Disclaimer: Harry Potter, its works and all its character belong to the ever wonderful J.K. Rowling. Serorian, his kin and all those that hunt him are mine.
This is intended to be a one-shot but if it's called for, I will consider taking the story further.
WARNING: This is a slash fic. I said so in the summary. If you've persisted despite your hatred of MalexMale relationships I suggest you leave.
It was a dark winter evening; clouds muddied the sky and the lights of suburbia stained them bloody. Snow half formed and then wetted the ground, splattering inelegantly against Harry's hunched form as he scurried homeward against the wind. He'd spent the evening at the local library trying to experience some form of freedom within the limits he'd been set by the Order. He wasn't eager to be getting home.
It was during this reluctant progress that the sound of metal clashing against metal came to the Boy Who Lived, muffled by the wind and rain as it was. He hesitated by the dark alleyway from which the sounds emitted, curious against his better judgement, then jumped horribly as the first thing his peering eyes registered was a body slumping to the ground with limp force.
Green eyes blinked, taking in the blood misted walls and the rough circle of prone bodies that surrounded the only remaining upright figure. Common sense suggested that Harry should be at that moment running and screaming for help, for someone to come and put away what was obviously an insane and dangerous man. But something stopped him. Whether it was the weary slump of the man's shoulders, the ragged clothes... or the glint of a hunted, watchful stare from between strands of almost burgundy hair, mostly hidden beneath a rough hooded cloak, he couldn't know for sure.
Cautiously he stepped forward, somehow unsurprised that his increasing proximity caused the strange man to relax, rather than tense to fight further.
'Are you alright?'
The man knelt slowly, not taking his gaze from the approaching teen, blindly wiping his crimsoned blade on the robes of one of the dead men. Only, it registered then, that they weren't men at all. They weren't human. And as the man's hair shifted in the wind, Harry could see the warrior wasn't either.
Each being was long limbed, long haired and athletically built in a manner that spoke of a lifetime of toil, eyes exotically wide and slanted, inhumanly jewel bright. The clincher of it all however was the ears. The wind caught those burgundy locks revealing glimpses of them once more – slender, elegant and pointed. Harry had never seen anything like it before.
Those same fascinating ears were studded and adorned with silver and various charms – feathers, fangs, strange scales from exotic creatures and small roughly cut jewels that glittered in the dim light. A full-length sinuous metal dragon curled through one ear then up and around to hook over where the top of the ear joined the head, grasping in its jaws the end of a dark swathe of slightly translucent material which hung round and down the being's face, concealing the details of the features beneath – presumably the sharp angle of a cheekbone, the smooth curve of lips and the lower portion of an elegant nose.
In his musings Harry had missed the movement which had brought the man round to face the teen, and was startled to awareness as the long gleaming, obviously old but well maintained sword slid home into its scabbard with a soft click. Beneath the dirty, ragged cape was battered leather armour, covering the being almost head to foot.
The flimsy black material that concealed the being's face fluttered as it breathed, an unsettlingly vivid dark blue-green eye staring out from a lightly tanned face, the other covered by an eyepatch.
'I am well.'
The words were spoken in a manner that suggested unfamiliarity, but the deep, smooth voice was assertive... musical too and - dare Harry say it – magical. The teen shivered and swallowed convulsively, feeling irrepressibly drawn to the individual before him.
Almost silently the being moved slowly forward, careful as if wary of startling some untamed animal - a frown decorated his brow.
'Your face... it is familiar to me. As if I have dreamt of it...'
The being came within a metre of Harry then stopped, still frowning, evidently disconcerted,
'...and this feeling...'
The tall male tilted his head, a gloved hand going to his chest. Harry shifted as the unnerving single-eyed gaze burned into him. Anxious for a distraction the Boy-Who-Lived cleared his throat, blind to the carnage surrounding them still,
'Who...and what are you?'
'I am Serorian, an elf of the High Kingdoms.'
'I... I'm Harry. An elf? You don't look like a House Elf.'
Serorian broke from his staring with a blink, and then he tilted his head back and laughed in delight. The lyrical sound was akin to no other that Harry had heard within his short, hard life, surpassing even the few phoenix songs he had heard. The urge to let his legs crumple as they were begging to do was almost unstoppable. Such a laugh – even flavoured with misuse – was unbearably beautiful. The teen wizard felt his magic somehow croon beneath his skin, his very soul shaken by the unexpected sound.
He continued to stare breathlessly as the elf spoke, deep turquoise eye blazing warmly with humour.
'You are a Wizard then. I should have known, but it has been so long since one of us saw your kind. 'House Elf' is a name given by Wizards who long ago sought to enslave us. They failed spectacularly. The name was born as an insult, given to the only beings from the Elvish Realms that they could capture, but it amused us. House Elves as you call them are much more ancient and powerful than humans know. They allowed themselves to be enslaved, because it was to their advantage. After the war with the Wizards the Elves withdrew to their realms and barred the way in, so the House Elves were trapped and have undoubtedly become... domesticated. Even so, they hold powers your kind cannot fathom.'
Harry absorbed this soundlessly, taking in a stuttering breath as the elf took another half step forward.
'Elves of my kind are too proud to become enslaved. Too intelligent to need to use other species for their gain. Too superior to live easily alongside humans. Or so they would like to believe.'
As if enraptured Serorian removed one of his gloves, revealing an almost impossibly elegant, pale hand that was criss-crossed with scars. Even so, as the calloused, scarred fingers brushed against Harry's jaw, they were incredibly soft and gentle.
'We are flesh and blood as much as you are. Just as warm blooded.'
Indeed the hand that cradled Harry's cheek emanated heat, warming his chilled skin. The touch was caring, and caused his magic to sing once more.
'We are born with incomplete souls. We seek companionship amongst our own kind. Only, occasionally some are needed elsewhere, and their hearts seek completion beyond their realm. In their long-lived anger the Elves condemn all other humanoid races, but none more so than humans and Wizards.'
Serorian took another half step forward, and Harry found he had to look upwards to meet the intent gaze he was being afforded with, feeling his heart thrum ecstatically with the proximity. The elf murmured to him almost intimately, fingers smoothing a lock of sodden black hair back behind his ear,
'So those, like myself, who are born for greatness written in the stars - One who is prophesied by the elders to bring about a Great Change, who will bring Greatness to his kingdom... with his soul-bonded Wizard by his side... They are taken from their parents' arms and locked up like criminals, then forced to believe that they were born with a wrongness within themselves. They have no control over it, yet they must be punished because it is discordant with the natural order of society. When such an individual becomes old enough to realise that his treatment is unfair, he is punished further for protesting, for defending himself and those like him. When he escapes he is chased, throughout countless worlds and kingdoms - he is attacked, vilified, hated and pursued as if he were worse than a murderer. Ever searching, ever learning, ever living on for that minute chance that one day I might escape and finally find... you.'
Harry blinked slowly, feeling as if he had been drugged, limbs heavy with some emotion that he couldn't quite understand.
'Yes, Beloved. It is you I have searched for. It is the calling of your soul that I have followed into the human realms. Can you not feel it?'
Harry frowned slightly, trying to summon up all he was feeling. But where he rationally expected confusion, and maybe even fear, he found upmost certainty. His heart lurched in an almost painful manner as he vaguely identified what had made his limbs lax. It was only now that he felt startled.
Serorian sighed peacefully and fell gracefully to his knees, pressing his face against Harry's abdomen in an almost child-like gesture as his hood fell to reveal the roughly hewn edges of his shoulder length hair. A strong arm wrapped around the Wizard's waist as the knelt male hoarsely finished the others' sentence,
Harry paused, trying this word against his feeling, and smiled when it fit perfectly.
Gently he raised his arms and looped them over the elf's shoulders, bringing him into an odd embrace and then pressing a kiss into the burgundy hair as he realised that is was love that was making his heart all but glow. The upmost certainty emanated from his soul, his very magic even, and he knew it must be true. This man, this elf whom he had had never even had the vaguest idea of, was inconceivably his.