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“Goblin king, take this child away from me!”
Harry stared at Dudley through dull eyes. “We're the same age,” he pointed out. “And I'm pretty sure the goblins don't have a king.”
They ran a bank. They also had a history of rebellion, though, so maybe? He'd never been able to pay attention to Binns, no matter how hard he tried. The ghost only ever put him to sleep.
“I saw it in a movie,” Dudley sneered at him. “And since your freakishness proves that magic is real, I thought I'd try it!”
Harry didn't have the energy to explain to his cousin all the ways that his logic didn't work. It wasn't like Dudley actually cared. “Good luck,” was all he said instead of arguing. He went back to cooking a dinner he wouldn't get to eat, his ears open for any sound from the news.
He wasn't optimistic. He hadn't heard anything all summer, and there wasn't anything about that night that was likely to make it different. It was just going to be the same nothing that the rest of the summer had been. No word from his friends, nothing happening in the rest of the world, him stuck rotting with the Dursleys, reliving Cedric's death over and over and over—
What was the point of it all? Why did he even bother?
***
He woke to a soft touch moving along his scar, tracing gently over it. Harry knew that he'd already given away that he was awake, because he couldn't help the way that he'd stilled and stiffened. Nobody ever touched it, and the fingers moving on it now were so tender, and he didn't—
“What monster would do this?” The voice belonged to a man, an unfamiliar one at that. His voice was deep and rich, and he had the same sort of aristocratic accent that Harry associated with people like Lucius Malfoy.
“Do what?” Harry opened his eyes. He found himself staring into bright, piercing blue eyes that were far too close to his own. He flinched back, but there was nowhere to go.
“Your scar,” the man murmured. His fingers brushed over it again. “It's monstrous. I won't allow it into my Underground, I'm afraid.”
Harry couldn't have explained the way that the last bit of his hope, fragile and precious, that he hadn't even realized was there, withered at those words. “Oh.” Rejected again for something he couldn't do anything about.
Left on a doorstep, thrown away, unwanted. Again.
Harry closed his eyes. He'd rather have the nightmares about Cedric's death than more reminders of how little he was cared for.
The man's tongue clicked sharply. “Dear one,” he practically crooned. “I didn't say that I'd leave you here. You've been wished away to me, and here I am to take and keep you. We simply have to handle that bit of soul hiding in your scar first.”
Harry's eyes flew open, the world blurrier because of the tears he'd been trying to hide. “Soul? In my scar?”
The man— who Harry was becoming increasingly certain was the Goblin King— let out a quiet hum of assent. Still, his fingers soothed their way over Harry's scar, almost petting him. “It's a nasty bit of work. Such a tiny fragment, enough to make one wonder what that madman was thinking.” He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Harry's forehead, right on the scar. “We'll set you to rights, and then I'll bring you Underground, where I'll keep you safe, darling.”
Harry's breath caught. “You will?” No one had ever promised that. Sirius had offered to let Harry live with him, but even though it hadn't been his fault, that hadn't exactly worked out. And no one else seemed to care.
The Goblin King— because he couldn't be anyone else— smiled, his teeth gleaming in the darkness of Harry's room. “You are precious to me, Harry Potter, and you will be for many years to come. Let me take you away with me?”
Harry had never wanted to trust anyone as much as he did the man sitting at his bedside. Could he? Should he? What if this was a trick? What if he was walking right into one of Voldemort’s traps?
But the man called him darling, dear one, and precious. His fingers were gentle on Harry's scar.
“Are you the Goblin King?” Harry finally asked. He ached with wanting to jump in and say yes, but he couldn't. Not without more information.
The man's fingers came together in a snap, and an orb of light formed, revealing an ethereal being that scarcely belonged in the same category as man. His hair was long and blond, artfully disheveled in a way that Harry wished he could emulate. His skin was unblemished and pale, and his ears came to delicate points that clearly showed his inhumanity.
“I have many names, and I use many titles,” he said. “The mundane tend to refer to me by that one, thanks to a clever bit of media. Goblinkind have other names they call me, other titles they prefer. I have no care for any of them, to be honest. I prefer that those I take call me Jareth.”
Harry sat up, finally, but Jareth didn't take his hand from his face. Instead, he shifted to cup Harry's cheek, and Harry couldn't help the way he leaned into it. “And you just show up whenever someone wishes a child away?”
“I hear the words when they're spoken under any of my titles,” he confirmed. “And then I see if there's cause for me to come. When there is, I do. And I bring those who will be precious to me safely to my Underground, where they'll never hurt again.”
“And if they won't be precious to you?” Did he only help people he liked? That seemed so cruel if he had the ability to help everyone.
But Jareth’s eyes were soft with affection. “Anyone who has known suffering is precious to me, dear one.”
“Oh.” The word was soft and small. Harry leaned further into the soft touch, the gentle hand resting on his cheek. He could just go with Jareth, and he wouldn't have to worry about Voldemort any longer.
Everything in him wanted to trust Jareth. He was so very tired. But…
But there was a war coming, and his friends were in so much danger. How could he leave them behind?
“I wouldn't be able to come back, would I?” It didn't sound like a temporary thing, going Underground.
Jareth shook his head. “You wouldn't want to, once you'd been with me long enough.”
“I can't,” Harry said. He closed his eyes against the tears that formed and dug his palms into them, trying to make them stop watering. “There are too many people counting on me here. I have to—” He let out a watery little sob.
Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him against a well-muscled chest. “Oh, dear one, I know,” Jareth said. “You can't let yourself yet. But I must warn you, things will get worse if you stay.”
Harry sobbed again. “Of course they will!” His fingers clenched in the silk of Jareth's shirt. “I want—” He stopped. He couldn't say it. He wanted to, but he couldn't.
Jareth continued to hold him until his tears subsided, then he slowly pulled back until his hands rested on Harry's shoulders. “A bargain, then, my precious Harry.”
“A bargain?” Harry met Jareth's eyes, his heart aching. He still wanted— he couldn't. He had to stay. There was a war coming, and he couldn't leave his friends even if they were all ignoring him!
“You stay here, and you fight your war for as long as you can,” Jareth said. “But if you find you cannot go on, as I suspect you will before too long, you find your way to any associate of the goblins and present them with this.” Jareth produced a silver chain from nowhere, and dangling from that silver chain was a feather so white it seemed to glow in the darkness. It was beautiful, and Harry scarcely wanted to touch it to risk getting it dirty. “They will get you to Gringotts, who will know how to summon me, and I will come for you.”
“And if I never call?” Harry reached out, but he didn't quite touch the feather. The magic coming from it sparked at his fingers.
Jareth's eyes shadowed, and his smile made Harry's heart break. “You will,” he said. His thumb rubbed over Harry's cheekbone. “Though I wish you would not need to. Those who are precious to me are for a reason, and you, dear one, will be the most precious of them all.”
“Can I come as an adult?” Harry finally touched the feather, and the magic of it embraced him, warming him from the inside. “If I can make it that long?”
Jareth leaned down and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to Harry's lips. “My sweet, precious Harry, there is no limit to when you may come,” he said. “And though I would mourn if you never arrived, I would rejoice in the happiness you found here.”
Harry's lips trembled. “Thank you,” he barely managed to force out. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him, and he fell a little bit in love with Jareth right then.
Jareth's smile was so achingly sad when he leaned in and kissed Harry again, but still soft, still filled with affection. The kiss was perfect, if a little salty from Harry's tears, and then Jareth was pulling away, detaching gently from him.
“Goodbye, my darling one,” he murmured. “May you fare well in our separation.” Then he was gone.
***
In the morning, Harry woke up grateful for not having screamed himself awake with nightmares of the graveyard for once. Of course, dreams about meeting a Goblin King who kissed him, called him precious, and gave him pretty necklaces were also strange, but they weren't nightmares.
He sat up and raked a hand through his hair, and something warm moved against his chest. Harry froze, then he carefully pulled his collar aside.
There, on a beautiful, delicate silver chain, was a white feather that practically glowed.
It hadn't been a dream.
Huh.
***
It was over. He'd done his job. Voldemort was dead. Very, very dead. His horcruxes were destroyed, and Harry had walked to his death and come back. Everything was finished. He could rest. He was allowed to rest.
So why was he still being hounded by everyone?
Harry groaned. “I won't,” he said, not looking at Kingsley.
“Harry,” the Minister started, his voice infuriatingly even. “People are still frightened. They just want to know that you're using all of your considerable power to do good things, that's all!”
“I've done all the good things I need to!” The Elder Wand wanted to leap to his hand, to kill Kingsley for the insult of trying to force him into anything. “I've earned my peace. I'm tired of fighting. I just want to study for NEWTS and rest, Kingsley.”
“I am sympathetic,” Kingsley said. “But power like yours, Harry, people fear it. Especially with the way the Ministry behaved during the war.”
Harry stared at him. “So because the Ministry treated me like a criminal— even though it was being run by Voldemort— you want to, what, bring me to heel?” His breath caught in his throat. Why had he ever thought things could get better?
Why had he bothered coming back? He should have just stayed dead.
It seemed like it was the only way he'd get rest.
“I know that it seems unfair—”
“Because it is!” Something on Kingsley's desk exploded, and Harry didn't even feel bad about it. Sometimes he wondered why he'd even bothered fighting so hard for the wixen of England when this was how he was treated.
“Harry,” Kingsley tried.
Harry shook his head and made a sharp, cutting gesture with his hand. Fortunately, the Elder Wand didn't decide to appear in it without his consent. “I'm going home. I'll think about it.”
“That's all I ask.”
Harry stormed from Kingsley's office. That was all he asked at the moment, but they both knew it would change. Soon it would be an order, one Harry couldn't defy without risking Azkaban. At some point, probably when Trelawney made her fucking prophecy, the world had decided that his life hadn't belonged to him. And he had allowed it, because there'd been a war, and his duty had been more important than his happiness.
But the war was over, he'd given up everything he had almost, and he was done.
He made it back to Grimmauld to find Ron and Hermione waiting anxiously for him. Hermione was pacing, her wand in her hair, muttering quietly to herself. Ron was sitting on the sofa watching her, a bemused little smile on his face.
They both looked at him when he entered, and Ron's face immediately fell. “That bad?”
“They don't want me to bother with NEWTS,” Harry said. “They want me to sign on to work exclusively for the Ministry to hunt dark wizards and bring them to justice.”
Hermione let out a hiss. “You told them no?”
“Tried.” Harry shrugged. “Got a hard sell. I don't think I'm going to be allowed to say no forever. I think I need to go.”
He'd thought about it so many times during fifth year. When he'd realized that his friends had been living with his godfather and he'd been stuck with the Dursleys. When Umbridge started with the blood quill. When he'd realized that he was being permanently branded by her cruelty. When Snape began ripping his mind apart in the name of training. Every single time someone called him mad. When he'd lost Sirius.
Then Dumbledore had told him the prophecy, and Harry had known that he couldn't go. Not until Voldemort was gone. If he had to be the one to do it, then he couldn't leave until it was done. So he'd hidden the feather deep in his trunk and made himself move on with his life, and with the war.
Would Jareth still think him precious, with all that he'd been through? With the words on his hand and the scar over his heart?
With the three artifacts of immense power that now claimed him?
Or was Harry just setting himself up to be let down again by even thinking about trying?
“Where are we going?” Hermione asked as the silence stretched.
Harry shook his head. “You two can't follow me,” he said. “You deserve to stay, anyway. You've done your part, and no one's worried you'll be the next dark lords.” He started up the stairs to his room, where he kept his trunk.
Hermione and Ron scrambled up the stairs after him. “But we want to stay with you, mate,” Ron said. “We don't want to stay here if they're all being dicks!”
Harry laughed a little. The sound was strangled. “I'm going to cash in on a promise someone made me before fifth year,” he said. He didn't turn to look at them before he opened his trunk and started digging. It didn't take long to find the necklace, safe and secure at the bottom of the trunk. It was still as beautiful and pristine as the day Jareth had given it to him. “I won't be able to come back. But you've both been wonderful, and I love you both so much.”
He stood up and hugged them both, as tight as he could. He grabbed the bottomless bag that carried all the possessions he cared about, the things he'd been unable to leave behind while they'd been on the run— the necklace only hadn't been included because it would have been too much of a temptation— and then he turned on his heel and vanished with a pop.
***
Gringotts had been unwelcoming at best since the incident with the Lestrange vault, but no one had ever actually told Harry that he could no longer do business there. The goblins simply made their distaste for him clear, which Harry supposed was fair. It was going to make the conversation to come a bit awkward, however, especially since the directions he'd been given with regards to the necklace had been vague.
“Potter,” the goblin in front of him snarled when he made it to the front of the queue.
Harry drew in a deep breath. “I need to use this,” he said. He pulled the feather out from under his shirt and held it up for the goblin to examine.
Every goblin in the bank went still.
The teller in front of him, after an uncomfortably long pause, asked, “Potter, is that one of the High One's symbols?”
Harry shrugged. “He said he has many titles. My cousin tried to give me to him a few years back. I couldn't leave yet, and he said that I could come when I was ready.”
Now the wizards around him were also paying attention, and murmurs were rising in volume around him.
“And you're ready now.” The goblin studied him like he was a piece of filth someone had tracked in from outside.
“If he'll still have me,” Harry said. He didn't want to think about how much it would hurt if he wouldn't. How much that tiny light of knowing Jareth would be there had kept him warm through the darkness of the war, and what it might do to him if that light were to be extinguished. “My duty is done. Prophecy fulfilled. But England won't let me be. So I have to go.”
“And you want to go to him.” The goblin barked out a laugh, a strange light forming in his eyes. “Then I will call him for you!” He slammed his hand down on something— Harry didn't see what— and the sound of thousands of crystals breaking clattered through the lobby of the bank. Wizards and witches shrieked and cowered, and goblins banged their staves on the floor or their fists against the walls or the wood of their desks.
Into the sudden cacophony, he appeared, and Harry's breath left him. Impossibly, Jareth seemed more beautiful than Harry remembered. How could such a being possibly see Harry as precious? He was—
But Jareth caught sight of him before the doubts could begin to take even greater hold and crossed the lobby in several great strides. He took Harry's face in his hands and murmured, “Hello, precious one,” and then he kissed him softly, sweetly on the lips once more.
It was better than Harry remembered, and he melted into Jareth, his body beginning to tremble. “I'm ready to go if you'll still have me,” he said when their lips parted.
“There is nothing about you that makes you less precious to me,” Jareth promised, staring into his eyes. “Dear one, I see what you've been through, and I told you, you are my most precious.”
“Harry!” Hermione shouted behind him. How had she figured out that he was going to Gringotts? He'd never told anyone about Jareth.
“I'm leaving, Mione,” Harry said, not turning around. “Jareth is taking me Underground.”
“Do you know who that is?” Her voice shook as she approached him. “Harry, if you go with him—”
“I can't come back,” Harry finished for her. “I told you that. I've known. It's why I didn't go when he first offered. I had to fulfill the prophecy. It was so hard, and I'm so tired, Hermione.”
“And you can rest with me, now,” Jareth murmured. “My beloved precious one.” He lifted Harry's hand, the one that bore the restored Resurrection Stone, and pressed a soft kiss to the ring.
Hermione sobbed. “We love you, Harry,” she said. “We don't want you to go. There are still options!”
“No there aren't,” Harry said. “But I love you all too, so much. I would have stayed if they'd let me.”
Jareth's arms tightened around him, warm and strong. “I will take care of him,” he said to Hermione, addressing her for the first time. There was something dark and cold in his voice that was never there when he spoke to Harry, but it didn't frighten him.
Harry didn't know what it did to Hermione, but the sound she let out was somewhere between a sob and an almost animalistic moan of fear. He'd never heard that sort of noise from her, and it was almost enough to make Harry turn away from Jareth, to make him check to see if she was okay. But then Jareth smiled down at him again, and he cupped his cheek with one of those tender hands, and Harry's attention was entirely diverted once more.
“Are you ready, my precious one?”
“Yes,” Harry said. He'd been ready for so long.
Jareth leaned down and kissed him once again, this time nipping gently at his lips until Harry parted his for him. Jareth's tongue swept in, gently conquering him, and Harry let himself be lost as the world above fell away and he was taken Underground.