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Chapter Text

2nd May 1998

Gazing at the flash of green enveloping him, Voldemort understood for a brief, hair-raising second, the beauty of certain death.

The killing curse had always called to him, risen at his command the easiest, the spell buzzing through his wand with eagerness to fulfil its duty. The perfect spell, the most efficient way to dispatch his enemies without having to prolong his time within their worthless presences. It had only failed him once before.

Today, that failure repeated itself against the same foe, mirroring that Halloween all those years ago. The Killing Curse had caused the death of its caster without a moment's hesitation twice now, rebounding to strike him in the chest with a physical blow.

Voldemort had always known it could only be himself that caused his life to end, but he had never envisioned it would be in such a way, the circumstances completely out of his control.

He gazed at the boy before him, who was stood with his arm outstretched, as if reaching for him. His face was mostly obscured by the growing darkness, but Voldemort could make out the look of anguish etched onto it.

Sadness, for his demise?

It made no sense. The boy and his friends had systematically hunted down his horcruxes, destroying each of them and the piece of his soul that lay within them. Ruthlessly. And now, at the end of the line, when they had finally succeeded in their mission from Dumbledore, the boy had the gall to regret ?

No, not regret, Voldemort realised, as the darkness fully swamped his senses. Pity .

3005

Unusually, when he next regained consciousness, he felt at peace.

It was a preposterous thing, peace . Voldemort had not known peace for a long time, perhaps never. He had been born into misery, the death of his mother haunting his life from its outset, and Voldemort's misfortune hadn’t ceased since. The notion of peace was at odds with his very being, everything that made him who he was, into the great and dark Lord that he had become. Peace was for the weak, the unambitious, the many that were destined to become mere footsoldiers, lost to history with the rest of the mediocre throng. Lord Voldemort was destined for greatness, he was one of the greats, the most powerful wizard-

He let out a hacking cough as the full brunt of his consciousness suddenly slammed into him like an overpowered Bombarda , stealing his breath and forcing his eyes open from the pure shock of it. Voldemort’s gaze darted about, taking in the light, bright, painful all around him, shutting his eyes again with a groan.

Voldemort rolled over onto his side, still wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath, disorientated. He jerked as he felt something brush over his shoulder, and suddenly, a curtain of white descended over his vision. He thrashed, clawing fitfully at the silken drape that someone had dared to place over his head, stopping sharply when his movements only ensured to further entangle him. It took a moment for Voldemort to recognise just what it was that he had been fighting.

Hair .

Long, silver, unimaginably soft hair that cascaded over his shoulders like a glowing river, glinting in the soft sunlight now filtering down on him. He was too absorbed with the sight of hair coming out of his head to take in the scenery around him, but he instinctively knew there was no pressing danger that needed his attention. Voldemort reached a hand up, tugging at the top of his head where the roots were, marvelling at the slight pressure this caused. He had hair .

With growing trepidation, he took stock of everything else which had changed since his… death. His hands were smaller, the size of a child’s, and his nose wrinkled in disgust at the realisation that he was now in a younger body. He had been born anew once more, but this time, different . Younger, as if time had rewound itself. Voldemort glared down at the pale, unblemished hands, the smooth expanse of untainted skin that made up his torso, and the stubby legs that stuck out before him. What use was a new body if he would have to wait for it to grow once more before continuing his ambitions? Voldemort sniffed, rolling his shoulders as he hummed thoughtfully. He had been re-embodied somehow, after his apparent death it seemed. As a child. With hair . But, still, into a body far too young and fragile, that would win him no respect from his followers, when he regrouped them.

However, this could also be appreciated as a blessing in disguise. The younger his body was, after all, the longer it could remain untainted before he needed to once more look into methods of immortality. Voldemort did not know if he could depend on the creation of horcruxes once again, not after all of them had been destroyed so thoroughly after his enemy had caught wind of their existence. He was not against their method of creation, but whilst he was still in such a young body, with a magical core that he could sense was unstable with lack of practice, he would not be able to even begin the complex ritual needed.

With weak legs, buckling underneath him like a newborn fawn, Voldemort stood, taking in his surroundings, which he had forgone to examine his new body. He was in a circular clearing of sorts, the ground beneath him bare of anything but soft dirt, obviously unnaturally created. The trees that enclosed the clearing were vast things, with trunks thicker than a house, and towering far into the air, almost seeming to touch the clouds. Voldemort had never heard of a place that could match such a description, and they were otherworldly enough to suspect magical involvement. It filled him with an insatiable curiosity, that hunger that had always bellowed within him sparking in excitement. He took a few, long minutes to observe the trees, treading towards them on unsteady feet, grasping a hold of one trunk to feel along it. The wood was abnormally smooth, and a red-brown colour unlike any he had observed before. He itched to discover more, to climb the tree and snatch a handful of the impossibly indigo leaves it proudly sprouted, but he had more important concerns to contemplate.

The most pressing matter: where was he?

The answer to that, he would not discover until much later, when he came across beings that did not exist within his own universe, beings that he knew from stories he had long ago read, still holding a modicum of interest in the works of muggles.

In that moment, however, Voldemort knew none of what he would discover in years to come, only that he was lost, and that was something unacceptable to him. So, with nary a glance back at the clearing he had awoken in, the young elfling set off into the woods, unaware of the portal to his world that snapped closed with his departure, saplings sprouting and blooming into adolescent trees within minutes.

It was over half an hour into his trek through the unknown forest that Voldemort admitted to himself that it had been an imprudent idea to set off into the unknown, without questioning how and why he had appeared within that clearing. It was an hour after that, once he had doubled back, intent on retracing his steps and perhaps discovering how he had been transported to the forest, that he acknowledged how lost he truly was. The clearing was nowhere to be found, and neither were any other identifiable landmarks. No rocks, no clearings, no bushes or flowers, just what appeared to be miles upon miles of the same species of tree. They no longer filled him with the fascination that had first struck him. Instead, the sight of their looming branches was enough to fill him with a sense of dread. Curse this young, emotional body of his.

It had been an oversight to head off into the forest without a plan in place. In a momentary lapse of judgement, he had acted like the child this body was, impulsively reacting to the situation before taking stock of what he knew. Which was not much. Voldemort knew he had perished, the killing curse had rebounded upon him as it had all those years ago. He was no Potter, he had felt his soul depart from his body with an aching, tangible finality. But, past that, his surroundings, his body, his very existence, he had no concrete answers for his current predicament. And that left Voldemort as he was, stranded in an unknown forest, in an unknown country, not a soul in sight. Unused to the form he possessed, and wholly disorientated. It had truly been remiss of him to exit that clearing, his only clue as to his whereabouts.

Slowly, dread crept up his spine as hours passed and he appeared no closer to exiting this haunting forest. Evening was beginning to descend now, and the sight of the sparse sunlight that had barely crept through the dense canopy before disappearing made the apprehension only fester. Voldemort was struck by the fact that perhaps he would not find himself shelter for the night, and would be forced to camp on the floor, vulnerable perhaps to the darkness’ predators. He stared up at the canopy, at the haze of orange that haloed the purple leaves, and his fingers began to itch.

Climb.

Never one to question himself, Voldemort did so with surprising ease. The bark beneath his fingers was soft and malleable, and his tiny fingers found every groove and ledge, his lithe form scaling the tree with dexterity. In what felt like only a matter of moments, he was pushing through the canopy, bursting into the fresh air with a gasp. The sight before him was wondrous .

For miles South, East and West, the forest he had been traversing for the entirety of his wakefulness spanned what appeared to be forever. As far as his eyes could see, and that appeared to be much further in this form, all Voldemort could discern in those directions were the same leaves he was clutching at now, a blanket of cold purple bathed in the warm, orange light of the setting sun.

To the North, however, only a few miles out by his estimation, to his unspoken and unacknowledged relief, was a village .

Civilisation.

Voldemort barely remembered clambering down the tree, his descent was so swift. Now with direction, and a goal in mind, he set off North, hopeful that he would reach it by sundown.

He sneered as he observed the small village around him. The streets were mostly bare, the last of the stalls and shops shutting up for the day as darkness truly descended upon the land. It was a miniscule settlement, barely more than perhaps thirty buildings in total, the centre which he had entered situated around a sty of pigs. Voldemort wrinkled his nose as he passed the filthy beasts, the smell they emanated nauseating to his superior senses. He hurried past them, glancing around. There didn’t appear to be any abandoned building here, even the smallest of shacks inhabited to the brim, the dirty, impoverished Muggles suiting their surroundings well.

The sight of the village disgusted him, but Voldemort was not unaware of his own circumstances. The trousers he wore were threadbare, and his lack of shirt and shoes only brought pitying stares from the remaining Muggles hanging by their doorways. They stared at him as if Voldemort was the one who should be ashamed of his circumstances, as if he wasn’t a god compared to these lowly beings.

He relished in the looks of awe that were equally sent his way, however. His hair, after all, was unlike the dark browns and dull blondes they wore. Voldemort made sure his face was moulded into a mask of helplessness, hoping that his angelic looks would bring him goodwill. He was, after all, in need of a place to stay until he could settle his thoughts and plan appropriately.

It was as he was passing one of the last cottages, a quaint place at the edge of the village almost overtaken by nature, that a voice finally called out to him. It was rough and aged, belonging to a woman that appeared far past her time. “Young man!”

Voldemort turned, careful not to sneer, and widened his eyes appropriately. The woman flinched slightly, before beckoning him closer. “Where’s your ma or pa? You lost?” She hovered by her garden gate, leaning heavily against the cane by her side. He simply shrugged, fisting his small hands into his trousers to appear more uncertain.

“Would you like to come in for something to eat, dearie? It’ll be an awfully cold evening, and you look famished. Come, let’s get you warm, you’re shivering!”

He stared up into the old woman’s eyes, noting the softness within them, the pity, and smiled as shyly as he could manage.

“Okay, ma’am!”

Chapter Text

Mid - 3010 TA

Following that old lady, allowing her to welcome him into her small cottage that fateful day turned out to be the most auspicious of moments. Voldemort had only spent a few hours lacking shelter, and even less out on the streets, before he had been welcomed wholeheartedly by the populace as their village elders’ ward.

The old lady, Roswitha, who was affectionately known by all as Amma Rosi, had accepted him as her grandson in all but blood with all the tenderness in her frightfully frail heart. She had given him a name to fit in, one which he refused to speak of. She had assimilated Voldemort with the village, assuaging any fears the inhabitants may have had of a strange, white-haired, red-eyed child appearing from the forest. Roswitha and her affection had allowed him to survive through the years. He had been reborn into a body that was far too young to have otherwise.

It wasn’t until a day had passed in the strange, foreign place that Voldemort had finally taken stock of himself fully, and realised that startling fact. He was not just reverted back to his prime sort of young, when he had been a fresh faced, handsome graduate of Hogwarts and aspiring politician, but the sort of young that made him shudder in revulsion.

Five years old the lady had said he appeared. Five. It was a number far too small, a body much too young to be equipped with such a mind.

And to make matters worse, this new body of his refused to age normally, something which the common folk had at first been wary of, then seemingly accepted as something tremendous. Because he wasn’t a human, not like them.

Five years had passed since that fateful day, and he had expected to look ten by now, an acceptable age compared to the measly toddler he began as. But, no . For some hellish, cursed reason, Voldemort had not aged five years since arriving. Instead, he currently appeared seven . And that was at most. His lack of growth could be blamed on the peasant food he grudgingly ate, but the people of the village he had stumbled into fed him much better than he could have ever hoped. In fact, his minio- his loyal subjects worshipped the ground he walked on, and revered him as an elf. As they should, he was Lord Voldemort. He didn’t exactly see the appeal of being likened to an elf of all beings, but it seemed as though here, being an elf was not the same as the vile creatures back on his earth.

They were mystical beings who lived like bloody fairies in the forest, presumably in tree houses, frolicking in the lands further into the forest and across the closest mountain range. Lord Voldemort didn't exactly understand what made elves so revered within these parts, but he accepted such because he was now one. Of course the elves in these lands should be above the rest, Voldemort would not be reembodied as a lowly being such as a House Elf. These elves must be different, perhaps ones more akin those in the fantasy books he had read decades ago, the lithe, graceful creatures with long lifespans and incomparable beauty.

Yes, of course, Voldemort had been reborn into a superior body.

Minus the age, of course. And, most irritatingly, being reembodied had come at the cost of his control over his magic. Only now, five years into living within these lands, could Voldemort once more cast a simple lumos. His wand was lost to him, and the art of wand crafting was one he had never mastered. Relearning how to cast wandlessly, in a body unused to such open displays of magic, was difficult. But, he would not be Lord Voldemort if he did not persevere.

Mid-3019

The War of the Ring had officially ended merely a few months now, but there was still danger lurking around every corner. Sauron may have been destroyed, his forces scattered, but foul orcs still roamed the land, pillaging and massacring as they avoided the contingents sent out to put them down. They truly were foul beings, acting on their dark natures even without a master to control them.

Thandirion and his men were but one of many armed parties sent out to scout these orcs and report their movements to the various elvish settlements. Another force would be sent out to dispose of them in a manner that would incur the least amount of losses possible. Their search for orcs and other foul creatures led them far from the boundaries of their homelands, over the Misty Mountains and onto the plains beyond. They had not quite yet reached the great forest, but the trees could be spotted in the distance, the west side’s purple foliage distinctive against the deepening blue of the sky.

It had been a long week since they had first spotted the tracks of the pack of orcs they were tracking. The group was estimated to number perhaps fifteen, not too large to face if needs must, but Thandirion would rather find the foul creatures and report their exact whereabouts to his Lord Elrond as soon as possible. It seemed that the orcs were headed for the outskirts of the forest.

They passed many small mannish villages on their route, most thankfully unscathed. The only one which had clearly been targeted had managed to fend off the orcs to a degree, but were in the midst of mourning their dead when he and his companions swept through. They offered their condolences, but were quick to move on, the danger the orcs presented becoming graver the longer they were left to commit atrocities.

Slowly but surely, the village closest to the forest came into view. It was a tiny place, only a few rows of houses and a central market hub, but the farm lands surrounding the area were vast, far larger than they had been when an elven patrol surveyed it two decades prior. It seemed that, with less orcs to fend off and disturb the yield, the village had decided to expand its production capabilities. Thandirion was impressed, conveying such to Aithon, who rode to his left.

“Men truly are impressive, to expand in such a way in only a short amount of time.”

His friend simply hummed in response, surveying the village with a keen, scrutinising gaze. His brother in arms had always been a cautious elf, and it had saved them many times. But as he looked upon the village, Thandirion could not fathom why it had drawn Aithon’s wary attention.

“It is not such a short time for them. Men build their houses within a year, they are made of wood and less stone to save the time they do not have to waste.” Lastril rode up closer to the front of their group, imparting her knowledge eagerly. She had spent a few decades of her life within a mannish village, learning their culture and caring for their sick. This time spent living away from other elves had turned the elleth… different, and she was more open and curious concerning Mankind than many fellow elves. Thandirion found her a breath of fresh air compared to some of his more conservative companions.

He smiled back at her, before patting his stallion’s flank, urging the horse onward. “It is still noteworthy. Come, we must make haste before nightfall, and let us hope that this village has beds to spare.”

The village gates loomed before the elves as they led their horses along the smooth, newly laid brick road; a perplexing sight so far out from the more industrialised, commercial areas. It was usually only towns or the few mannish cities that possessed the manpower and technology needed to create such sturdy, well laid and maintained roads. And even more astounding were the gates themselves; towering, robust structures only seen protecting the greatest cities. These gates were created using the wood from the nearby forest, the red-brown colour distinct and vibrant, creating a hardy and intimidating pair of gates. On either side of the looming structures stood watchtowers of the same design, enveloped by the great walls that surrounded the village. Within each stood a bow-wielding man, but neither had drawn their arrows yet.

“Halt!” The man within the right tower called down as the elves slowed a few metres from the gates. He leaned over the edge, staring down at Thandirion and his companions with heavy suspicion. “State your allegiance and your purpose for entering!”

Thandirion raised a sleek, pale eyebrow at the aggressive tone of the man, but stepped forward to offer a shallow bow. He kept his arms where the guards could see them to satisfy them, not that his unarmed state meant he was harmless. Thandirion could reach his daggers and throw them before the men before him could blink an eye, but they did not know that, and he had found that it was always better to keep the more… unnerving, dangerous features of the elven folk wrapped whilst interacting with men. The second born were more prone to violence towards that which they saw as a threat.

“Thandirion of Rivendell, and my companions, also folk under Lord Elrond. We seek food and a bed for the night, if your village can spare such for our contingent.” He kept his tone soft and unconfrontational, smiling lightly.

The man seemed to ponder over his request for a few moments, turning to lock eyes with the other watchman.

“...You are elves?”

“We are. Myself and my contingent are tracking a pack of orcs whom have made their way towards this area.”

“Ah!” The man clapped his hands together sharply, now grinning brightly down at them. “Those orcs, yes. Open the gates!”

At his command, the gates began to slowly creak open, hefted inwards by three men either side. Thandirion was impressed by the efficiency, especially since menfolk were much physically weaker, and thanked them as they entered.

The village appeared far larger once inside its looming walls, although perhaps that was due to the bustling nature of the streets. It seemed as if a hundred or more menfolk were about the narrow streets, the cobbled paths full to the brim as they walked further in, their horses trotting by their sides faithfully. Thandirion and his companions drew many stares as they went, their fine armour, large statures and well-bred steeds a sight to see within such a remote village. They were probably the first elves to step foot within the place. The whispers of the people began instantly, their gossip and shared words travelling easily to the Elves’ enhanced ears.

“Elves? Why would Elves be here? We’re an awful long way from the nearest settlement. And they don’ look like forest dwellers to me.”

The woman she was whispering to grew a look of fear upon her face as she stared after them. “You don’ suppose…?”

“Nah, couldn’t be. The men don’ talk much when they go. They wouldn’t have tattled.”

This interesting conversation caught Thandirion’s attention, the suspicious words and frightened tone noteworthy. He tilted his head to better listen in, but unfortunately, the women’s hushed whispers abruptly ceased as a shout echoed down the street. In a village so small, the opposite end was easily within eyesight and earshot of the Elves, and each craned their necks to peer over the now stilled throng. It was as if the whole village was on edge due to that voice, most curiously.

“Are you an idiot?” A childish voice rang out like a chime through the air, clear and sweet, sonorous in the silence of the once bustling street. It was full of derision and incredulity, and as the street began to clear a little, the owner came into the Elves’ view. The voice belonged to a young boy yet to see his teenage years, if Thandirion’s estimation of mannish ageing was correct, who stood before a small crowd of men carrying pitchforks and other farming tools. Thandirion’s first instinct was to rush to the aid of the child who was so clearly surrounded by agitated men, and he felt his fellow Elves tense around him as they too observed the scene. However, the men did not appear to be aiming their anger towards the boy, nor did they seem to mean any danger to him. Instead, after his harsh, cold words, they appeared chastened, their heads hung low in embarrassment and postures shifty.

“We were just…” One man began, shutting his mouth with an audible clack and shuffling backwards as the child turned his frosty glare upon him, turning slightly as he did so and allowing the Elves a better view.

The boy, on further examination of his delicate, cherubic features, appeared about nine or ten by mannish standards, his shoulders tense and posture disapproving in a way that was ill-suited to such a small stature. His unusual white hair shone like a beacon in the setting sun, and his ruby red eyes blazed with the force of his fury. A shiver ran down Thandirion’s spine as he laid eyes upon them, but he brushed off his instant suspicion when further observing the child’s chubby, youthful cheeks and small stature. This child of men had unusual features, yes, but that did not mean Thandirion had the right to be suspicious of him.

“Going to hunt orcs? Before nightfall? How insipid. How idiotic can you all be? I forbid it. Return your pitchforks, and what other equipment you saw fit to take with you to hunt orcs of all creatures, at once !”

The sight of such a young child ordering grown Men about was as amusing as it was perplexing. The child wore a frown on his cherubic features as one of the men turned to him and tried to pet his head. The boldness of the action was met with a swift slap and a fierce glare that had no right belonging to a child, and the chastened Man hurried off to his lick his wounds, his retreat followed by the amused stares of the other Menfolk, who seemed used to such a sight.

Thandirion glanced at Aithon with bewilderment, raising one sleek eyebrow and tilting his head towards the scene. The other Elf chuckled into his fist, unusually amused. The young always brought out feelings of indulgence and fondness in Elves, even ones of other races. Lacking in children as they were, any youthful rebellion was a sight to see, and a welcomed one.

“Come, let us move forward. I believe that is the village alehouse up there. Perhaps they may have rooms to spare, although I wager that we may all be squeezed into one.”

His words drew lighthearted jeers from his companions, who he had shared many rooms with over the course of their years together. It was not unusual, after all, that in villages this small, the local alehouse would only possess a room or two.

As they moved on, Thandirion tilted his head slightly to observe the small child out of the corner of his eye as they walked by. He appeared much softer up close, younger, gentler. That hard, commanding look within his eyes was so out of place upon such angelic features, and their red hue was startling. The boy, as if sensing the eyes of the elves upon him, looked towards them then, and Thandirion felt the reins slip from his fingers.

That small movement sent the boy's hair fluttering, the soft, long locks slipping from his shoulders and revealing his hidden ears. Ears that were pointed. Not the soft, rounded ears of menfolk, or the gently sharp ears of hobbits, and nowhere near that of dwarves. But the distinctive, long points of an elf, upon the small form of this seemingly nine year old boy.

It felt as if his heart stopped beating in that moment, because…because…

The boy could not be nine. Because, startlingly, he was an Elfling. Thandirion felt his fingers twitch, his shoulders tensing, aching deeply to approach the child, his heart clenching at the thought of continuing to walk past him now that he knew what the child was. An impossible child, one which had not been seen in over a thousand sun years.

An Elfling, here of all places, hidden away in a long-forgotten village, at the edge of an unforgiving forest where all manner of dark creatures dwelled. A forest which had once belonged wholly to the wood Elves in the days of old, now with its northern section overrun with the remaining foul ilk of Sauron. A place no child so young should dwell, not of their race that relied so heavily on the pureness of the wilderness.

It felt as if Thandirion’s fëa made to leapt from his chest, the sight of such a young Elfling had shocked him so.

The boy tilted his head as the Elves stopped before him, his eyes surveying them with an uncanny intelligence that was unsuited to his young form, but which was explained now with the knowledge of his true age. Elves were born with minds eager to absorb information, allowing them to emotionally mature far faster than their slow aging bodies. The Elfling could not have yet reached thirty, still but a young child decades off from his maturity, and under halfway through his adolescent years.

The Elfling’s eyes met his own, and the boy seemed to realise their astonishment, as he smirked as if he knew how his presence had affected them. Then, the boy spun on his heel, and raced off with a giggle, dodging smiling, indulgent villagers as he went.

Thandirion stared after the boy, struck dumb by his carefree, childish grin. He hadn’t seen such a pure and untainted smile in… well, since Lady Arwen was a babe, the youngest Elf residing within Rivendell. There had been few other Elflings born following their young lady. A couple in Lothlorien, miraculous twins that heralded the end of an era within the city. A few within the Greenwood, the Prince being one of them. But no Elflings had been welcomed in any Elven settlement for a millennia or more, that Thandirion knew for certain. So the sight of an Elfling here of all places, within a Mannish Village, no hovering Elven parents in sight, was…

It could not continue to be, not if the child did not possess an Elven caretaker. He needed to be surrounded by his own, it would break his young fea to be surrounded by so much death, as the people he knew and grew up with passed before even his maturity.

Thandirion locked eyes with Aithon, seeing that same steely resolve echoed within his own. Similarly, his other companions appeared just as struck by the appearance of a young Elfling , and their resolute gazes told the same story. Lastril appeared awestruck, her blue eyes shining with tears of unbridled joy and shock. Istrien stared after the boy’s form without blinking, as if she did, he would disappear like a ghost. Dauchon and Raevion, at the back of the group, met Thandirion’s serious gaze, and the pair nodded, branching off to follow the child whilst making as if they were scouting the village.

They needed to know where he resided, after all, and with whom .

He did not even feel fear at the thought of having to steal this child away from a Mannish village that appeared to adore him so much, coveting and respecting him from the little they had witnessed. No, all Thandirion felt was the intense urge to carry out his plan now, forgoing secrecy. But now would not be safe. It was near nightfall, the best time would be daybreak. They needed to plan this so that the Elfling was as safe as he could be.

He urged on his horse, glaring at the stubborn Elves who hesitated, all still gazing in the direction of the little miracle they had just stumbled upon. Hesitantly, they followed him as he headed for the alehouse, but all their minds were focused upon the Elfling, and just how he had ended up within this village.

It did not take as much effort to draw the Elfling into their group as Aithon had thought. Thandirion, Istrien and himself had stayed lucid all night, planning how they would take the Elfling back to Rivendell whilst ensuring his safety and keeping the young one as calm and willing as possible. The other three within their group dozed lightly, still aware enough to retain the plans, but still unresponsive so that they would get some rest.

Their plan was to remain in the village for a few days, gathering information, with a pair still going out to track the direction of the orcs every day. But the majority of them would stay within the village, ingratiating themselves to the villagers with helpfulness, healing and knowledge. As they did so, they would keep an eye on the Elfling, and if he proved willing, Istrien would approach him and begin swaying his affection towards them. It was not the grandest plan, but they were rushed for time. They could not allow the Elfling to remain here, even if that meant that they would have to end their mission here and return to Rivendell weeks sooner than anticipated.

However, what they had not expected was for the Elfling to approach them first, before they could begin to enact their plans.

A creak outside of their door during the early hours of the morning gained the Elves’ attention immediately, the six of them tensing, the three dozing snapping awake within a millisecond. A soft knock to the door sounded, lower down the frame than expected from a Man. Thandirion glanced at him, and Aithon made his way steadily towards the door, swinging it open with a casualness that belied his inner wariness. The hidden aggression within his stance died the moment his eyes did not lock onto a Man outside of their door. Instead, Aithon’s eyes travelled down, stunned into stillness by the sight of the small, robe-clad Elfling smirking up at him.

“Hello,” The young one spoke in that musical, youthful voice of his, pushing past Aithon’s legs and under his arm without a care in the world. “I heard from the guards that the Elves were staying here. You are Elves, aren’t you?” Despite his question, his tone held nothing but certainty.

“We are.” Istrien took the lead, her countenance more soothing than the rest of them could manage on such little sleep and with their adrenaline running so high. “What have you come here for, child?”

The Elfling stopped in the middle of the room, staring up at Istrien as if she were an oddity. The silence stretched on as the child did not respond, simply observing them with an intelligent, assessing gaze.

“Child-”

“You are the first Elves I have met.” The Elfling interrupted, his expression blank, revealing nothing of what his statement was leading to. “In the fourteen years I have been here, not once have I met an Elf. You are very elusive.”

Aithon could not help but smirk slightly as he closed the door, turning back to face the room. His fellow Elves seemed to be in a state of shock as they stared at the Elfling, his tiny form such a juxtaposition in a room filled with ancient beings and weapons. With his foot, Aithon shoved a sheathed sword under a blanket.

“...We are.” Istrien nodded, still smiling gently. “You have been wanting to meet Elves?”

“Of course,” The boy stated, raising a white eyebrow as if the question was idiotic. “Why would I not? I am one.”

His confident statement stopped the breath in Aithon’s lungs, and he could not help but to step forward and address the Elfling. “You know that you are an Elfling? You were not always raised within this Mannish village?” To the room at large, he then spoke. “How could we have not known of him sooner? Surely his parents would have announced…”

Istrien looked horrified. “Oh, you poor darling, to lose your parents at such a young age…”

Elves faded all the time. It was a fact they had all come to live with. The age of Elves was drawing to a close, the absence of Elflings the first sign, the one before them not included. Elves no longer belonged to these shores, their fea longing for the peaceful asylum of their homeland. But that did not mean that the loss of this Elfling’s parents was not staggering. For him to not have either meant they both must have faded, or perhaps an even worse fate befell them.

“I never knew them.” The Elfling stated bluntly, cutting through the mournful aura that had begun to infest the room. “My mother died giving birth to me, that is all I know. I found this village a while back, and they took me in. They told me what I was.”

“You-” Aithon was going to question the boy about how he survived in the wild without his parents at an even younger age than now, but he choked it back. The images that thought evoked nearly made him sick. Elflings never ventured far from their homelands within their first few decades of life, some even went centuries without exiting the borders of their kingdom. But this Elfling, supposedly, had been alone for perhaps his entire life, since the moment his mother had died in childbirth. Whether the Elfling’s father was there to look after him in his youngest days that he could not recall, they would never know. But in all likelihood… the ellon had faded soon after his wife had. Even the existence of a child could not often keep a married Elf’s soul tethered from following its other half.

“What is an ‘Elfling’? You referred to me as one.” The young one suddenly changed the topic, frowning up at Aithon.

He blinked away his thoughts quickly, returning to the present. “It is what we called a young Elf, such as yourself. One that has not yet reached their majority.” Aithon explained.

The boy still stared. His assessing, intelligent gaze felt as if it were peering at Aithon’s fea, and his instincts screamed at him. It was confusing and fear-inducing to recieve such feelings whilst staring into an Elfling’s soul-searching eyes.

“Called?” The Elfling repeated, catching onto that word and tilting his head in interest.

Thandirion finally spoke. “There has not been another Elfling in many centuries, young one. You are… a unique being within this Age.”

The boy turned his eyes to Thandirion. “I saw you first, you were watching me, in the market.”

“I am-”

“Thandirion, yes, I know. The guards told me.” The Elfling’s tone was blank, it revealed none of his emotions as he continued to glance around at them. “You are not planning to stay long, are you? You packed light, nothing like the long-stay travellers that sometimes visit.”

His brother in arms nodded hesitantly, and their eyes met as Thandirion decided how much to reveal to the boy at this moment. “Yes, we merely stopped here for a rest-”

“Take me with you.” It was not the hurried, blurting of a child, high on adrenaline and eager to remain with those of his own. Instead, it was a calculated statement, and the Elfling’s eyes were filled with a seriousness that belied his age. “I wish to meet other Elves, to learn from you, to reside where I belong. I have lived with these menfolk for fourteen years, and I have long grown… tired.”

There was a long silence as each Elf within the room took in the Elfling’s statements.

“What about the Menfolk who have raised you here? Will you not miss them?” Istrien was always ready to pity both sides, but Aithon could not help but to curse her internally at that moment. The boy had asked to come with them, it would not do to remind him then that he would be leaving behind the village he had been raised in.

The Elfling shook his head, red eyes glinting with an undecipherable emotion. “No. I care for no one here. There was once a woman who cared for me, but she has been gone for a while now. I live within her house that she left me, but it is empty apart from myself. I…” The child sniffed, and Aithon felt his heart lurch as tears brimmed within his eyes. “I feel so lonely, there’s no one here like me, and they all treat me so differently! I’m not like them, so please!”

Around him, Aithon could feel the emotions of his companions, each broadcasting them into their surroundings. Sorrow, pity, anger, protectiveness. He himself felt disgust that this village had made a child of their kind feel so unwelcome. That they had not alerted the closest Elven settlement of his existence fourteen years ago.

No, they had not expected the Elfling to approach them first, and certainly not for him to be so willing, eager even to follow them. Once they got him to Rivendell, they would have to instill within the young one the fear of strangers. However, in that moment, his ability to trust Elves he did not know would aid them greatly in ensuring the Elfling was safe, and where he belonged.

Voldemort was swift as he packed his bags, sifting through the piles of toys and trinkets the humans had given him over the years, packing instead his finest robes, shirts and trousers. He only possessed two pairs of shoes, but his best were tucked in the bottom of his bag whilst his more robust ones were shoved on his feet. He didn’t pack light; everything he possessed that he cherished went into the two packs. Voldemort was never coming back here, after all.

Finally, finally, after fourteen long years, Elves had visited his village. And what a sight they were to see. The feeble minds of the humans could not describe them properly, as they were far more ethereal that Voldemort had imagined from their descriptions. The women Elves were at least six feet tall, and the men towered over them further, reaching perhaps seven feet. The way they glided through the streets as if they were floating spoke volumes of their grace, and their assessing, intelligent gazes that swept over the villagers disinterestantly spoke to him. They were nothing like the clumsy, mortal beings he had been surrounded by since the day he awoke in these lands. These were his people.

For fourteen years, Voldemort had been stuck relying on humans to survive. He had to endear himself to them, create relationships with them, make them accept him in their midst despite being a race far removed from their own. But now, finally, he could leave this life of squalor behind for the gleaming, regal cities of the Elves. And from the sounds of things, these Elves were all too willing to whisk him away.

An ‘Elfling’, they had called him. A young Elf, under the age of majority. The name had at first rankled him, he despised it when the humans here mentioned his youthful appearance, much preferring when his stature alone had made people shriek in fear. However, the wonderment in their tones when they had spoken the word had given Voldemort pause. He had asked them what it meant to them, and their explanation had opened a door he had not expected

Because, wonderously, an Elf had not been born in a millenia. Which meant that he was the only one. The only child belonging to this immortal race. And that position brought with it a power none could match. He, alone, would be the treasured, only Elfling, indulged and showered in riches and attention. Voldemort would be able to attain everything he deserved, whether that be knowledge or material. He had at first disliked this small, new form. However, the advantages he saw now had him gleefully smirking as he shoved the last shirt into his bag.

A few miles away from the village, where Voldemort stood with a smirk upon his angelic face, plotting his future, the air began to crackle, and a rip appeared above a grove of young trees, destroying them within an instant.

Chapter Text

2nd May 2008 - Earth

Voldemort was dead. He had been for a decade now, and those years had passed, simultaneously, as slow as sludge and as quick as a blink.

It was a cold, hard truth that Harry had to come to terms with in the years following the Battle of Hogwarts. At first, he had felt nothing but joy. Of course he had, the darkest wizard of their age was dead and gone, no longer alive to harm others and strike fear into the hearts of wizards and muggles alike. There would be no more death, no more hiding, no more running for his life. Harry could finally, for the first time in his life, just… be. Live.

But it did not feel as if he was living.

Something had been ripped from him that day, standing in the Hogwarts courtyard over the man’s still form, the towering, crumbling castle walls acting as a stadium for their last battle. The exhausted sighs, the cries and cheers, they should have been exclamations of victory. But the mourning wails for those who had been lost drowned out every bit of triumph Harry had felt. So many lives had been cut tragically short that day, people Harry knew, fellow students, all people who had dared to stand by his side against Voldemort. The end of the war had simply signalled in a new era of dread to his life; a period of extended mourning for all those lost.

As others moved on from the final battle, buried the dead, and remembered them with fondness, Harry felt as if the world had stopped moving that fateful day.

Ever since Voldemort had dropped to the floor, his body unmoving, Harry had felt incomplete. It was not the absence of the horcrux, as he had only felt relief to have the parasitic life force removed. It was the absence of the person who had permeated every moment of his life since even before his birth. Voldemort had shaped Harry since the day he was born. Every moment of his existence had been lived to defeat him, to defy him, even if he had only become knowledgeable of that once he had joined the wizarding world. But his birth had been the beginning of it all, and his parent’s death had only solidified Harry’s fate. They were connected, two halves of one whole, fated from the day one drew breath for the first time to when the other breathed their last. Soulmates in the most sickening, heartwrenching sense.

Because Harry was never allowed to keep him.

One had to die, and in the end, it had been Voldemort. But he had taken Harry’s purpose to the grave with him, leaving him empty, bereft of something he could not name.

Harry Potter was twenty-seven years old now, and still, not a day went by when his mind did not turn to Voldemort, or to his followers. Most of the Death Eaters had been rounded up following Voldemort’s demise, but a lucky few had escaped, and only one of those was now still at large after Harry’s relentless hunt for his purpose in life.

He had turned that into his sole ambition; defeating the remaining remnants of Voldemort’s darkness in this world. He had joined the Auror’s, not out of any purpose to protect, but to pursue that thrill. He needed it, the distraction of the hunt.

“Potter.” A voice to his left called, and Harry tilted his head, showing that he was listening. “Are you well?”

“Yeah.” He instinctively replied, not even bothering to smile. He heard the man shuffle a little, obviously having expected more.

“Hey, you know, lots of people are here for you, man-”

“Now’s not the time, and I have a therapist to lecture me already. Ministry appointed.” He blandly responded to his fellow Auror, staring hard at the street before him to show that he was busy. The man huffed out a long-suffering sigh, as if Harry was being the unreasonable one in this situation.

He wasn’t the one breaking the silence for a chat on a stakeout mission.

The Auror department had been informed an hour ago that the last known Death Eater that they were tracking had been spotted in the area. Multiple teams had been dispatched immediately, Harry and his current partner included. It was a race against the clock as the woman wasn’t known for hanging around in places for too long, and it was paramount that they captured her today. The mission was of utmost importance to complete perfectly. They needed to catch this Death Eater. Then, finally, England would be scourged of the last free member of that wretched group.

A shadow, disappearing into a nearby alley, caught his eye for a split second. It moved swiftly, and most importantly, it kept to the edges in the darkness, wishing to go unseen.

“Potter, really, she would have disappeared by now, there’s no need-”

Harry snapped his fingers, and the other Auror yelped as a flame appeared hovering above his palm.

“What are you-?!”

With finesse belaying years of experience, Harry controlled the flame to shoot forward and into the alleyway, igniting into a ring of fire around the cloaked person, who scrambled backward away from the lick of the scorching, hot flames. Confused, panicked shouts filled the air as passersby began to flee, and Harry marched out of his hiding spot, heading for the alley, already sending out a pulse of potent magic to send for his allies.

“Potter!” His partner hissed after him, voice panicked and full of terror. “What are you doing, why are you engaging– Potter! This is against the code, we need to wait for backup–”

Harry tuned out the rest of the man’s grating, tiresome lecture as he sprinted across the open street and into the alleyway, eyes sharpening as he caught a clear view of the figure he had captured. He cornered the witch with little fanfare, wand pointed at her chest, meeting her crazed gaze with burning, cold calculation. He saw her eyes flitter to the side, and with a thought, the alley behind her turned into a gaping maw of darkness, stretching to fill the cramped space endlessly, turning the dead end into a portal towards everything and nothing. She flinched, uncertain, the feral desperation of a wild animal crossing her features.

Finally.

The last Death Eater was before him.

“Potter.” The woman greeted him lowly, her voice a rumbling growl. A snarl was stuck in her throat, unwilling to come forth in the presence of a greater predator. Still, she looked rabid despite her hesitation, worn down from a decade on the run, the last few months as the last of her kind. Her hair was matted, her clothes torn; that had been what had tipped them off in the first place of her presence here today. She looked remarkably like Bellatrix Lestrange in her rags, but Harry supposed all Purebloods were related in some way.

However, Harry knew not to underestimate her. She may appear a lost, crazed soul, but the woman before him was more intelligent than her looks made her out to be.

“What a lovely surprise to see you here, I am honoured that the boy-who-lived himself would personally come after me!”

Harry felt anti-apparition wards settle around the immediate area then, set up by the aurors he had summoned. Their shouts echoed in the streets as they grew closer. Behind him, his auror partner wheezed a sound of mixed relief and distress. No doubt, he was wondering what sort of punishment Harry had brought upon the both of them by engaging before waiting for backup.

He didn’t speak a single word as several Aurors rounded into the alley, not to the Death Eater who was still staring at him, nor them. Especially as he saw the Head Auror saunter forwards.

Merlin, did Harry despise that man. And that dislike was assuredly mutual. Head Auror Martin had a bone to pick with Harry since the day they had met, Harry as a trainee and the man a regular member of the force. Harry had bumped into him by accident, and had been met with a tirade of unwarranted disparagement.

Something something ‘boy who lived isn’t so special now’, ‘can’t even enter Azkaban to install prisoners there, it’s disgraceful they let you on the force’, ‘I hope the boy who lived isn’t expecting any special treatment, you’re just like the rest of us at the end of the day’.

Yes, that sort of workplace harassment.

Harry had only made it worse by asking the man once if he had a crush on him, since he was always hanging around him. That had only gained him further scorn, littered with language he hadn’t heard since Uncle Vernon found out Harry was Bi.

“Death Eater, there is nowhere to run. Lower your wand and allow yourself to be brought to justice.” Martin’s grating voice filled the alleyway, confident and self-assured.

The silence that reigned was broken by the woman’s condescending snort, which turned into a cackle as she met the Head Auror’s eyes. “Oh, if it isn’t Marty! Wow, since when were you the Head honcho?” She grinned meanly, eyes glittering with glee. “Didn’t think you were smart enough.”

Martin squared his shoulders proudly, always ready to brag even in the face of such blatant condensation. “Last year, I-”

“Who’d you have to sleep with this time?” The Death Eater continued, tilting her head, snickering into her shoulder in delight at the sight of the man’s quickly reddening face.

“That– I have not—!”

Still smiling, the Death Eater turned her attention back to Harry, unconcerned by the crowd of Aurors to her other side. “Bet you’re sooo mad that Potter here managed to corner me! No wonder you came scurrying over so fast, can’t let your future replacement take any more glory, eh?”

Martin grunted, raising his wand, his eyes blazing. His temper had always been easy to set off, and the aurors behind him shifted uncomfortably. “Replacement?” He hissed. “As if that boy could ever replace me!”

The Death Eater cackled once more, still staring into Harry’s eyes. “No, no, I don’t believe he will. You wouldn’t allow that to happen, would you Marty?” She giggled, and the shine to her eyes reminded Harry startlingly of Luna then. He flinched minutely, the gravel under his feet crunching as he made to step forward, feeling a sense of foreboding settle on his shoulders.

The woman was going to-

“But I’m not going to allow either of you the satisfaction of capturing me!”

Then, without a moment of hesitation, she stepped backwards into the looming darkness behind her, the tendrils eagerly reaching for her. She looked smug at her choice, denying them the satisfaction of a public, lawful execution before the Wizengamot. However, that smugness soon evaporated, her face turning ashen as the shadows greedily claimed what had been so freely offered. Harry didn’t look away as she was absorbed into his shadows, watching the swarming mass of darkness gleefully twist and thrive and she melted into them, but he heard an Auror behind him retch, the rest frozen in a mixture of disgust and potent fear.

“Po-Potter, what…” One shakily choked out, grimacing away from him.

“Oh Merlin–” Another dry heaved, rushing out of the alleyway.

Harry reached a hand forward, dissipating his shadows with a wave, watching his fellow Aurors carefully.

“She is gone.” He simply stated, relishing in those words, but feeling only empty satisfaction.

Stunned silence met his words, and they hung in the air like a physical manifestation for a few moments.

Then, contrary to his usual cowardice, the Head Auror broke the thick atmosphere with shaken words. “This– This doesn’t leave this alleyway. This, whatever you just did Potter, the Ministry will not hear of it, am I clear, am I clear?!” Head Auror Martin snapped to the group, met with shaky nods and terrified compliance. Harry simply inclined his head, acknowledging the, for once, logic of his demand.

The Ministry was terrified enough of Harry’s power already. Hearing this… they would find a reason to get rid of him within the week.

And, as he watched the Head Auror uncharacteristically approach him once the other aurors had vacated the alley, a shaky, insincere smile on his face, Harry knew in his heart that they already had.

“Here, some Dreamless Sleep for you, I am sure today has been a taxing one, with it being the anniversary and all….Good work today, Potter.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, plucking the offered vial from the man’s hand. He wore a self-satisfied smile as he watched Harry take it, the look in his eyes dark and gleeful. It was also unsure, uncomfortable with the role he had been assigned.

Harry was not an idiot.

Yet, as he returned to his flat hours later, following the impromptu party for the death of the final official Death Eater, he took the vial out of his pocket.

He drank it down in one gulp, knowing full well what the pearlescent sheen to the potion meant. As he laid down, dizzy, Harry only felt happiness to know that he had finally taken down the last of the Death Eaters. Voldemort’s rot had finally been scourged from the earth, and perhaps he had been seen as a part of that stain. His purpose was complete in his and the Ministry’s eyes.

Harry Potter passed with a smile on his face, aged twenty-seven. A war-torn hero, a once boy-who-had-lived, a dear friend to few. The other half to a man he both despised and yearned for deeply. A tool whose use had come to its end.

But Harry’s purpose was far from over. Fate was not yet willing to let go of her favoured. And Death had yet any use for Its Master’s soul in Its realm.

Early 3020 - Middle Earth: ???

The twittering of birds was what awakened him, the sound of their calls so loud they rang in his mind like church bells, startling Harry into lunging upwards, leaping to his feet. With bleary eyes, he assessed his surroundings, squinting in confusion at the scene before him.

He was in a forest for some reason, which was off since he had apparently died in his bed, in his flat, in the middle of London.

This was definitely not London. Nor was he dead.

Harry blinked, groaning a little.

He span around, searching the immediate area with a suspicious, intense gaze. He had been sure that the Dreamless Sleep the Head Auror had given him had been laced with a particularly lethal poison, but that couldn’t be the case. Because he was standing, and apparently, had been transported from his heavily warded room to some random clearing in a forest. Harry glared, sensing some form of foul play at work. He knew of no potion which could do that. Neither had he yet been attacked, which could be the only explanation for someone transporting him to the middle of nowhere.

Also, his body felt… strange. Off-kilter, and as he peered down at himself, Harry realised just what had been setting his instincts off so harshly.

Gone was the mature, weathered, twenty-seven year old body that he had despised, covered in scars that only reminded him of the worst years of his life, and stunted due to malnourishment. And in its place was a body he hadn’t seen in far over a decade now, one of smooth, tanned skin. His hands, calloused from work but not bent and broken, were reminiscent of the ones he had possessed in his very first year of Hogwarts. They were tiny, youthful. Harry stared down at them in horror, flinching as he felt something brush against his neck. His eyes darted to the side as he tensed, eyes widening as he took in the shoulder-length, coal black hair he now possessed. It was a far cry from the military-style cut he usually wore for practicality.

Something was very, very wrong.

Merlin, had the potion been laced with drugs rather than poison?

It was the only thing that could explain what Harry was seeing right now. Why was he so… tiny? He wracked his brain for any logical explanation, but none came to the forefront of his mind. He had heard of youth potions which could restore a user to their prime, but an eleven-year-old form was definitely not Harry’s prime. That was just insulting.

He glanced around the clearing again, searching for any clues that could explain his situation. There was nothing surrounding him but strange trees which seemed to almost touch the sky, they were so large and towering. With nothing in the immediate area, deciding to listen to the instincts screaming in his sensitive ears to hide, hide, trees safe, Harry stepped into the woods with little thought of marking his path.

As Harry wandered from the clearing and into the forest before him, intent to find its edge, or perhaps some shelter if he could not, he couldn’t find it within himself to care about his situation. Nothing ever went as it should with him, after all. And he never could truly remain dead.

So, he would embrace this… whatever this was.

Harry thrived in the wilderness despite the loneliness of such an isolated situation. It was unlike that time he had been on the run, that period of his life had been fraught with tension and unknowing, having to consider those with him alongside himself. Here, in this unknown forest (which was most certainly in another country, Harry was sure of that) he was free of every societal expectation, able to express his true emotions without fear of scrutiny.

He was able to reflect, to mourn that which wasn’t acceptable, to just be. Never before had Harry been able to do so, not since perhaps his earliest days, when he was an infant surrounded by the pure love of his parents and the untainted fondness of their friends.

Harry didn’t know, even if he one day stumbled across civilisation past these endless woods, if he would even wish to reintegrate. Being a part of a society came with its own shackles, as he had learnt twice in his life now.

He had made a life here, in this forest. Whatever this was, be it a strange afterlife, an extended dream, or… whatever, Harry had fully embraced his situation. He had a shelter high in the trees, the treehouse of his childhood dreams that he had only heard about from the whining of Dudley. He had access to food and water, the berry bushes plentiful, the stream running through his camp fresh and pure, and with the help of a rustic but sturdy handmade bow, he could hunt freely. There were no time constraints placed upon his day, he could do whatever he wished, whenever. And, this new body of his, despite its small stature, was far more robust than any normal human child’s would have been. Harry didn’t feel the pang of hunger often, nor did he tire easily. Sometimes, days could pass before he needed to sleep. However, sometimes, it was nice to just relax upon a high branch and soak up the rays of the sun, absorbing the peace he had been denied for so many years.

That morning had begun as any other. He had checked his wares, ensuring that he had enough food for the next couple of days. He had taken a quick dip in a part of the stream far away from his camp, cleaning himself thoroughly, and then he had easily scaled a tree, searching for the sunniest branch to take a nap on. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary.

Until, as usual, his peaceful existence was rudely interrupted by drama and expectations he hadn’t asked for.

The crunching of leaves startled Harry out of his content sunbathing. As if a switch had been flipped inside him, Harry was suddenly alert, every bone and nerve within his body buzzing with adrenaline. He hunkered down behind the trunk of the tree, hiding himself within the nearest bushel of leaves. With sharp eyes, a far more useful pair than what Harry had lived with for all his life, he stared unmovingly in the direction of the sound.

There, perhaps a few hundred metres away, just visible between the closely packed together trees, was a group. They were making their way through the forest mostly soundlessly, only mistepping on a particularly dry leaf here and there. In fact, they were too quiet in their movements, almost floating across the forest floor as Harry could sometimes achieve. And they obviously knew their path, as their footsteps were sure and confident.

They were tracking something.

Harry flinched as sharp, intelligent eyes scanned the treetops where he was hiding in, luckily passing over his small form, camouflaged by the thick leaf coverage of late spring.

The group passed by his tree, and Harry didn’t dare to breathe as they did so. He observed them intently as they were now closer, taking in their practical but decorated cloaks, the packs hanging from their shoulders, and the swords strapped at their waists. Warriors, not mercenaries then. He knew what they looked like, the hunger in their eyes unable to be quenched, and they edged through the brush with the wariness of spooked prey. These beings held a detached coldness within them, as if they had walked this route a thousand times, not apathetic to the wilderness around them, but simply used to it. It was their natural habitat, Harry just knew from looking at them.

They were beautiful beings, Harry could recognise from underneath his fear. Perfect, in fact. They looked like Elves from typical fantasy books, with long hair and pointed ears to match. They even glowed slightly, mystical and ethereal beyond any creature he had seen before. However, Harry didn’t wish to assume they were the same peaceful beings from the stories. The look in their eyes was far too…feral.

Harry watched intently as they passed, feeling a shiver run down his spine as he stared at their retreating backs. He would have to be careful to avoid them in the future. They had an unbeatable aura surrounding them, and with his magic still mostly unresponsive despite the many weeks he had been wherever he was, he had no surety that he could win if it was him they were hunting.

Weeks later, Harry cursed his instinct to intervene in matters that did not concern him.

He had woken suddenly in the middle of his mid-afternoon nap, a zap of adrenaline tingling up his spine. A sense of danger tinged the air, the feeling alike the approach of a ferocious storm, filling the air with a heavy presence. Harry tensed, hand curling around a handful of his arrows, eyes searching the immediate area. When nothing dangerous became immediately obvious to him, he focused on his other senses. Closing his eyes, Harry turned his attention to his hearing. 

Faintly, in the distance, Harry could discern the telltale sound of steel upon steel, and the bellows of a battle.

He breathed out deeply through his nose, momentarily lessening his grip upon his arrows, before he tutted in disgust at himself. With little thought, making sure his makeshift bow was firmly secured to his back, he leapt towards the next tree with unnatural finesse.

It took a few minutes to reach the scene of the battle, and Harry peered down at it from his high vantage point, biting his lip in indecision at the scene before him.

The sounds of fighting that should have had him fleeing in the opposite direction had instead drawn him in, and now he surveyed a clearing filled to the brim with ugly troll-like creatures, battling against the beautiful beings he had spied a few times before.

The beings were clearly outnumbered, but they were far more powerful, not wasting a single movement, dancing through their foes like a master twisting around against stumbling children. Their sharp, gleaming swords cut through flesh like butter, brutal and decisively accurate, and Harry was stunned into stillness as he watched the slaughter. It seemed his worry had been for nothing.

Harry observed the battle for a little while longer, his foot tensed in a motion to leave, until a sense of panic shot through him as he watched one of the beings stumble over a root, their footing disrupted by the heavy swing of one of the beast's clubs.

His body moved without his permission, drawing back his bow to shoot one of the creatures in the head as it grabbed at the being.

The creature fell to the floor with a roar, and the being he had just saved looked in the direction of his saviour, their eyes meeting in stunned confusion.

He seemed to mouth something before his attention was taken by another ugly creature crashing through the trees with a terrifying battlecry, his sword raising to parry its uncoordinated and harsh swings with skilled finesse.

Harry, seeing that the beings were clearly winning out against the troll creatures again, spun on his heel and leapt for another tree. He had exposed himself to their attention today, and he was not going to be hanging around for them to finish and turn their attention towards him.

He made it about a hundred metres before he heard a yell echo out in a clear, twinkling voice, above the din of the battle.

"Young one, don't run! Wait!"

Harry did not look back, knowing that that was rule number one when running from someone you really didn’t want to catch you. He somersalted over fallen trunks, leapt on rocks as if they were stepping stones, and danced through the trees as if he had known the area his whole life. After a while, it became fun. His pursuer's voice was growing quieter with distance now, and Harry could feel his shoulders relax, still keeping up the pace but taking in more of the sights and sounds around him now.

He had wandered into a part of the forest that he had yet to explore. Here, the air felt considerably lighter. It was still tinged by the oily sheen of lingering darkness, but there was a tinge of renewal in it, slowly but surely beginning to chase out that slimy presence. Harry breathed in deeply, his soul feeling refreshed just by taking in the lighter atmosphere. He had spent months within the deepest, darkest parts of the forest, after all.

Unconsciously, Harry began to skip around the trees, giggling to himself as he went. He felt childish as he did so, but his soul just felt so refreshed, he couldn’t help himself. It didn’t help that, despite his adult mind, Harry’s body now matched his actions at that moment.

The snapping of a twig underfoot just metres away had him freezing in fear, his mind berating itself instantly that he had allowed something to sneak up on him even with his advanced senses and instinctive wariness. Slowly, Harry turned, coming face to face with the strange, otherworldly being he had saved.