Even! Exist!"

"Don't you snap at me!" Hermione snaps defensively, leaning away from Harry. "It's not like I'm the one in control of your dreams!"

Harry growls and fists both hands in his hair. "I know, I know, I'm sorry," he says in a lower voice, looking utterly frustrated but genuinely apologetic. "This is just… something's going to happen tomorrow, 'mione, and it's eating me alive. I can feel it." He shudders in fear. "Four weeks of searching, and we discover on the last day that all you had to do was ring your mum." The table shakes slightly as Harry thumps his forehead repeatedly against its surface. "Why does it always have to be me?" he moans.

Hermione sighs and pats his shoulder. "I know, Harry, I'm sorry," she says sympathetically. "But at least we know now, right?"

Harry takes a deep, steadying breath before he raises his head. "Right," he says glumly. "So what does the… Silmarillion tell us?"

Something seems to occur to Hermione. "Wait… you've never heard of it before?" she asks, frowning.

Harry frowns in return. "No? Should I have?"

"Haven't you ever read The Lord of the Rings? Or The Hobbit?" She looks genuinely amazed that Harry could possibly have been so deprived. Something clicks into place in Harry's memory, and his eyebrows knit together with the realization.

"Wait, I… I remember The Hobbit," he says, green eyes glazing over slightly as he reaches for some long-ago memory. "I think one of my primary school teachers read it to us. Something about a…dragon? And some dwarves?"

"Harry, The Hobbit takes place in Arda," Hermione explains, trying to impress upon him the importance of her discovery. "In fact, that valley city and the dark woods you visited could very well be Rivendell and Mirkwood, two of the locations described in The Hobbit."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "I take it you've read the books?"

"Of course I have," replies Hermione, smacking Harry's shoulder reprimandingly. "I would be a sad bookworm indeed if I'd never read such well-known novels."

"Then why did you have to ask your mum?" he asks, confused again.

Hermione blushes. "In the books," she defends, "Arda is called Middle Earth, which is why I didn't recognize it immediately."

"But—" Harry stops mid-sentence and shakes his head. "Alright, maybe you should just explain what's going on Hermione, because you've lost me."

Hermione takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out in a gusty sigh. "Alright," she says determinedly. "Alright, these books were written by Professor J.R.R. Tolkien, yeah? He wrote quite a bit, but five of his books are most well-known: The Hobbit, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and The Silmarillion. The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy are novels, but The Silmarillion is Tolkien's legendarium, meaning that it provides the total historic background for the novels. Mum's actually quite a fan of Professor Tolkien: she has all of the writings she could get her hands on, and some of them are rather expensive editions, which is why she only let me take her old copy of The Silmarillion, otherwise I would have brought everything."

She shakes her head ruefully. "But anyways, I thought it might have just been a coincidence that you'd dreamed of a similar world until I cross-referenced those words you told me with some of the Professor's conlangs, that is, constructed languages. It turns out you were speaking in Sindarin, the language of the Sindar elves, and, well…" she trails off helplessly and shrugs her shoulders. "Here we are."

Harry stares hard at Hermione, an inscrutable expression on his face. "So this bloke Tolkien," he says after a pause, "he just… happened to write the entire bloody history of a world that's been invading my dreams? A world that apparently exists independent of ours?" He sits back with a disgusted huff, rubbing at his mouth. "Bloody hell…"

Hermione is silent for a long moment, her troubled expression clear in the steady light of the lantern. "I can only assume that he dreamt of Arda too, Harry," she says, clearly unhappy with her conclusion. "He wasn't a wizard, but maybe he had some magic in his blood. I really don't know."

The two magical teenagers stare away from each other in thoughtful and troubled silence, considering the implications of their discovery. Harry is the first to speak.

"Well, there's only one thing for it," he says with a resigned sigh, sitting up and reaching for the dusty book. "We'll just have to read the whole thing before tonight."

They take turns reading aloud, with breaks for food and rest, until around two in the afternoon. Harry is more exhausted and confused than ever, but Hermione seems oddly galvanized and immediately begins making extensive lists and summaries for Merlin-knows what. Harry watches her with a vacant stare, occasionally reaching up to rub at his aching temples, and thinks deeply about the history of his dream world.

The question, he thinks, is why I'm dreaming of Arda. It doesn't make any sense. I've always dreamt of it, but why? What could possibly be allowing for this connection?

He broods while Hermione writes and mutters and compiles, but by the time dinner rolls around he's no closer to an answer than before—other than the vague theory that maybe his mother's protection had something to do with it. His case, he knows, is not like the half-insane accounts of other wizards that they read earlier. For one thing, all of those wizards and witches had been actively seeking connections to alternate worlds and dimensions. For another, they had all sacrificed their magic and sanity for a single glimpse, and Harry, for whatever reckless things he's done in his life, clearly still possesses both despite innumerable 'visits' to Arda.

It just doesn't make sense.

But despite the irritation of the mystery, Harry would prefer to remain in the dark forever over facing whatever his dreams tonight will hold. His hands start shaking every time he thinks about it, because the day is finally here and he only has a few more hours before he must face the inevitable. Hermione is quick to catch on to his fear, and disappears right after dinner with Ron in tow, leaving Harry to go out to the Quidditch pitch and fly in a pointless attempt to calm himself. She returns two hours later, considerably more tired, followed by a visibly agitated Ron.

"I told him everything, Harry," she explains in a faintly apologetic tone as Ron glares mildly at his best friend. "He was a bit, um, frustrated that you didn't tell him, but he understands now."

Harry is puzzled by her actions. "I... that's fine, 'mione, but why did you…?" He trails off, deciding that he's too tired to question her or put up much of a fuss. Ron's mild glare disappears entirely as he realizes just how much these dreams have taken out of Harry.

"Because we're both going to stay with you tonight, mate," the redhead says, his expression softening. "No matter what happens, we'll be right there with you."

Harry is touched. He knows they cannot follow him into the deep of his dreams, and they know it too. And yet, despite the essential uselessness of staying up to watch over him, they will make the gesture anyway.

"Thank you, both of you," he says, smiling wanly. "I really appreciate it."

They kip in the Gryffindor common room, Harry on the couch and Ron and Hermione in wingback chairs pulled up next to him. The dark-haired wizard lays on his side, facing the back of the couch, and listens to the steady crackle of the fire in the fireplace. Exhaustion drags him down, but anxiety gnaws at his belly, pooling like icewater in his veins; he does not want to go to sleep, not at all, even though he knows he must. A very large part of him insists he stay awake, insists he merely pretend to sleep, because maybe the dream won't come tomorrow.

The low murmur of his friends' conversation washes over him in soothing waves. Without quite meaning to, his eyes drift closed and he shifts deeper into the warm blankets. He sinks slowly into the darkness, lulled by the smooth rasp of his own breath. His heart beats to a steady rhythm, a song faint in the back of his mind, quieting his anxiety, quelling his fear, drawing him deeper into the warm shadows of sleep.

Against his will, but without a fight, Harry succumbs to the siren song and sleeps.

He's on the same white swan-ship, sailing under clear blue skies and across a smooth, sapphire-colored sea. He sits atop the arching prow, balanced gracefully on the burnished-gold beak. The sun reflects off his sea-spray-dampened skin, for he wears no shirt or shoes, only a pair of baggy white trousers rolled up to his knees. There is no instrument in his hands. Instead he sings joyfully, raising his voice to the heavens in an aria of wordless exultation.

A bright white light glows on the horizon before him, and the ship rapidly draws nearer. Rays of light stretch out, as if to greet him, and he sings delightedly in response. A warm feeling of love and welcome accompanies the brightness; he leans forward into the rays, tears of joy welling in his eyes as at last, at blessed last, they have come to—!

The world shatters around him.

Harry James Potter stands in the midst of an unearthly garden.

He breathes slowly, steadily, tasting the impossibly pure air, with its impossibly perfect temperature and humidity, scented with the perfect mix of flowers to fill his senses without giving him a headache. The impossibly pure sunlight shines impossibly perfectly through impossibly-colored leaves, dappling the impossibly perfect, impossibly colored tree trunks. The whole garden is filled with faint music, harmonic in more dimensions than he could ever dream of, that seems to come from everywhere at once and yet nowhere at all.

The garden is intoxicating, perfect, and Harry never wants to leave.

The garden is utterly terrifying, and Harry wants to run away right now.

As he stands paralyzed, he feels a presence approach steadily. His breath comes in short pants, his fingers twitch, but still, he cannot move. The young wizard hears soft footsteps, watches helplessly as the silhouette of a man appears, resolving itself into an impossibly beautiful, glowing being.

Harry wants to run forward and embrace the man, like a child who has not seen his father in a fortnight.

Harry wants to turn on his heel and flee as fast as he can, flee until he cannot flee anymore.

Harry does neither of these things. Instead, he stands frozen, pulse roaring in his ears, limbs twitching, breath rasping desperately across his lips.

The man comes closer and closer, never slowing down, never speeding up. He walks steadily, calmly, but with unshakable purpose. Belatedly, Harry realizes the impossible music is coming from the man's lips. It surrounds him, caresses him like a tangible thing, whispers love and calm and welcome…

The man stops in front of Harry, who is forced to crane his head back to look at him. The man is nearly twice as tall as he is. He looks down with eyes like amethysts, soft and impossibly kind, then kneels so his head is level with Harry's.

Harry has never felt so small.

Harry has never felt so safe.

The man smiles, baring impossibly perfect, pearl-colored teeth, and speaks in a voice like a gentle spring breeze.

"Hello, Harry James Potter," he says, reaching up to cradle Harry's face between his soft, warm hands. Harry wonders why he doesn't tear himself free, why he doesn't run as fast as his feet can carry him, why he leans into the touch—

(no he doesn't, and he will deny it to his dying day)

"I have waited fourteen years to speak with you," the man continues, stroking his thumbs across Harry's cheeks, "and it was I who called you here, and I who knows your heart, young one. For I am Irmo, master of dreams and desires,"—his smile widens—"and I bring to you a choice."

Something shatters deep in Harry's mind, the weight of everything finally striking some hidden faultline. A surge of terror overcomes his paralysis; he wrenches violently away from the man, stumbling back and tripping over the hem of his robe. He lands hard, falling on his elbows, but continues to scramble away, his eyes locked on the man who has just admitted to being his unseen tormentor.

"You—you—you—" The words get stuck in his throat as he stutters, his voice coming out strangled and nearly inaudible.

The man, Irmo, holds his hands up in a gesture of peace, watching Harry's trembling retreat with concern but not making a move to stop him. "Calm, young one," he soothes, sinking back onto his heels. "All is well. I will not harm you."

Harry's bumps up against something rough and solid, halting his backward slide. A tree, he realizes faintly, still entirely focused on the inhuman being before him. Trembling and hyperventilating, wild with a panic unlike anything he's ever felt before, he doesn't have the presence of mind to move around the trunk. He draws his legs up before him defensively and wraps his arms around his chest, hunching into himself until his hair brushes his knees. The world blurs around him, greying at the edges. Some part of his mind recognizes that this doesn't make much sense. How can he suffocate in a dream?

"Shh, shh, it is alright," Irmo whispers, slowly inching toward the panicking mortal man. "I know this is very strange to you, and very frightening, but I will not hurt you. Shh, hush now…"

Something cool and soothing brushes against Harry's mind, telling him without words that Irmo speaks the truth.

But four weeks of stress and psychological conditioning, however unintentional, are not overcome in a moment. The young wizard cannot instantly shake the doom he has come to associate, unknowingly, with the inhuman man, and it certainly does not help that everything about Irmo and their surroundings screams of unnatural and overwhelming power.

"Oh, how badly I have handled this," the tall being mutters ruefully, still inching slowly forward. "I am afraid my eagerness got the better of me, and for that I apologize, young one. I had forgotten how easily mortals can be overwhelmed."

More intangible coolness swirls intentionally around him, and suddenly the aura—unnoticeable but suffocating—that was bearing down on him eases away. Now close enough to touch, Irmo reaches out and gently clasps Harry's trembling shoulders. More coolness sweeps through his body, alleviating his terror and loosening the iron bands around his lungs. He sucks in a much-needed breath and drops his head to his chest, leaning over his knees as he regains his equilibrium and allows his heart rate to calm.

"Peace, my child," Irmo breathes, sending another cool wave through the human wizard. He lays a hand atop Harry's head, smoothing the unruly black locks down.

The fading panic leaves room for other emotions. Harry laughs humorlessly, raising his head and leaning back against the tree. "Well, that was embarrassing," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his heated face.

"Forgive me, Harry," says Irmo regretfully, sitting back on his heels. "We did not consider how a mortal, even one who has crossed the Veil twice, would react to the presence of a Vala."

The man's statements cause a dizzying swarm of questions to swell in Harry's mind. He settles on the most important one. "We?" he asks, daring to meet Irmo's eyes. The coolness lingers, buoying his spirit and dulling any instinctive fear, so the sight of those amethyst irises, glowing with such unimaginable power, does not send him into a panic again.

Irmo nods. "There are many things that must be explained, Harry, but I suppose we can start there. I am a Vala, a Lord of the Valar. We are fourteen, seven Valar and seven Valier, whom you would call Ladies."

This Harry knows, and he relaxes as they enter known territory. "Yeah, I read that," he admits with a nod, draping his forearms over his knees and shifting into a more comfortable position. "In the Silmarillion."

Irmo looks very pleased by this and smiles warmly. "Ah, you remember more than I had hoped. Why don't you ask the questions that you seek the answers to? I shall fill in the gaps when you are done, if this is agreeable to you."

The remaining tension in Harry's chest eases away entirely, and he returns the Vala's smile, albeit somewhat nervously. He breathes in, only a little unsteady, and asks the question that's been haunting him. "Why have you been sending me these dreams?" If there's a faint note of accusation in his tone, well, he can hardly be blamed for it.

"We have been calling to you, young one, preparing you for the choice that I have come to offer," Irmo says, unbothered by Harry's attitude.

"But why?" Harry insists, anger sparking in his chest. His fingers curl into the fabric of his pants until his knuckles turn white. "Why call me? In fact, why Professor Tolkien? Why anyone?"

"Ah." The Vala rubs his chin, casting his eyes upwards thoughtfully as he considers his answer. "Well, John Tolkien was blessed by Eru, to put it simply. He was gifted with Sights of our world, and given leave to share them with yours."

Harry nods slowly, the tension bleeding from his fingers. That explains a lot, he thinks. "We read about other wizards who, um, Saw your world, but they went insane and lost their magic."

Irmo's eye turn grave. "All magic has a price, young one. To See beyond your world as they did is to defy the will and dominion of Eru. The mages who tried suffered the consequences of such a breach."

Harry swallows hard. "So then…why am I different?" he asks, fidgeting nervously.

"You were invited, much like John Tolkien," the Vala explains, spreading his long-fingered hands. "But more than that, you opened the door to us yourself."

Harry gapes, stuttering in surprise. "I—I what?"

"You may not remember at this point," Irmo hums, smiling faintly. His eyes grow distant, as if he is looking into the past. "When you were very young, you prayed to God for a family that would love you."

As a matter of fact, Harry does remember. He was very young at the time, around two years old, and had been with the Dursleys for about a year. Harry had been a canny little thing and had realized that the Dursleys did not (and would never) love him. He heard a man preaching on the telly, talking about how all he had to do was pray and God would answer him. So, naïvely, he had gotten down on his knees in the cupboard that night, pressed his pudgy hands together, and asked for God to send him a family—any family—that would love him.

Of course, "God" had not answered him, and he never tried again after that.

Irmo regards him with an inscrutable expression, as if he knows everything that Harry is remembering. The dark-haired wizard nods slowly, swallowing down the bitter memories. "I… do remember," he admits softly, looking away when the understanding in Irmo's eyes becomes unbearable. "But what does that have to do with anything?" He has a horrible, sinking feeling that he knows where this is going, but he asks anyway.

"You thought God did not hear your plea," Irmo says softly, knowingly. "Perhaps you thought there was no God to hear you. But you were wrong. Eru Illuvatar heard you, and knew your future. He saw the tragedy that awaited you, and saw the tragedy that yet awaits. And so, he gave us leave to prepare you for the choices that I have come to offer."

Harry latches onto one phrase in particular. "What 'tragedy that yet awaits?'" he asks faintly, breath catching in his throat. Wasn't this, this meeting what he had been dreading? Why he had felt such foreboding? What more can be done to him? No more, please, no more, he begs silently.

"Ah, young one," Irmo says sorrowfully, closing his eyes. "Yours is a hard path." He opens his eyes and solemnly meets Harry's pleading gaze. "You have four choices before you, Harry James Potter," he whispers. "You may choose to stay in your world and put these dreams behind you, but your life will not be a happy one. Your friends will slowly drift away. Your society will ostracize you. All sentient beings will shy from your company, for returning from the dead has rendered you undead by the laws of your world. And when you die, after living an unusually long, lonely life, you will remain as an invisible, intangible, wandering shade...and so fulfill your title as the Master of Death."

Harry is frozen, turned to ice. He can't breathe, can't move, can't even blink as he stares in horror. "M-master of Death?" he chokes out in a high-pitched voice, disbelieving. "No, that—that's just a myth, a children's story."

It can't be true. It can't.

"…in a way, yes," Irmo concedes gently. "But only because the myth is inaccurate. Holding the three artifacts you called Hallows did not grant you mastery over death, young one. It granted you the singular ability to cross the Veil and return. But all magic has its price, and the price for returning is to give up the ability to ever cross the Veil again." His voice lowers to a soft murmur. "I am truly sorry, my child."

"It's always me, isn't it," Harry whispers, wrapping his arms around his drawn-up legs and burying his stinging eyes in his knees. He sobs once, shudderingly. Irmo again smooths his unruly black hair down, sending a wave of cool calm through the mortal wizard, but says nothing.

"Would you like me to go on?" the Vala asks gently when Harry has been silent for some time. The Master of Death nods once into his knees.

"Very well. The second option open to you is to come to Arda and live out your days as a mortal man." Irmo keeps his voice soft, his hand continuing to card through Harry's dark locks. "Eru can take the Hallows from you, but you would lose your ability to wield magic. You would, however, live an extended life, longer than any other mortal, in the time and place of your choosing. When you died, you would pass on like the other mortals, and so be at peace in Eru's hands."

Harry dismisses the option almost immediately. He can't just give up his magic, it's one of the most important parts of him. "And the other two options?" he croaks, still not raising his head.

"If you chose the third option, you would, hm, transmute your status as Master of Death into the inability of elves to cross the Veil, and so become an elf. You would remain very similar to how you are now, including the ability to wield magic. You would reside here, in my Gardens, and with my help and that of my Maiar, the damage to your soul would be repaired. You would not, however, be able to leave Aman, and you would share in the fate of all the Eldar and Ainur, lingering as long as Arda exists and bearing the sorrows of the world. But you would not be alone."

The third option is intriguing enough to get the dark-haired wizard to raise his head, revealing tired, bloodshot green eyes. Irmo moves his hand back to his lap. "I'd become an elf?" Harry asks curiously. "Really?"

"Really," the Vala confirms, nodding. "Eru Illuvatar himself will reshape your soul."

"Alright," Harry says, laughing softly at the image of himself as an elf. "That explains the dreams. What about the last option?"

"Hm, a variation on the third, if you will," Irmo says with a half-smile, raising an eyebrow. "If you wished to see Middle-Earth, you would become an elf-child and find a new family in one of the elven settlements there."

Harry gapes openly. "I—become an elf-child?" he splutters incredulously. "Why in Merlin's name would I ever want that?" He already had his childhood, thank you very much. It sucked and he doesn't want another.

"Harry." The look Irmo levels at him in stern and unimpressed. "Not idly am I called the master of dreams and desires. You cannot lie to me about what your heart wants, and what your heart cries out for is a family that will love you unconditionally."

The mortal wizard opens his mouth to object, then shuts it abruptly. "I have a family," he insists mulishly. "Hermione and all the Weasleys, and now I have my godson Teddy too."

"And yet,"—Irmo's amethyst eyes soften in sorrow and sympathy—"you will not keep them, even were you to remain."

Harry freezes again, heart stuttering in his chest. Slowly, he lowers his chin to rest on his knees, once more curling up protectively. "I…" he trails off, throat tight, then squeezes his eyes shut and takes a few moments to rally himself. "W-why can't I go to Middle-Earth as an adult?" Because he does want to visit, if Arda is going to be his new home. The Gryffindor in him is practically begging for an adventure where he's not the so-called 'Chosen One.'

Irmo sighs. "Young one, your soul is gravely damaged. Here, in my domain, you would receive the help you need. But if you went to Middle-Earth and wandered alone"—here he gives Harry the eye—"as I know you would, your soul would suffer greatly. If you chose to be a mortal man, then death would be your reprieve, no matter how stubborn you were in life. But as an immortal elf?" He shakes his head. "You will either mend your broken childhood by reliving it, or you will stay where I can help you."

And damn it all if he hasn't got Harry pegged. It reminds him of Hermione, actually. He mulls over this for a few minutes, staring vacantly off to the side, before turning his attention back to the master of dreams.

"I can't decide now," he admits quietly. "I have to say goodbye to Ron and Hermione, at least." Which is, of course, a decision in itself. He tries not to think about it too much.

The Vala's expression is once more deeply sympathetic. "I would not expect you too, young one," he says gently. "If you choose to accept our offer and come to Arda, all you must do is walk through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, and you will fall safely into our hands. We will then hear your decision."

Harry's head snaps up attentively, a sudden, wild hope flaring up in his chest. "The Veil?" he asks, breathless. "Does that mean—did Sirius…?"

"Not like you might, my child," Irmo says with a shake of his head, shattering Harry's hope. "He has passed on to the next life like any other mortal."

"Oh." The sound is soft and utterly crushed. He lowers his chin back to his knees. "Right."

"Your situation is one of a kind, I am afraid," the Vala says regretfully. "We cannot simply bring mortal souls over. However,"—he pauses, a twinkle in his eye and a faint smile on his lips—"animal souls are much easier, and I am certain Eru would not object to reuniting you with an old friend."

Hedwig. Harry's eyes light up again, hope swelling in his chest. "I could have Hedwig again?" he asks eagerly, sitting up straight.

Irmo smiles warmly. "Certainly. I imagine it would be quite difficult to part you, no matter how long the years stretched."

The wizard's mood skyrockets at the thought of being reunited with Hedwig, especially if she'll share his long lifespan. But as abruptly as the good mood appears, it vanishes when Harry remembers the impossible decision he must make.

"Right," he says, sighing. "Can I wake up now?"

"Of course, my child." Irmo reaches forward and cradles Harry's face again, lifting his chin and pressing a kiss to his brow. The dream-world falls away with a starburst of light and a swirl of coolness, and just before all goes dark he hears the Vala's parting words.

"I will see you again soon."

Soon. Too soon. His goodbyes are always too soon.

The Veil in the department of mysteries sways hypnotically on a breeze that doesn't exist. He watches with sad, resigned eyes, motionless. The air is piercingly cold, penetrating even the heavy, hooded traveling cloak he wears. He shifts restlessly, hiking his knapsack further up his back. A shuddering sigh passes through his lips, echoing eerily around the sunken stone amphitheater.

A month's preparation has led up to this point. Harry shuts his eyes, lips pressing into a tight line as he thinks of the pain, the indecision, and the long goodbyes he has endured. Ron was angry when he told them what Irmo had told him, though not at Harry so much as for Harry. Hermione was immensely grieved, bursting into tears the moment she realized that she was going to lose her friend forever. However, she had, being the pragmatic witch she was, bounced back quickly, diving straight in to help Harry settle his affairs. She had even talked Ron down and soothed his anger, enlisting him in her get-everything-settled-for-Harry task force.

The dark-haired wizard smiles waveringly at the memory, his expression of grief lightening a touch. They make a lovely couple, and he knows they'll keep each other happy even when he's gone.

The three of them spent the month drawing up his will, splitting his estates and assets, and deciding what he needed to take with him when he crossed over. Hermione was most concerned with ensuring he could survive a long journey, just in case, which is why he wore sturdy, enchanted traveling clothes and a heavily enchanted knapsack filled with supplies. Harry, on the other hand, was only really concerned with making sure he left everyone what they needed, especially the Weasleys and Teddy. He could have walked through the Veil naked for all he cared.

Hermione never tried to sway Harry toward one decision or the other, and had stopped Ron from doing so as well. When they weren't handling matters together, Harry spent much of his time outside, walking or flying, as he pondered his options. He also spent much of that time grieving in private, curled up under a tree or floating high above the ground.

He delayed for as long as possible, but the day had finally come.

It was the little things that drove him to finally make his decision. Flinches when he would walk by or appear unexpectedly. Sidelong looks, confused expressions, and instinctive shivers whenever he was near. No animals would come near him now, save the Thestrals, and even they seemed oddly skittish. All this Harry could have endured. He had, after all, endured worse. But it was when Hermione and Ron began to have the same reactions that he couldn't bring himself to stay. Oh, they apologized profusely, insisted it didn't really mean anything, but he could see the deep, visceral fear hidden in their eyes.

So he said goodbye and vanished into the night.

Standing here, facing down the loss of his entire world, he feels the most alone he has ever been in his life.

Harry pictures Sirius falling back through the veil. He pictures his mum and dad, their spirits gliding through and ruffling the tattered black veil as they pass. He sees Dumbledore, Cedric, Fred, Mooney and Tonks, Mad-Eye, and so many others, too many others, follow after.

And now, so will he.

He takes one slow, heavy step forward, then another and another and another, until he is sprinting across the room. He doesn't close his eyes, doesn't brace for impact as he charges through the archway. Fabric, as chill as ice, glides across his skin and ruffles his hair. As his first foot crosses the threshold and his face clears the curtain, he swears he can see every single one of the people he pictured earlier standing on the other side, waiting for him, reaching out with tearful smiles—

Hands close over his eyes. The world turns white.

"I've made my decision."

It is as if he blinked and then suddenly he is standing in a gray space, still fully clothed and kitted. He feels as though much more time than a single blink has passed.

"Oh?"

He blinks again and suddenly Irmo is standing before him, smiling radiantly. The inhumanly tall man looks the same as before, still indescribably beautiful, but this time an intricate crown and veil rest atop his head. The shimmering golden material of the veil contrasts beautifully with the Vala's deeply tanned skin and rich brown hair. He peers closer, entranced as the veil seems to sparkle with living stars.

"…yeah," Harry says, staring distractedly at the twinkling lights. "Uh…"

Irmo laughs merrily. "Do you need me to take my crown off, young one?" he asks teasingly.

Harry scowls and shakes his head, focusing hard on the Vala's mirthful eyes. "No," he mutters, flushing in embarrassment, "sorry."

Irmo decides to have mercy. "You have decided to come to Arda," he surmises, a smile still playing about his lips.

"Yeah," Harry confirms with a grimace. "And I want to see Middle-Earth, but I won't…I mean, I can't give up my magic, so"—the grimace changes to a scowl—"I'll pay your price and be an elf-child I guess."

"Oh, excellent!" The tall man claps his hands delightedly. "You will not regret your decision, young one. Have you decided where you want to live?"

A sly smile crosses Harry's face at the question; he looks up into amethyst eyes, a Gryffindorish gleam in his own green. If he's going to pay their price, then they're going to pay his first, whether they know it or not. "Nope," he says. "I want to see all of them and decide for myself."

There's no way Irmo isn't suspicious. In fact, there's no way he can't see right through Harry's plan. But still he throws his head back and laughs jovially. "Ah, Harry!" he chuckles with a shake of his head. "I perhaps should have anticipated that. A very clever proposal, very clever indeed. I suppose you have earned the right to see for yourself." His laughter subsides, and he regards the young wizard with warmth. "Very well. Since I have no doubt you are more than capable of protecting yourself even without our interference, I will place you near Mithlond and allow you to proceed from there as you will. But have no doubt that we will be meddling as much as we are able. You are not the only one who is clever."

And that sounds like a challenge to Harry's ears. He grins up at Irmo and nods in agreement.

"While you are considering your options, also consider the name you wish to take," Irmo advises. "You may leave it up to your new family to choose as well. Until you cross to these shores, I will see you in your dreams, my child. Fare thee well."

Irmo's fond smile and gentle eyes are the very last things Harry James Potter, the mortal Master of Death, ever sees.