Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alice sits on Jasper’s lap in the lounge room, both of them listening to Edward compose on the piano. The song is melancholic and lonely, a genre of bittersweet longing that he excels at creating. There are no words. Simply Edward’s heart torn into keys and arranged into a rhythm. Jasper curls his hands around Alice’s thighs, holding her tight, trying not to lose himself in the depths of Edward’s emotions—his perpetual hatred for himself; his desire for love; his longing for something other than loneliness; his grief for being unable to find it.

Jasper can understand him. These are all things he felt before Alice in some way. Not to the same extent. Jasper was always too busy, too reserved, trained to feel less and block the emotions dragging him down. They had existed, though. Jasper often wonders how he would have survived living near Edward, someone so consumed by emotions, if he hadn’t spent so many years blocking them. Alice tenses in his hold and he rocks her gently through her new vision, feeling the abrupt change in her emotions: elation, comfort, love.

Edward continues to play as he watches Alice’s vision. It is unfocussed at first, fuzzy and changing as they are when someone has yet to make a decision. It disappears and reappears at the edges, the house in view changes, from a cabin to a cottage to a manor and back, the person within looks old and young and then blonde and then red haired.

It finally settles with startling clarity on a teenager, no older than eighteen, with tanned skin and round glasses covering haunting green eyes, a mess of black curls dripping down his forehead and a unique lightning scar cutting across his face. The vision changes, until Edward is standing next to the teen, running his fingers along his jaw and wrapping the teen in a hug so tight Edward wonders why the human isn’t killed. Just as the vision is ending the green-eyed teen looks over vision-Edward’s shoulder, arms still wrapped around him, and looks directly into them—into Alice and Edward, living the vision now.

It ends abruptly and Edward stops playing, pulling his fingers from the keys slowly.

“Who was that?” He asks Alice, although he knows she, too, doesn’t yet know.

Chapter Text

Harry had always thought a lot about how he would die. He’d imagined he would die for the people he loved, again. Some noble sacrifice perhaps. Another to add to his list. A fitting end for the tragedy that is Harry Potter’s life—a moment they would write about in novels and bylines, book-ending his cursed first brush with death with his last. He’d even considered being offed by the killing curse to provide the full circle moment.

After finding himself in a white King’s Cross station with the withering skin lump Voldemort and arguably the most manipulative fucker in the world, Harry had figured he’d head back to his friends, help with the after-effects of the War in some abstract way, settle down with Ginny and eventually send off his own children to Hogwarts. Only, he’d returned from death and found out rather quickly that version of his life was never going to happen—rightfully so he supposes, seeing as he fell right back into the old man’s twisting traps by deciding to come back in the first place. He really should have considered the possibility of a peaceful death a bit more.

So he had fallen back into the world with a new scar on his chest and a coldness deep inside. A darkness wrapped around him that was simultaneously comforting and horrifying. Ginny left him rather quickly. Said he was different now: too disconnected, too withdrawn, too uninterested. Harry couldn’t help it that life was dull in comparison to the great beyond.

How was he meant to exist now, having felt the pure ecstasy of death? The peace brought in that white room? He’d laid awake every night, chilled arms wrapped around Ginny’s lithe frame as though she could ever instill warmth in him again, and he would dream of death. Not the abstract concept of death, but his lived experience of it: the green light that burst on his sternum and slithered between the cracks of his atoms stopping his heart instantly.

He would dream of Death, too.

The being Death—if they could be called such. The concept of them at least, with bones for fingers and a face that alternated between the constellations of deep space and the faces of all the dead he knows: his parents, Fred, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, and hundreds of others, perhaps even thousands. People he’d seen once in passing. A muggle with amazing curly hair and shining white teeth who had once waited outside a cafe for him even though he never showed. A wixen he passed on the street and smiled to. Friends and family and strangers alike, rotating across the face of an impossibly tall creature wrapped in a cloak of invisibility with bones for a body.

So, yes, Harry was well acquainted with Death in all their forms, so he had, rather naturally, spent a considerable amount of time in the last few years considering his death.

After Ginny left him—they tell everyone it was a mutual decision, though it was rather obvious to everyone who knew them that Harry was listless and Ginny had decided enough was enough—Harry decided to skip eighth year and join the Aurors with Ron. He figured, why not use these Dark Lord vanquishing skills for use? Track some elusive Death Eaters and skip all that ruddy study shite.

Ron was pretty into the Aurors gig and he took to it naturally, slipping into a confident space between leader and strategiser, using his experiences from the war easily. He lived up to his mistakes, grew from them, developed into something more than who he had been at seventeen. Harry, on the other hand…

Well, he’d always had an issue with following orders. It was a morbid joke between the three best friends that the Ministry needed to be better at manipulating Harry’s saviour complex if they wanted him to be more effective at his job. He’d become a sort of enigma member who was perpetually without a partner, since Ron was often in charge of their missions from headquarters, moving the Aurors around like pawns on a chess board.

It was due to this fact that Harry found himself dying.

Truth be told, he was a bit miffed at how he was going out. It was a routine assignment. Easy. Simply a scout assignment at an abandoned Death Eater hub. It had been cleared out weeks ago. Harry had been sent because he’d been pissing Ron off asking for extra assignments all week, so Ron had thrown a random case file at Harry and said “go check this out then, you bloody git”.

Normally, Harry could have done it with his eyes closed, both hands tied behind his back, and a dementor sucking his soul. But he hadn’t really been normal lately. Hermione had definitely noticed—she’d narrowed her eyes at him a few too many times recently. He’d been spiralling just a tad. Maybe there was a slight drop of alcoholism. Nightmares. Some muggle affliction called PTSD that Hermione ranted at him about often. Both his friends knew he’d died that day in the forest, but he’d never talked about the weird hole it left in him. The emptiness. Harry had considered tracking down a dementor just to see if he even had a soul left to suck. Sure didn’t feel like it.

So, instead, he’d begun to fill that gaping darkness with drugs and alcohol and late night forays into the muggle nightlife. He added on extra work for good measure. He needed to keep himself busy so the missing thing in him didn’t catch up, so he couldn’t feel the bones wrapped around the back of his neck, so he couldn’t sleep and dream of that perfectly peaceful moment when Death pulled him into their embrace and warmed him from the inside.

That’s how he found himself in an ex-hideout of Death Eaters, bleeding out because he’d apparated into the wrong spot due to his slight inebriation, impaling himself on the spear of a dastardly ugly suit of armour with spikes for shoulders and a black tinge to the metal. Really, it was a shitty way to go. The biography sales would definitely be impacted with such a lame ending to the Boy-Who-Vanquished. Impaled by a tipsy apparition. Hermione would have a fit if she knew he had been apparating after a few drinks—or that he had been drinking before work.

He coughed at the thought of Hermione, blood sputtering from his mouth and dribbling down his chin. The action pushed his weight down more and his body sunk closer to the floor, the spear poking through his back and out the front of his stomach. He closed his eyes and thought about those loose tendrils of happiness he knew were there in him, somewhere. He didn’t have long left now if the lack of pain was any indicator.

He clasped those few happy memories he stored: Ron, Hermione, and him, curled together on Ron’s bed at the Burrow; a memory of him dancing with Luna, decked out in her wedding dress, her new husband Neville spinning Ginny around nearby; the first time he grew enough balls to visit his godson and Teddy had hugged him with all the strength such a tiny body could muster. The memories developed into a misty stag and Harry couldn’t help the tear escaping as he looked at his patronus, the embodiment of everything good in his life and his magic, those few things untainted by that gaping darkness he couldn’t escape.

“‘m sorry, ‘mione, ‘on.” His words sounded more like gargles with the blood clogging his throat, but he tried anyway. He knew they wouldn’t get to live in peace if he died without at least sending some message of goodbye. “I ‘idn’t—mean ta… Love youse. Tell Te—” his patronus left with a huff, not letting him finish his message.
Harry would be pissed about it, if he had the strength to muster such an emotion. Here he was on his death bed and the manifestation of his happiest memories decided he was taking too long to warble out his death message. He chuckled at the fucking audacity and, well, it was just his thing, wasn’t it? Life had always been some weird uphill battle of the worst odds for him.

Harry’s not sure when he passed out or really if he even did. He could have been disassociating, because he was sure his eyes never closed. He had been quite intrigued by the wall across from him. It had the most interesting wallpaper, a mixture between leaves and curling flowers he thinks. Or maybe it was paisley print? Although that one spot really looked like a man on a horse.

It was with the abrupt crack of apparition nearby that he was jolted back into awareness.

“Harry! Oh god, Harry! What have you done?!” Hermione was by his side in a second waving her wand around, diagnostic panels popping up left and right in front of her as a second crack of apparition left Ron standing behind her with horror on his face.

“Salazar’s tits, Harry!” He rushed over, face white as he realised the extent to the injuries. “Hermione…” Ron said slowly, quietly, horror on his face.

“Shut up, shut up,” Hermione whispered angrily her wand curling in the air as she waved blood from Harry so she could see the wound.

“‘mione,” Harry whispered. “‘m sorry.”

“Stop! Don’t!” Hermione replied, tears dripping from her eyes. “Just shut up and let me heal you.”

Harry closed his eyes and smiled a little. “Ron, thnnnk—”

“Shhh, mate.” Ron knelt next to him and brushed the hair on his forehead back. “We’re here. It’s gonna be okay.” Harry met his eyes, so filled with love and concern, and he thought about that young boy on the train who had taught him about a whole new world. He closed his eyes again to Hermione’s magic washing over him, bathing him in her fiery power.

Harry felt like maybe it would okay.

“I did not expect to meet you again so soon, Master.”

Harry looked up into the constellations of Death and frowned.

“What do you mean? We haven’t met before.” Even as he said it, Harry was sure that wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t remember meeting Death but they were familiar to him. Like an old friend he had forgotten. A memory once obliviated.

“You may not remember, Master, but your soul does.”

The after life wasn’t as white as he remembered it being. Not so peaceful, either. It could be the imposing figure of Death bent over him, crowding him, or even the way the edges of his vision blurred into obscurity as though unable to see the room around him. Even the floor felt transient. He could be floating in space or grounded in a room, both and neither were true.

“Rest, Master. Take your time.”

And Harry felt the bone-deep weariness buckle his knees so he dropped, allowing his body to become weightless in the realm of nothing and something around him. He looked up at Death now, watching as it cocked its head to the side, shrouded in something that could be invisibility but might be shadows. Death eventually moved, scooping Harry from the floor and cradling him in its boney hand, placing him in its sternum, suspending Harry where Death’s heart could have been if they were human.

“Visit me again, Master, should you desire a moment of rest.”

Harry woke with a deep shudder—a breath so deep he felt the unused corners of his spongey lungs reinflate with force. He looked down at his chest where a weight rested, only to get an eyeful of Hermione’s curls as she stared at him with her mouth open, face puffy from crying. Ron was just visible over her with a look of dawning horror.

“What the fuck,” Harry ground out, letting his head drop back down to the ground as Hermione began thumping her fists on his chest in anger, right over the wet patches her tears had left on him, cursing him out.

Chapter Text

Hermione had explained it as this: Harry’s patronus had scared the shit out of her in her office at the Department for Magical Creatures so she’d floo’d to Ron’s office in the Aurors department before it had even finished its message, kicking Zacharias Smith out just as Harry’s patronus filtered into the room to repeat itself. Ron had then shown Hermione the coordinates for the den he’d sent Harry to and they both apparated straight there.

Even though she used every last bit of healer training she had from the war, it wasn’t enough to save Harry from his stupid, imbecilic self, so he’d succumbed to his injuries whilst hanging limply on the spear. Ron lifted Harry off and they’d spent a good twenty minutes crying over his dead body and wondering what they should do—who to call first, what they should tell people, how to tell the world that Harry Potter, their beloved Boy-Who-Lived-To-Conquer, had died in a freak accident of his own making—when Harry had made a horrendous noise and gasped for air and woke up with no injuries.

It became obvious to the trio that something was terribly off about Harry and they all had their suspicions when they side-along apparated to Harry’s house to find the three Hallows arranged neatly on his bookshelf. It took only one denial from Harry of having put them there himself for Hermione and Ron to realise their friend had become something more in their time during the war and they just hadn’t realised. Hermione had noticed something, of that she was adamant.

“Well, I did notice that you look awfully fit,” Hermione had said, a finger to her chin in contemplation and Ron scowled in the background.

“Is that all?” Harry drawled, downing a glass of fire whiskey and rubbing absently at the new scar on his abdomen. It had been odd being impaled. Not his most enjoyable death, by any means.

“You haven’t noticed?” Hermione asked them both. “For someone fresh from a war, with alcoholic tendencies, PTSD, and insomnia, you’re awfully well-rested. Not a wrinkle in sight.” Harry scowled at her mention of PTSD and poured himself another drink.

Ron looked at him then—really looked. He stopped his frantic pacing and walked right to Harry, gripping his face and inspecting every centimeter of it. Harry’s silvery scar was still there, echoing down his forehead and across his nose like a pure bolt of lighting etched across the sky. Apart from his scar, Harry’s face was smooth. It had already been four years since the war but beneath the whiff of alcohol, ten day old stubble and war-hardened eyes, Harry still looked seventeen.

It wasn’t a drastic thing, by any means. Most people probably wouldn’t notice. But everyone changes, even within a year. Subtle things, like a fine line under their eyes or on their forehead or between their eyebrows. Maybe a few grey hairs that pop up once in a while before they notice and pluck it out as though doing so could reverse the act of ageing or remove stress. Ron honestly had more grey hairs than he knew what to do with in the first few months after the war until he settled into his new life and his stress decreased.

But Harry? Harry hadn’t ever complained about grey hair. Or having a sore back. He’d not even developed a wrinkle. Ron’s not sure how he’d missed it until now. Harry had been worrying them both with his habit of drinking himself to sleep and finding muggles to waste away with at all times of the day. He’d turn up to work with yesterday’s clothes on and Ron or Hermione would have to wave a few discreet charms his way, beg him to go back to the mind healer, and invite him to Sunday dinner, again, even though Harry rarely turned up or stayed longer than an hour if he did.

Ron let go of Harry’s face and stepped back. Harry wanted to crawl back into Death’s chest cavity. He’d felt safe there. Well, maybe safe wasn’t the right word. He’d felt content there, at least, almost at home in Death’s company. Rested. He considered offing himself again but decided to swig his firewhiskey instead, knowing any subsequent suicides would have to be done away from Ron and Hermione’s watchful eyes.

They’d all come to the same conclusion but none of them uttered the words: Master of Death. Instead, Hermione began doing what she did best. She planned for the possibility (likelihood, but they didn’t want to acknowledge that either) of Harry’s awfully long and lonely future where he was stuck as a perpetual seventeen year old and couldn’t even off himself for more than a restful nap.

They spent a few years putting her plans into action.

It was hidden from the world, even from their closest family. Only the three of them knew that beneath the glamours and ageing potions, Harry was burdened with the face of a seventeen year old. He lived and aged with his friends for a few more years, and Hermione began the political machinations to remove the Wizarding World’s over-reliance on their Saviour. Ron dutifully used his promotion to Head Auror to give Harry random, obscure missions with less combat each time and more magic work: curse breaking, unbindings, anything that required the dismantling of Dark magic.

Eventually, Harry stopped entering the field and Ron assigned him to training Aurors instead, not able to risk an accidental spell dispelling Harry’s fake wrinkles and revealing the smooth skin beneath. They told everyone it was because Harry could raise the standard of Aurors, make them each stronger with his teaching, something he was great at after his time teaching Dumbledore’s Army.

No one questioned Harry’s slow removal from society—the way he stopped attending Ministry events, no longer turned up to major votes at the Wizengamot, instead preferring to cast his votes from the comfort of home (a privilege Hermione demanded be given to him from Shacklebolt, citing Harry’s terrible PTSD as the reason, nevermind she had made him go to a mind healer for three years and any PTSD he may or may not have had was certainly not impacting him to the point of being unable to cast a vote every other month).

Hermione and Ron got married and had a daughter called Rose, and Harry was her godparent. He thought it a good choice, seeing as he was guaranteed to always be around for her. Harry remained woefully single but not alone—he often enjoyed he company of muggles but he usually kept the ageing glamours on. He wasn’t really into hooking up with teenagers when he was actually mid-twenties. If he went glamour-less, no respectable muggle would flirt with him as they were seeing a seventeen year old Harry, barely legal.

It was six years and some change later, when the trio was approaching twenty-six, that Hermione deemed their plan ready.

Harry left for America.

The deciding factor in where Harry moved was that he needed to be out of the UK and in a country with less restrictions on magic. The American Ministry for Magic was well known as the most liberal of the world with a lowered age for the restriction of magic use, no tracking of apparition outside of major cities, and unrestricted use of extension charms on anything inanimate. Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to find out why inanimate was a key word for that regulation.

It was easier, still, for their decision to send Harry to America when Ron realised he could send Harry there legally, on a top secret mission tracking unnamed Dark wizards and Death Eaters, allowing him entry into the country and effectively free, untracked use of his magic with the American Minister’s permission and endorsement.

Although the trio is a suspicious bunch, so Harry gave his wand to Kreacher and asked him to apparate around the country every few weeks to cast some random spells. It wasn’t normal for an elf to use a wand and Kreacher grumbled about even the idea of it, but he would do it nonetheless. that way, if Harry was tracked, they would actually find him doing something. Ron had decided to send captured Dark wizards to some obscure location in America every now and then too, posing them as though caught by Harry. Kreacher demanded a pay rise for his troubles.

Harry had one last Sunday dinner at the Burrow, this time with all his old friends in attendance, wishing him luck on his continued hunt for Dark Wizards and asking him to write often, return home soon. Luna had patted him on the arm and said “Your chest is awfully hollow, Harry. Don’t rest too much.” And that had made Harry relapse on firewhiskey (he’d been sober for around six months) until he passed out on Ron and Hermione’s couch, dreaming about the hollow in-between Death’s ribs and how he fit there perfectly.

“Don’t be a stranger, Harry,” Hermione said the next morning with tears in her eyes, dutifully not mentioning that Harry had drank himself to sleep. He appreciated it. “I might have helped you escape to another country, but I do expect you to keep in touch and visit every now and then. Secretly, even.”

Harry’s seventeen-year-old face broke out into a weary smile and he pulled her in for a hug. Hermione’s magic always smelt like the embers of a campfire and it made him remember months in a tent together, the way they’d danced with tears in their eyes and hugged each other close in the darkness. He breathed her in, deeply, so deep it felt like the first breath after death.

“Course, Hermione,” he agreed easily and maybe that was a sign that the mind healer had done their job, because old Harry wouldn’t have agreed so easily and certainly wouldn’t have meant it.

The current him realised, though, that he had to leave to protect his secret and the possibility of someone finding out that the Hallows are real—that immortality is a possibility, if only you could steal it from Harry Potter. He can’t risk the people he loves by putting them in danger if someone were to realise the power he has. If it was between Ron, Hermione, Teddy, Rose or the Hallows? He doesn’t doubt he would give the mantle of Master of Death away to save them.

Although, he wasn’t positive they would stay away from him. He has tried getting rid of each item, even going as far as snapping the elder wand and dumping it in a river. By the time he was home, it was back on his bookshelf, mocking him.

So, he would leave, he would add distance to his friends and family. But he wouldn’t forget that his loved ones only have one life and he needs to be there for it—to remember it, remember them, be there for their inevitable deaths and watch over their families. He couldn’t abandon them. Not when they would be here for such a short time. Not when he couldn’t ever join them in the afterlife.

He let her go and Ron stepped up, gently moving his wife out of the way with a pat to her head and a lingering touch to her shoulder. Harry wondered what intimacy like that would feel like. He wouldn’t know, not truly. He’d thought about it. Maybe meeting someone and lying to them about everything and living a life together but he truly can’t see past the first few years. Eventually they would start to age more and more and Harry, if all went absolutely perfect and they never once saw him without an ageing glamour, would one day have to see his lover die.

So, no. Harry had decided that true emotional love was not an option for him and he instead would have to rely on purely physical connections. He did, rather morbidly, feel that his closest connection outside of his best friends and godchildren was Death themself, but he didn’t want to think about that too hard lest the desire to curl in their chest became too strong and he decided to Avada himself. Again.

“We’ll come visit you real soon, mate,” Ron said, wrapping his strong arms around Harry and tightening like the Basilisk once had. “Teddy and Rose will want to spend a weekend with you every now and then, too.”

Harry hugged Ron back and breathed in the magic he expelled, like laundry softener mixed with a spark that reminded him of the WWW line of mini fireworks George released last year.

“I’ll make up a guest room for them.”
And then Ron stepped back and Harry could see them both, standing together and looking their actual ages.

They were both taller and Hermione had lost the baby fat in her cheeks but softened into motherhood in some abstract way he couldn’t put his finger on. They both had slight wrinkles in the corner of their eyes and Ron had more grey hairs than his red could hide. They were older but not old—simply weathered with time and blurred with age. Harry wanted to cry looking at them.

“I’ll see you guys soon,” he promised, before disappearing.

His apparitions were no longer accompanied by loud cracks of arrival and they hadn’t been since he’d become aware of his role as Master. Since then, he’d simply been able to disappear and reappear at will, silently. He’d always been ridiculously magical, but since becoming Master it became something different, something more.

He didn’t mind giving his wand to Kreacher because he had the elder wand to spare and, mainly, because he no longer needed a wand at all. His magic was more intuitive than ever and more powerful than he could even consider. He didn’t need a portkey to America at all—his silent apparition dropped him into his new home across the globe without so much as a twinge of magical exhaustion.

Ron and Hermione stared at the empty spot where their best friend had just left, and hugged each other tightly, happy that their plan was finally enacted, but sad at the life Harry was going to be forced to live forever. A life of running and hiding and never dying. A life of being so horrendously alone that a night with Death’s company was a blessing.

Chapter Text

In the state of Washington, under a near constant cover of clouds and rain, is a small town named Forks.

The Gringotts Goblins recommended it highly to Harry and Hermione because it was relatively close to a large city called Seattle—where Harry can access the magical community should he please, not that he had any intentions to do so—there are no magical creatures in the area, and no wixen, according to their records. It’s a slow moving town with a limited population, making it hard for new people to move in or around unnoticed. This is both a boon and a bane to Harry: he wishes he could live anonymously, but he will appreciate hearing about every new addition to town to ensure he hasn’t been tracked down.

Of course, tracking him down isn’t feasible for most people now. Hermione spent the better part of four years working out the runes needed to charm Harry into a living being under a modified fidelius charm, barring him from being visible to all tracking charms and spells including blood magic. Only those who he wants to be found by can find him.

Harry’s house is bigger than it was last he saw it. Harry had been expecting the small cabin he’d left behind, built by him and Ron on a plot of land Harry bought about a thirty minute walk from the Forks main street, effectively in the middle of the forest as far as the locals were concerned. They’d cleared the trees themselves with a mixture of magic and muggle means, and used the logs to build the cabin. It used to be a studio style cabin. Now, it was literally Grimmauld Place.

Harry lets out a deep sigh and drops his bag on the floor. “Kreacher,” he hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“Master be calling Kreacher but Kreacher no understand why Master mad,” Kreacher says with a huff, cracking into the room.

“What happened to my cabin?”

“Youse cabin was horrid. Much too small for Master. Grimmauld place much better, Kreacher thinks, so Kreacher bring.”

Harry wants to be mad but he can’t be really. Kreacher is a fussy old elf with more cunning than brain cells and, really, what harm is it to Harry? It’s not like he plans to have visitors apart from his best friends and godchildren. Plus, it is comforting, really, to be in a place he actually considers home. Kreacher and Harry spent a long time fixing Grimmauld Place after the war and Harry eventually made it into a place he loved, a place he felt comfortable and safe in. He had been sad to leave it behind.

“At least tell me it still looks like a cabin outside?”

“Master be thinking Kreacher incompetent. Perhaps Master shall take his wand back? He may wave stick around and Kreacher be free from dull duty.”

“Alright, Kreacher. I understand. Thank you.”

Kreacher leaves with a glare, apparating upstairs.

They’d come to an agreement years ago—or, well, Harry had ordered Kreacher to agree—that Kreacher can do whatever he liked to the upstairs areas. Kreacher wouldn’t accept everything above the ground floor as his personal quarters, so he only claimed the smallest room, but he enjoyed the free reign of design for the rest of the area and, truthfully, Harry hadn’t stepped foot up there in years.

He only needs enough space for himself and he has more than that just downstairs: the library, kitchen, living area, floo parlour, a bedroom and ensuite just to start. There are extra bedrooms he’d added for Rose and Teddy years ago, too, so that they'd be near him. Harry doesn't see the point of using the upstairs area as well. Besides, sticking to the downstairs area saves him the hassle of climbing stairs to get to bed after when he's inebriated.

Harry feels a bit stupid now with his extendable-charmed bag filled to the brim with all the belongings he thought he couldn’t live without, seeing as he now has every single thing he owns in the house. He stomps to his room and throws the bag to the side, deciding to send Hermione a letter of his grievances against Kreacher’s meddling. Ron might appreciate one too, seeing as he also slaved away building a cabin just for it to be used as a glamour for Grimmauld place.

With two sufficiently outraged letters penned, Harry heads to the kitchen for a snack only to find a note from Kreacher demanding he purchase the following list of ingredients for the household, since Harry had forsaken them too far from any magical stores. He is a little shocked to find that Kreacher is limited on how far he can apparate—Harry had always been under some misguided impression that house elves were unbound by such magical restrictions.

He looks at the list and grimaces, knowing he’s unlikely to find many of these English items in a small town American store. He’ll try his best and maybe set up some sort of long term reoccurring purchase from England. He’ll have to add a post note to his letter asking Hermione.

“I’m off, Kreacher,” Harry says as he heads to the front door.

“Safe please, Master,” Kreacher says as he cracks into existence at the door, his eyes big and bulging.

Harry feels guilt churning in his stomach at everything he’s put Kreacher through the last few years, at the times Kreacher found him dead in his bed or his bath, dropping great tears on his head before Harry gasped himself alive. He’d stopped killing himself at Grimmauld after that, unable to wake up and see the distraught look on Kreacher’s face at having failed his Master again. Now, all Harry can think about is the day Kreacher dies and how alone he’ll truly be.

“I’ll be back shortly, Kreacher. Don’t worry.” He pats the top of Kreacher’s head softly before apparating to the border of their land.

Harry takes the time to check his wards—the fidelius strong and unrelenting; the muggle-repelling wards holding against his stress test. Layers upon layers of charms block his property from those who might stumble upon it and those who search for it, or him. He feels the buzz of their energy against his fingertips, the combined magic of him, Hermione, and Ron, each entwined as they strengthen the wards.

He nods his head and begins the walk to town. He could drive into town using the car Hermione helped him purchase, or even on Sirius’s old motorbike in the garage, but instead Harry decides to walk. He’s got time to spare, after all. The thought is depressing and he pulls a cigarette out to smoke as he walks.

Forks is even smaller than he remembers it from those few times visiting in the dead of night with Ron or Hermione. Harry can't side-along three people all the way to America, and portkeys are expensive when buying them under pseudonyms and glamours. They couldn’t risk anyone noticing them popping off to America semi-regularly, after all. So the trio had often appeared and left Forks under the cover of night.

Forks has an odd charm to it that he likes. It’s quaint and homely. Each storefront is obviously family owned and run, surnames plastering their signs. There is a wooden signboard covered in local posters for garage sales, community events, and notices from the Sheriff. Most cars on the road are old and worn down with scratches and dents. People leave the keys in and engines idling as they swerve into one of the many empty roadside parking spots. Dogs loll from windows and truck beds with sloppy tongues and friendly barks at people they must know.

Harry feels something settle in that cavern of his—like a whisper of happiness deep inside, a comfort from the simple muggle-ness around him. There are no flying brooms or moving pictures or pumpkin juice sales or paparazzi. It’s just him, mostly unglamoured, only his lightning scar masked, walking a quiet street, thick jacket wrapped around his shoulders and short-hand note from Kreacher folded in his pocket. Harry might fly away in the slight breeze if he feels any more relaxed.

He shops quickly, filling his basket with the vegetables and meats requested and product-adjacent items he could find for the more British items Kreacher had wanted. Hopefully he won’t be too distressed at the lack of Digestives and Marmite. Harry would have to get Hermione to post some ASAP lest Kreacher decide to start cooking only beans again. Not that Harry doesn’t like beans per say, but for every meal they can get to be a bit much. If he eats them too often, they begin to remind him of those cold nights in the tent with Hermione, sharing a spoon and a can of whatever they could find.

Harry avoids the eyes of the elderly checkout lady, dumping a much-too-large note on the bench and scooping his grocery bags up with a “thank you” and a “keep the change” as he speeds outside and down the street, waiting until he is a good few minutes walk from the town before apparating himself home.

Kreacher is decidedly unimpressed with Harry’s grocery selection and mutters to himself as he puts the items away. Harry makes himself scarce and decides to head out again, this time into the woodlands outside. Ron had told him there were a few hiking trails on the mountains nearby that might be of interest—hiking is something Harry’s Hermione-appointed mind healer recommended him.

He had dutifully partaken in the hobby enough for his rage at seeing trees surrounding him to diffuse into a sort of calm, brought on by the peace they provided, the safety he felt in them now as opposed to the times he was sprinting through them for his life. Or walking through them to his death. Actually, trees are one of the main reasons he settled on Forks. He feels safe in them now. Surrounded by them.

He climbs his way up the mountain on a path that feels less intentional and more accidental, perhaps carved away by stray hikers like him or large animals making their way up. At some points it doesn’t even feel like a path to follow. He simply weaves between the trees and across moss-covered roots and rocks. Harry enjoys the way his breath puffs out of him in exertion and how his leg muscles begin to ache the higher he climbs. The mere action of exhausting himself reminds him that he’s alive, for now, and he focuses on the benefits of being so, like Hermione told him to.

“Don’t focus on the comfort of death, Harry,” she’d said, not knowing that death is more than oblivion for him; that Death is a being, a someone he can latch onto and rely on, a comfort not in simply nothingness, but in the something that Death is, in the something where Death exists.

“Focus on the pain of living,” she’d finished, gripping his hand. “That’s what it is, Harry. The comfort of death is an illusion to draw you in. Think about the pain of being human, of being alive.”

Harry still isn’t sure if Hermione is correct in her opinion—he has, after all, relapsed into Death’s comfort multiple times since that speech—but he can feel the intent in her words and the changes in his mindset since. Sure, sometimes he craves that comfort, that belonging that comes with embracing death and being embraced by Death.

But now he can feel the aches in his body from overexertion and understand that to feel pain is to be human. To be Harry. Who is he without pain, after all? His life has never been comfortable. It’s why Death fashions the after life as such, he’s sure. As something he craves. Something he has desired since childhood. The comfort of a warm place to sleep, someone to cocoon him, of an oblivion to render him peaceful.

Now, the trees will have to do.

The gentle sway of their leaves and branches in a slight wind that chills through his jacket is peaceful, calming. He breathes deep the earthy scents, damp and mossy, filling the empty corners of his lungs. With it comes the tingle of danger. A spark of something in the air that has his magic tingling beneath his skin, goosebumps rising on his arms. Harry turns his head and glances at the wolf watching him from the shrubbery nearby.

Its black eyes watch him carefully, silently. Harry takes his time inspecting it, turning to face it completely. He can’t tell if the wolf is trying to hunt him or is simply keeping watch—perhaps he has trespassed into its pack’s territory. When Harry doesn’t move, the wolf begins to slowly edge out from the shrubs, baring its teeth as it stalks closer slowly.

Harry narrows his eyes at it but doesn’t move back. Its coat is a deep black, shaggy and smudged with mud. It reminds him of Padfoot. Its belly and legs are dripping wet as though it has recently paddled over water and it stands almost as tall as Harry even as it crouches slightly. It growls lightly, digging its front claws into the dirt.

“Apologies,” Harry says softly, turning his head left and right at the two new sets of eyes in the darkness of the trees. “I didn’t realise I was trespassing on your land.”

The large wolf huffs at him, snapping his jaw lightly and Harry smiles slightly, cocking his head to the side as his magic unfurls around him and tightens along his skin.

“Understood. I’ll be off.”

Harry turns and begins walking back down the mountain without a glance back at the wolves. He can feel them stalking him for a good ten minutes, following him at a distance, only the soft huffs from their noses and the slight crackling of damp leaves beneath their paws alerting Harry to them.

How odd, he can’t help but think, for there to be shapeshifters in a town where Gringotts was adamant not one magical creature existed. Although maybe it isn’t that odd, he concedes, considering he cannot feel an ounce of magic in them.

He mentally adds it to the list of things to ask Hermione.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, shapeshifters?” Hermione asks the second Harry answers the floo call, bending his head into the fire.

“Blimey big wolves, that’s what I mean. I ran into them while hiking.”

“That can’t be! The Goblins assured us there were no magical beings in Forks!” Hermione wails. “Oh no, Harry. Do we need to move the timeline up?”

The timeline is Hermione’s plan—her complete plan for hundreds of years to come. Not simply Harry’s move to Forks, but for his subsequent moves when he can no longer hide his age or for when he tires of using ageing potions and glamours. It is the timeline for his life for as long as they can plan. New houses. New towns. New names. Fake children for Harry Potter to pass his Lordships and wealth onto, so that Harry can continue to hold his Wizengamot seats and interfere in the wizarding world, should he so choose.

“No, no. It’s fine. It was just weird. I couldn’t feel magic from them. Not really. It was different...they almost seemed, well, like Muggles. If it weren’t for their hulking wolf forms,” Harry explains, shuffling around until he can kick a cushion off the high-backed lounge chair nearby, stuffing it under his knees.

“Are you sure? Perhaps it is better to be safe than sorry,” she muses. Harry can hear Ron say something in agreement in the background and he groans.

“No, please. It’s only been three days. Let’s just see what happens.”

“Alright, Harry. But I’ll do some research. See what I can find.”

“Thanks, Hermione.”

A noise cuts through the floo and Ron’s panicked yell drags Hermione’s face from the floo for a second. When she reappears she looks queasy.

“Sorry, Harry. Got to go. Rose caught some sort of stomach bug at daycare and her magic’s going haywire. Ron’s being attacked by her sick bowl.”

“Yikes,” Harry says with a laugh.

“Right, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Talk soon. Be safe.”

She ends the floo call promptly and Harry peels himself from the floor, dumping himself onto the couch and lets the silence reign over him.

He zones out where he is, watching the fire crackle until Kreacher comes along and charms the record player on. Kreacher always knows when to fill the silence. When Harry is so far lost in his mind that he needs the noise to pull him out.

Although Harry has often felt alone in life, he has rarely actually been alone. Even at the Dursley’s there had always been noise around—Dudley playing games or yelling for food, Mr Dursley watching the game, or Mrs Dursley having tea with her friends. Even their feet stomping on the stairs above him brought comfort at times. At Hogwarts, Harry had roommates and friends and generally a school filled with young, boisterous children. The closest he’d been to alone was those months in the tent and, even then, Hermione had never left his side.

“Master, has plans today, no?” Kreacher says, cutting into Harry’s reminiscing. “Master be attending muggle school.”

“Yes, Kreacher, thank you,” Harry mutters, even though a part of him may be grateful for Kreacher’s care, a larger part wishes he could off himself for the day. Not that it would last that long, anyway. The more times he dies the quicker he returns, as though his body has adjusted to the journey. He wishes it were the opposite, but he supposes that would go against the general benefits of not being able to die.

“No time, Master,” Kreacher reminds him with a huff, batting Harry’s leg.

“Alright, alright.” Harry slithers himself off the chair and stomps to his bathroom, shucking his shirt off on the walk.

---

Forks High School is even less impressive than Harry had expected. Hogwarts is in no way a normal high school with its sprawling lands, magical forest, and the building itself being a centuries old castle. So maybe his expectations are skewed. Still, Harry had expected a little something more from this muggle school than a one-story sprawl of a few red-bricked buildings, joined together by tin-roof walkways to block the rain. Home of the Spartans, the sign declares proudly and he has to truly wonder how well-known these Spartans are.

Harry leans against his motorbike with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles, as he takes a drag from his cigarette. Smoking is another thing Hermione has been on his back about as being an unhealthy habit, alongside his drinking and dabbling in Muggle drugs, but Harry promptly cut the wind from her argument when he pointed out that he could not, in fact, die from cancer, so the stress-relieving benefits far outweighed any possible reasons she could conjure for him to quit. He isn’t sure what is causing more people to stare at him: the motorbike, the smoking, or simply him, the new kid.

The teenagers of Forks High School are unabashed with their glances and whispers from across the carpark, clustered together near their cars. Harry sighs and stamps the cigarette out under his boot. Their behaviour isn’t anything he hasn’t dealt with for years, but it feels a little odd, seeing as they aren’t whispering about Harry Potter, the Chosen One. Instead, they whisper about the new kid, James, and his motorbike and cigarettes.

Harry can’t help scoffing at the thought as he scoops his bag up from the ground and begins to stalk across the parking lot. He had parked as far from the entrance as possible under some misguided guise that it might help him go unnoticed in the throng of students. However, he had grossly overestimated the number of attending students—and so had the poor sod who designed the carpark.

“You must be James!” A twinkly voice says softly from his right before a petite teen steps in front of him, her short pixie cut spiking almost dangerously at the edges.

Harry pauses, hiking his bag slightly up his shoulder and looking down at the girl.

“Er, yeah. That’s me…James,” the name rolls of his tongue slowly and she perks an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, I was right!” She smiles. “You’re British! How fun!” She giggles and turns to look over her shoulder at a cluster of teenagers standing near a silver car.

“Fun, right,” Harry mutters, glancing at the teens.

“I’m Alice, by the way! I’m on the welcome committee for the new students.” Harry hums and nods, looking around slightly for a possible escape. A welcome committee. How horrid. “Come on, I’ll show you to the office.”

The girl—Alice—doesn’t wait for him to reply, turning on her heel sharply and skipping along the pavement. Harry closes his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath, holding the memories of Luna skipping down the halls of Hogwarts close in his mind, remembering her consistent presence in his life, how she guided him in times he wasn’t even aware he was looking for guidance.

When he opens his eyes, Harry looks straight into the dark eyes of one of the teens near the silver car, possibly one of Alice’s friends. The teen is tall, almost as tall as Ron, with a lithe build Harry can tell hides muscle, and a frown set deep on his face. Another teenager with buzzed hair elbows him in the side and they look away, the dark-eyed one glaring at the ground. Harry stomps after Alice.

---

Harry is beginning to regret attending Muggle school. He’s quite sure that a nice hermit life in an isolated woodlands would have been a better choice than being surrounded by such happy people—teenagers who smile and giggle and whisper in the hallways, reminiscent of Hogwarts before the war. Hogwarts before fifth year when everything went to shit. Maybe even earlier, really, like when Cedric died. Things had been dark then.

Muggles here are all so young and naive, eyes wide with curiosity that curls a bitter seed in Harry’s gut, the memory of himself, malnourished and scrawny, looking at Hogwarts for the first time. He doesn’t want to taint these Muggles with their sweet, safe lives.

He’d only agreed to attend Muggle high school because Hermione argued it was the only way he could maintain living sans glamours or potions for at least a few years without anyone asking questions. She also made some solid arguments about the benefits of muggle education and being able to stay up to date with common muggle knowledge, but Harry is less worried about that. He has always been living life one step behind everyone, last to understand news or gossip, never understanding the wizarding world references until someone explains them. Plus, he isn’t completely inept in the muggle world. He has lived many years here, after all.

Harry has spent all morning darting in his classes seconds before they start and out of them seconds after they end. He doesn’t want to interact with the overly excited looking teenagers and their overly excited faces. After years of practice, he can spot those wanting to approach him with his eyes closed and promptly evades any and all people who want to interact. Classes have been mostly boring. He is melancholic, the hole in his chest aching at the memories of Hogwarts and all those good years, those formative years where he made friends, learnt about his family, ate and slept well. Being here reminds him of those first few years of Hogwarts where he hadn’t truly recognised the war that was coming and his role to play.

Now, he just wants to leave. It was a bad decision to come here. Harry can feel the walls shrinking in on him, the smiles growing to nauseating sizes around him. His heart beats too fast and his hands grow clammy. He wants to curl up in Death’s—

“Please, don’t do that, James.”

Harry stumbles and he looks at Alice to his left, who he almost forgot was there. She had turned up outside of his class just before lunch and asked him to eat with her. Harry had hummed and shrugged, not really having a reason to say no.

“Er—what? Sorry, I zoned out.”

“You’ll like it here, James.” She smiles brightly and pushes the cafeteria doors open. “I’ve seen it.”

Harry frowns at her. Alice reminded him a lot of Luna when she first introduced herself, but the way she rambled on about nothing as she toured him around this morning had slowly changed his mind. Luna isn’t someone to mindlessly fill silence after all. She lives as though her words are numbered, only talking when addressed or to drop a life altering comment. When he’d asked why she was so quiet, she told him that the world has many more interesting things to steal her attention, so she has to focus on them. She did wrap the conversation up by saying he has too many wrackspurts and should wear her cleansing cork more often. Alice isn’t on the same plane as Luna, but she is close. Harry hates the way those words crawl down his spine and light along his fingertips in warning, a siren blaring of seers and their prophecies.

“What do you mean?” He asks her hesitantly, stopping just in the doorway.

Alice freezes for a second too long. A second in which Harry can feel her mind racing, spots the table of teenagers she was walking towards, each of them listening intently although pretending not to. Which is odd, considering they’re an entire cafeteria distance away.

“Nothing.” Alice turns and her smile falters slightly as her eyes dim. Harry frowns at her more. “I just think you’ll love Forks. We didn’t really like it when we first moved.” She gestures to the table teenagers he’d saw her glance at this morning. They’re talking to each other, moving as though having lunch and enjoying their conversation. But Harry’s magic crackles in his palms at the scene—too posed, too fake. “But now we love it here. I think you will too,” she finishes, oblivious to Harry’s stress.

Alice’s explanation is rushed and hasty. Her smile is too-wide, eyes blinking too fast. Harry nods at her and shuffles back a step.

“Sorry, Alice. I’m not that hungry. I think I’m going to go for a walk outside.” He turns and heads back the way they came, throwing a quick look over his shoulder as the guilt churns in him for being rude. “I’ll see you later.”

“Alright, James,” Alice replies, sounding downtrodden.

Harry disappears into the carpark, fumbling a cigarette out of the packet and lighting it with his finger quickly, deciding it is a small enough action for someone to believe they were hallucinating if they saw him. With a deep drag of his cigarette, Harry realises half a school day is enough and loops his leg over his bike, kicking it off the stand and driving away with the helmet still locked on the handlebar.

Chapter Text

In the week leading up to the unknown green-eyed teenager’s arrival, Alice makes Edward hunt daily.

Her thoughts tell Edward she’s worried he will want to drain the human, convinced that the teen must be his mate. He will admit that her visions have hinted at the idea. However, Edward is determined for it not to come to pass. Visions are subjective and Alice’s especially are volatile, constantly evolving.

Even as he stands here, making the decision not to engage with the human, he can see her visions changing with his determination. Being involved with a human is stupid and risky—two things Edward has never deigned to be labeled. He will not risk loving a human because he knows they would wish to stay together forever. Edward can think of no greater pleasure than to watch someone he loves die; to watch as they experience life and love, as they age and change, evolve into something more than he or his family could ever comprehend.

Alice’s visions never show that version of the teenager. They never show him aged and happy, wrinkled in a chair on a porch. In every vision the teenager looks the same. His emerald eyes always end the vision looking straight at them. For that reason, and that reason alone, Edward decides not to get involved with the human.

There is one vision that Edward wishes won’t come to pass more than the others—one of the teenager in the forest, sprawled on a patch of flowers and grass, smile on his face and death in the air. That one in particular is disturbing. Edward knows that patch of land. He knows it like the back of his hand, and he wonders what action might lead to a future where someone would look so peaceful in death. Edward doesn’t want to know. His only saving grace is that there is no blood in that vision—no bite on the teenager to indicate he was drained by someone, drained by Edward.

“Stop fighting it,” Alice whines from the backseat, her hand curled in Jasper’s. “I can’t see what will happen.”

Visions flick through her mind, vague and murky. They’re at a table together. The cafeteria. The teenager sits and looks at them all with a frown. The next has the teenager in a classroom with Edward, sitting next to him in Biology. Edward looks pained. The next has the teenager in a home, staring blankly at a wall with odd music in the background, sitting still until the sun goes down.

“I don’t think it’s my decisions you’re seeing,” Edward replies. He’s sure his own decision is made and locked—he will ignore the human as much as possible. Avoid connections even with Alice’s inevitable interference. “He seems quite content to stay home.”

Alice cocks her head. You call that content?, her mind questions. Edward shrugs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What is it? I hate when you guys do this,” Emmet grumbles, sinking down in the front seat. “If Rose was here she would agree.”

“It seems the teenager may desire to stay home.” Jasper explains softly as they pull into the school parking lot.

“He’ll be here,” Alice says determinedly and Edward watches the vision in her mind, of the teenager pulling up to the school on a motorbike. He sighs heavily and parks the car.

They’re earlier than usual. A planned decision to try and glimpse the teenager before school. Alice signed up for the school welcome committee six months ago, laughing at their confused faces back then. She didn’t know the reason why she was signing up, just that she had a vision of her doing so. Alice enjoys living to the whims of her visions. It’s not like Forks got new students often. In fact, they are the most recent new students and it has already been a year since they moved to Forks.

Edward stays sitting in the car as the others clamber out. He closes his eyes and meditates slowly, cutting out the focal thoughts he can hear from the noisiest minds at the school—Jessica Stanley and Mike Newton being two of the most obnoxiously loud. He slows his thinking until the thoughts of the teenagers nearby are buzzing in the background. A noise he can choose to focus on if he wants to. His peace doesn’t last long. A motorbike rumbles towards the school and Edward drops his head back onto the headrest.

He should have stayed home with Rosalie. She had the right idea, skipping so she wouldn’t have to deal with the drama of the new kid. Edward would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t curious about the green-eyed teenager. That curiosity, though, was a horrible thing. He shouldn’t be curious. He should have crushed that months ago, when Alice had her first vision of the teenager. Edward decided not to engage with the teen—and he is determined to stick to that conviction. So, why had he turned up today?

He can read similar thoughts rolling in Emmett’s head as he watches Edward through the car window. If even Emmett is questioning him, then Edward is assured he’s an idiot. He hops out of the car, ignoring Jasper’s small smile at his volatile emotional status, and leans against the door to wait for the teenager.

It isn’t just the Cullen family waiting. After a minute, even the humans can hear the rumble of the motorbike and an excited whisper breaks out through the crowd, their thoughts jumbling into a cascade of anticipation. Apparently there had been a rumour of a new kid starting, stemming from someone whose parent helped sell a plot of land, another whose mother works in the school office. Small towns don’t allow for surprise guests.

“He’s almost here,” Emmett says with a clap on Edward’s shoulder. “How’s it feel, brother?”

“Shut up,” Edward hisses, shaking Emmett’s rough grip off. Emmett only laughs in response.

“He’s here!” Alice exclaims as the motorbike swerves dangerously into the parking lot, slowing instantly as the teenager likely scans for a spot to park.

Likely?

Edward pauses. Jasper can feel Edward’s confusion growing with each passing second and he turns to his brother, noting the way Edward’s hands are gripped tightly and his eyes brows are furrowed.

“What is it?” Jasper asks.

Edward tries again, waiting for the teenager to rip the black helmet from his head, releasing a puff of black hair, curls tangling over each other into a stylistic mess. Edward picks up a vague sense of a thought—an unusual name, Hermione, and a spotty recollection of unhappiness, resignation.

The teen’s green eyes roam across the students ogling him with an exasperated-sounding sigh. As his eyes skim over Edward for a second, his thoughts disappear with a sharp edge, as though slammed behind a door. His siblings watch with him cautious eyes.

“I can’t read his thoughts,” Edward says quietly, frowning even more.

“What, really?” Emmett looks impressed. “Nothing at all?”

“I…I don’t know. I thought I could for a moment, but I’m not sure. It’s like there’s something blocking me.”

“Maybe he has a natural block on his mind,” Jasper muses. “Didn’t you say Chief Swan was the same?”

Edward nods slowly. Chief Swan is notoriously hard for Edward to read, but it’s not impossible. With Chief Swan there’s thoughts there, floating in the distance, unclear but understandable, key emotions and feelings easily defined, intent not hard to recognise. With this teenager it’s different. There’s nothing there. Not a thought. Not a feeling. One second they were almost there, the next they were gone, sealed tight.

The teenager dumps his bag on the ground and fishes for something in his pockets. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one from the case with expert ease, only pausing to flick his lighter angrily four times when it doesn’t light. It finally sparks and the teenager takes a hasty drag, like that of a much older man, leaning against his bike and crossing his ankles, eyes darting around the parking lot as though surveying the property and it’s people.

“Ooh, a bad boy,” Emmett jokes.

“I didn’t see that coming,” says Alice with a frown.

“You can’t see everything, sweetheart,” Jasper reassures her softly.

The teenager’s hands shake slightly as he brings the cigarette to his lips. Edward notices callouses on his fingers, thick and rough over the sides of his knuckles and in the crevice near his thumb. It’s an unusual collection of callouses, one Edward has never seen before. Perhaps he’s only noticed them now because of who they’re attached to—the teenager from Alice’s visions; someone he cannot read; a boy who breathes his cigarette in as though it’s oxygen and he’s asphyxiating. Edward wonders why those calloused hands shake. He wants to know why the teen’s heart rate is increasing every minute he stands there, even with the nicotine sifting through him.

He catalogues the teen in ways he often does: messy hair, slight stubble, scuffed and worn-in leather-like boots paired with near new looking clothes, all fitting as though tailored to his shape and height. The motorbike is shiny yet old, antique, and the way the teen rests his free hand on it shows he cares for it. Edward wishes he could shuffle through the teenager’s mind to find out why. His eyes are the brightest green Edward’s seen in his entire damned existence. They gleam from beneath the teen’s rounded glasses with a depth of haunting emotion to rival Edward’s own.

A fact, going off of Jasper’s thoughts as he feels out the teenager. He’s traumatised, Jasper thinks to himself, as he feels the warring within the teenager. Something horrible happened to him. He’s so…dark. And Edward can feel it. Can feel the darkness Jasper senses in the teen’s mind—James, Alice’s thoughts supplement, as she sees the future of asking for his name—wrapping around the teenager, gripping his neck, curled in his chest. It’s heavy and oppressive over him. A grief and longing mixed with disgust.

Edward barely pulls himself from Jasper’s thoughts and emotions as Alice’s voice cuts his attention. She’s cornered the teenager and begins babbling about the welcome committee. James, she calls him, and he looks disgruntled at the thought of being welcomed anywhere.

“Er, yeah. That’s me…James,” he says, but he smiles slightly just at the corner, and he huffs under his breath as though his name is humorous.

“Oh, I was right! You’re British!” Alice winks back at them, a wicked grin crossing her face for a millisecond. “How fun!”

The teenager’s eyes sweep over, following Alice’s action, and he narrows them imperceptibly.

“Fun, right,” he replies slowly. Edward tenses. His hands curl into fists.

“What is it?” Jasper asks, rigid next to Edward’s growing unease.

“I don’t know what he’s thinking. Why did he look at us like that?”

“Relax, brother.” Emmett shuffles his hair. “Did you not see those glasses? Poor guy can barely see.”

And he’s right, of course. Emmett the intellectual. Always calm and collected in the face of logic. Except he’s not—that’s Edward’s role, and the fact Emmett is taking over makes him uneasy. Edward doesn’t know why such a thought didn’t occur to him. He’s so used to knowing why people act, when and how they will. He’s never had to live…guessing.

Alice is already bouncing towards the school office, James reluctantly in tow. Jasper drowns in James’s emotions: nostalgia, love, grief and mourning. It’s such an odd crush of emotions that even Jasper struggles to reconcile the warring feelings, to breathe them deep and release their overwhelm. Edward focuses to block Jasper’s mind. He’s struggling enough without the extra input of James’s obviously unstable emotions.

“Come on,” Emmett says, pulling the two out of their stupor. “Let’s head to class.”

Jasper and Edward trail after him like ducklings, both trapped in their own thoughts about the green-eyed James.

----

It’s when Jasper sits at the cafeteria table alone that Edward realises Alice is doing something she definitely shouldn’t be doing and knows that he would strongly dislike. He glowers at Jasper who simply smiles in response. You know I can’t stop her, he thinks and Edward chooses to pretend he doesn’t hear that thought.

Not that he doesn’t expect Alice’s meddling in some way. Of course he does. It’s Alice, for goodness sake. But he had hoped she would consider his feelings, at least a little. To give him the chance to adhere to his own desires of ignoring James.

Through the hum of lunch gossip Edward can hear their approach—Alice and James, walking slowly to the cafeteria through the main hall. Edward hones his hearing to their conversation, letting the thoughts and chats about James spawning from the teenagers surrounding them to drop out of his mind like static.

“You’ll like it here, James,” Alice says just as she opens the door to the cafeteria. “I’ve seen it.”

And then James stops dead. His face pales and his heart rate triples, his eyes begin darting around the room as if the walls are beginning to close in on him.

“What do you mean?” James breathes out slowly and looks at Alice.

Edward can feel his brothers tense nearby as they tune in to the scenario. Jasper feels out James and instantly pulls back from him, from the turmoil in his emotions. The rage and fear lacing down the teenager’s spine. Edward feels sick.

Alice is jumping through visions, each one worse than the last. Several just end in darkness. Those are the worst. The best options end with James walking out. The vision of him sitting at the cafeteria table with them has disappeared after whatever has triggered the teen. Edward is slightly happy that it has, but he’s wary now, worried for his family—he’s unable to read James’s mind and feel his intent, to understand why he is reacting so harshly. He wants to know why several of Alice’s visions end in darkness as though blocked from even her.

“Nothing,” Alice says, choosing the future with the calmest ending. I don’t understand why that made him upset, she thinks, turning her head sightly to glance at Edward. His futures have been all over the place. Edward doesn’t need to ask what she means, because she drags the visions forward as though thrusting them towards him, and Edward is sinking in visions of James dying. He’s in the forest again, in the flowers; he’s in a bath bleeding out; he’s on the tarmac, motorbike wrapped around a tree. There’s gaps in the visions, blank spaces where information should be or a different future was likely forming before something blocked it.

“I just think you’ll really love Forks. We didn’t really like it when we first moved,” Alice continues, gesturing towards the table calmly, almost like she hadn’t just shown Edward fifteen visions of James killing himself. “But now we really love it here. I think you will too.”

Emmett’s hand drops onto Edward’s roughly, gripping his fingers and peeling them back from the edge of the table. The bench creaks under their combined strength.

“Let it go, Edward,” Emmett whispers harshly. “You’ll snap the table.”

Jasper interferes, sending out a wave of calm to Edward with a frown on his face.

“What is it?” Jasper asks under his breath, stabbing a fork into his prop lunch salad.

“Alice’s visions,” Edward replies softly, finally releasing the table and closing his eyes tightly. “She had so many. All of James dead.”

There is an uncomfortable silence in which Edward listens to his brothers consider asking which of them murders James.

“Not from us,” he replies to their thoughts. “Not from me. From himself.”

“Sorry, Alice. I’m not that hungry. I think I’m going to go for a walk outside.” James replies and Edward almost stands up, almost follows him out of the cafeteria until James turns around and says, “I’ll see you later.”

“Alright, James,” Alice replies, sounding downtrodden as visions flash through her mind of James, stumbling around what looks like an antique sitting room with a fireplace, falling across a chaise lounge with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Edward supposes drinking is better than killing oneself, so it seems James’s future improved slightly in the talk with Alice. Maybe.

She sits at their table and they fall into a grim silence, Edward frowning at Alice for interfering and somehow making everything worse, and Emmett and Jasper unwilling to break the silence.

It’s only when lunch is almost over that Edward sits up straighter turns to Alice and says, “Didn’t James have a scar in your first vision?”

Chapter Text

Kreacher dislikes inviting anyone over and he certainly wouldn’t choose the Weasley’s if he were to deign to do so, blood traitors as they are.

However, the Weasley couple have always been good to his Master and Kreacher is limited in choice due to his Master’s unique circumstances. Besides, Kreacher’s Master has long since forbidden any nonsense of blood traitors in Grimmauld Place and Kreacher isn’t one to willfully disobey.

Few living souls even know where his Master is, and Kreacher will not be the one to destroy his Master’s escape from the clutches of the Wizarding World. Oh, how Kreacher’s fellow house elves would shame Kreacher for such a thought against their world. Still, Kreacher has naught left in this world apart from what his Master has given, and Kreacher will not betray his Master’s trust.

Therefore, Kreacher floo calls the detestable Ronald Weasley and requests his presence immediately.

Ron floo’s into Harry’s supposed-to-be-a-cabin, only to find himself in the floo parlour of Grimmauld Place with Kreacher standing angrily in the doorway.

“Youse be taking much too long,” Kreacher chastises, tapping his long foot angrily. “Come now, Master be needing you.”

And Ron follows dutifully, knowing Kreacher would never have called him if it weren’t serious. In fact, to hear the floo go off and to find Kreacher’s wrinkly face in the flames had scared Ron more than he’d like to admit. Kreacher’s face wasn’t made for fire. And the implications of why he would be calling were less than desirable. Ron hasn’t even contacted Hermione yet, because he wants to see just how bad it is first.

“What happened to the cabin?” He asks, looking around at the familiar sage green painted walls.

He remembers spending a whole day teaching Harry the spells needed to paint the walls, only for Harry to turn around and do it the muggle way. It had been interesting to watch—the long stick with a rolling brush is an ingenious invention, of which he’d had many a conversation about with his father. It hadn’t taken Harry much longer than the spells would’ve, really.

“Kreacher be thinking the cabin be insufficient for Master.” Kreacher glares over his shoulder as though daring Ron to argue.

“I spent a long time building that cabin,” he mutters under his breath.

He continues along behind the elf, marvelling at the speed at which Kreacher can get going when he really tries. He’s always seemed so lethargic, it’s almost comical to see the way his legs flick out in the hurry. But Ron isn’t amused for long, when he finds Harry lounged across the chaise, half-empty bottle of firewhiskey in one hand and a hand-rolled cigarette in the other.

“That bad aye, mate?” Ron asks, shuffling past Kreacher and into the room.

It smells sweet and the aftertaste is acidic on his tongue. It’s more than moonweaver grass, of that Ron is sure. He’s smoked his own share with Neville before but it never was this strong and it never burned the back of his nostrils.

“Some strong stuff this time. You mind?” Ron coughs slightly, batting the smoke away.

The room is practically all smoke—a feat, for one with such high ceilings. Harry waves his hand drunkenly and the smoke disappears, along with the joint. He takes a swig from the bottle instead.

Ron sighs and plops down on the only free chair left, reaching out and grabbing the bottle from Harry’s limp grip, taking a sip. He strategically places the bottle on the table to this right, furthest away from Harry, and shucks his Auror robe off. The red material is unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

“What happened, mate?” He asks after a minute and Harry rolls on the chaise, turning so his back faces Ron and his face is buried in the couch.

“I don’ wanna talk ‘bout it.” Ron can barely hear Harry’s muffled tone.

He wonders if this is what it’s like to have a teenager. If Rose might be like this when she hits eighteen. It’s been on his mind before, whether Harry’s emotional state is stunted because of his status, his frozen age doing more than just keeping him looking young. Perhaps it actually keeps all of him young, immature. But it’s a mean and sad thought to have—that his best friend might be stuck with the emotional state of a traumatised eighteen year old forever. One he and Hermione refuse to believe.

Harry changed a lot in their period of preparation and his mental state improved tenfold after visiting the mind healer regularly. That doesn’t mean it is perfect or that Harry is even stable by most people’s standards. It's probably hard to be stable when you’re the Master of Death. Hard to truly get therapy when there’s so many secrets you can’t let slip, even to those with unbreakable vows.

Hermione’s been studying mind healing lately. She thinks Ron hasn’t noticed the new addition of textbooks on the floor next to her bedside table, or the focus in her eyes as she scribbles notes, cross-legged at the coffee table with a tea charmed perpetually warm next to her. Ron might have been a bit of dullard as a teenager, but he’s not so anymore. He’s observant and logical, and he’s watched Hermione for years. Loved her for the same amount. He knows Hermione’s habits, especially when they come to Harry. He knows she’s trying to do what she can for Harry—to become what he might need before it’s too late. Before they’re gone, and Harry’s alone with those secrets of Horcruxes and death and the Deathly Hallows.

“C’mon, mate. You gotta talk about it. Otherwise I’ll have to get Hermione.”

Harry groans loudly and rolls over, sitting up and facing his best friend, whose face is aged in ways he'll never get to experience. He wants to scream at the world. He wants to scream at Death. He wants to kill Voldemort all over again just to kill something that’s not himself for once.

“Don’t use Hermione as a threat,” he grumbles.

“Don’t make me.” Ron shrugs. “C’mon. Drink this.”

He grabs a sobriety potion from a small tray on the table, paired with glasses of water and small dinner rolls. Kreacher obviously tried many times to get through to Harry before contacting Ron. It makes him a little sad, to think of the old elf begging Harry to drink something non-alcoholic, to nibble on a piece of bread to ease the side effects. Harry drinks the potion down after only a slight scowl.

“You know, ‘Mione has ten different American mind healers vetted and is ready to book an appointment the second she thinks you’re slipping again. Is that what you’re doing? Slipping?” Ron asks after a minute, letting the potion sink in and seeing his friend’s eyes refocus.

It’s true she has mind healers ready to go. She obviously thinks Harry needs someone he can truly talk to, secrets and all, but she’s prepped for all scenarios. Harry going off the deep end and needing a mind healer regularly again is one of those.

Harry runs his hands through his hair and his knees jump rapidly in agitation. The Auror in Ron sees a man about to lie. The best friend in him sees a man in an emotional trench he doesn’t know how to climb out of.

“No, I’m not slipping.” Harry looks away from Ron’s unimpressed face. “Look, maybe a little, okay? It’s just…” Harry trails off. “I dunno. I felt so happy those first few days, you know? But then, like, I realised how alone I am. How alone I’ll always be and it just…” Harry goes silent and shakes his head. “And then I went to that muggle school and everyone was so happy, for Merlin’s sake. I just felt like a giant dementor in a school of good memories.”

Ron nods slowly and thinks over his response carefully. “So, interacting with the muggles is a bad idea? It makes you feel worse?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!” Harry exclaims, gripping his hair tightly. “It was nice for a bit, to be surrounded by such normal people. But then it just hit me—that, that I’m not one of them. Not any more. And someone reminded me of Luna literally first thing in the morning and then I was thinking about everything that happened to her at Malfoy Manor and—” Harry cuts himself with a huff. “It just went downhill.”

“Right.” Ron fiddles with the loose third button on his shirt. “I get it, mate. It still happens to me, you know?” Ron almost avoids Harry’s eyes but stops himself, turning his gaze back, locking eyes in a declaration of his effort.

He’s never been the best at these emotional talks. Hermione’s helped him to be better at it, to tell her how he feels and things he thinks. And he knows Harry needs it now. Ron wants to support Harry, for as long as he can, because there’ll be a day Harry is stuck here without either of his best friends, and Ron can’t think of anything worse.

“Sometimes I’ll just be hanging around, everything fine, and then someone will do or say something and suddenly it’s like I’m back there. Like I have that blasted Horcrux hanging from my neck again.” They both shudder at the memory. “Sometimes that’s just what happens. But what’s important is how you deal with it, Harry. You shouldn’t cope with things like this,” Ron waves his hand around generally at the couch and alcohol. “You can’t live like this forever.” He winces at his wording. Hermione’ll have his head for it when she hears.

“Actually, I can,” Harry scoffs, rightfully so, at the reminder. “And that’s the problem isn’t it? That no matter what I do, it doesn’t matter any more. Not really.”

“It does matter,” Ron argues, scrambling to catch his footing after plunging off the cliff of wrongly worded advice.

“Why? I’ll be back anyway. You could Avada me right now and I’d be back in twenty minutes after a nice nap.”

Ron flinches at the word, at the visual. At the memory of Harry walking into a forest and being carried out. At the first time he found Harry dead and how it wasn’t the last. At the way the word rolls off of Harry’s tongue, practiced and natural.

“Isn’t it a good thing?” Harry whispers, tears bordering his eyes. “I didn’t kill myself today. I wanted to. Salazar knows I wanted to. But I didn’t. Doesn’t that count for something?” Harry begs, eyes boring into Ron with a weight he doesn’t know how to receive.

“Of course it does, Harry.” And he means it. The relief he felt when he walked in to Harry alive is indescribable. He’s had enough of seeing Harry’s corpse, even if he knows it doesn’t take long for Harry to liven up. “But Kreacher’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. Mione too. We just want you to learn to live again, Harry.”

And Harry can’t help the bitterness swelling in his gut.

“How am I meant to do that, Ron? How am I meant to live when I can’t even die?”

Ron remembers the days when Harry was the brightest in their class. Always happy, just excited to be there, in Hogwarts and away from his horrible family. He was bright eyed and smiled at everything and everyone. He was shocked when there was a table of food. Overjoyed at a bed and a trunk reserved just for him. Everything Ron had taken for granted was looked at as a blessing by Harry, and that was without the allure of magic. That Harry seems long gone.

“That’s what you need to figure out, Harry. You need to learn to live because that’s all you have now.” Ron reaches out and grips his best friend’s hand as tight as he can, wishing he could hold onto it, to be there for Harry forever. “Don’t give up, mate. Please. For us. Give it a chance and see what happens. If it doesn’t work here, we move to the next place. The world’s a big place, Harry. I know you’ll find a spot you belong.”

Harry grips his hand back and doesn’t say anything for long moment.

“I am trying, Ron. I promise.”

Ron nods his head and they stay like that for a while, Harry clutching Ron’s outstretched hand.

When Ron leaves an hour later with promises to bring Rose and Teddy around next weekend, Harry is emotionally fraught and ready for bed. He manages a slight thank you and goodnight to Kreacher before crawling under the covers of his bed. With a wave of his hand, the chilly night air flows into the room. He shudders under the sheets but leaves it open, eventually falling asleep to the slight howls he can hear in the distance.

Chapter Text

James doesn’t attend for the next two days after his short-lived debut at Forks High School.

It causes an even larger interest in the boy, as the mysterious new addition to Forks. Rumors sprout amongst the students about James’s previous schools and why he ended up in their small town—a British guy, with his accent so strong it’s obvious he has not been in America long.

His absence for two days causes Edward to spiral in fear of why. He keeps revisiting the visions of James’s deaths, all the possible ways he might be found. He begins to wish for James’s safe return to school. He even goes so far as to consider tracking James down.

Well, he does more than simply consider it, Edward attempts to find James’s house but it ends rather confusingly with him running in circles and forgetting where he is or what he is doing until he returns home.

That brings Edward into another spiral of complex thoughts, one which sends him on a trek up the mountains to his favourite spot. He hasn’t told his family just yet. James could already be dead, after all. But if he isn’t dead…Edward is positive there’s something off about James.

The fact he is unable to locate James’s house is the first bad sign, especially when he considers how confused he gets part-way into the task, often feeling as though he has somewhere to be, someone to meet, even though he doesn’t. Those thoughts are so strong that he often completely forgets he does, in fact, not have a job to get to nor does he have lunch plans with a girlfriend.

But Edward doesn’t want to tell his family, even if James is alive. And that’s what has sent him to the meadow, to mope alone and come to terms with the guilt drowning him. His family has always been number one. The thing he looks out for above all else. He would kill to keep his family’s secret—has killed to do so. He may not be proud of his past actions but knows deep down he will repeat them if it is between his family and one human.

So, why is he hesitating to tell his family about James? He is obviously a threat, with his impenetrable mind, self-aware visions, impossibly hidden house and the lightning scar, missing from his face and all recent visions. It only exists in Edward’s memory now, of those first few visions Alice had of James and him together.

He could let the scar go if it had been something new. A possible future that never came to pass. But the scar is old in those visions—healed and pale in colour, so thin at the edges that tanned skin almost hides the old marks deeper beneath. It is a scar that has settled, healed in place over years. Edward is positive James has the scar—he just doesn’t know how it is hidden so well, or why.

His family is not dumb, by any means. They’ve seen Edward’s moods the last two days. They’ve inferred something is bothering him, something more than simply James’s absence from school and possible suicides. He has been trying too hard to hide from them, scared someone will be able to realise exactly what he’s afraid of—James being someone who knows the truth of their family, or who has the ability to figure it out.

Edward eventually returns home after spending the night in the meadow and hunting a mountain lion for stress relief. His father is waiting for him like an ambush, an intervention in the lounge room. Edward has always been too hard on himself. In his head too much, Carlisle thinks as Edward steps into the living room.

“Carlisle,” Edward says. The rest of the house is empty, a sign Carlisle has requested them to vacate so the two can have a deep conversation on sensitive topics. Edward is instantly defensive.

Carlisle gestures for Edward to sit across from him, glancing over at his son, his firstborn in a way, the first person he dragged into this life. There’s a large amount of guilt that comes with being the one who turned Edward. He’s a person who believes his soul is now damned, after all. Carlisle has learned not to regret the action over the years, but there are times he wonders if Edward would have had more peace in death.

Edward doesn’t acknowledge that he’s heard such thoughts. It’s not his place to comment on the emotional warring of his father and sire, and he cannot truly answer yes or no to such a thought either. Perhaps he would have been more at peace. They will never know. Even if he is to be killed in his current form, Edward fears that death now holds no real significance for him—that death will not be absolution, but oblivion.

“What is keeping you out there, son?” Carlisle eventually asks.

“A lack of self,” Edward replies softly. “I feel I’ve lost it somehow.”

“Is it that you’ve lost yourself, or that you’re afraid you might have found yourself?” Carlisle asks.

“Perhaps it doesn’t matter,” Edward replies. “I do not want Alice’s version of the future.”

“Because of what it means for the boy, or because of what it means for you?”
Edward clenches his fingers together. Slight fissures appear on his knuckles, cracks edging out from his violent strength.

“Because of what we are. I will not damn another to this frozen existence.”

“That does not mean you cannot interact with the boy,” Carlisle argues, but his thoughts say otherwise. They foresee the difficulties of a human-vampire relationship, of the arguments that stem from not turning your mortal lover, the fear vampires have of losing someone they love. His mind considers Edward and his serious, devout personality, and how, if he truly loved a human, he wouldn’t stay alive past their death.

“Do not say things you do not mean, Carlisle. We both know it is not an option.”

It is, Carlisle thinks. If you are willing to lose him, and we are willing to lose you.

“And are you?” Edward asks, releasing the grip on his fingers.

“I am not willing, but I would if it meant you could experience peace and happiness for a few decades. Are you?” Carlisle stares at his son, unblinking, frozen as he waits. There’s no pretense between them here. No faking of humanity.

“…No.”

“Then you have your answer. Do not worry so much, son. It will all work as it is supposed to.”

He considers his father’s words. He is not willing to lose James, even without knowing him. James is the only person besides his family who has ever been in one of Alice’s visions with him. James is someone interesting and, in some ways, predestined. Edward may not be knowledgeable on the teenager, but he still cares for him. Edward has watched visions of James for months, foreseeing futures that may come to pass, that they may come to share. Even if he wishes they don’t ever come true, there is a part of Edward already invested.

There is another part of him that is scared. He is worried for what James might mean to his family, to their dynamic and their safety. He is scared that James will mean the end of the Cullens in some way, that their secret will be exposed.

“He is…different,” Edward finally admits after minutes of silence. “He is not normal.”

“In what way?” Carlisle asks.

“You know I cannot read his mind. But Alice’s visions—they are not normal. If she can see his future, then it always ends with him looking at us, as though he is self-aware to the vision itself, to us watching it.” Edward glides his fingers along the stitching of the couch armrest, furrowing his brows.

“If?” Carlisle’s tone is wary, but intrigued. He leans forward in his chair and Edward is transported back to different times, to hundreds of similar scenes they’ve had over their century together blending over the same movement.

“Many of them cut off randomly, into black,”he explains.

“And from this you have decided he is not normal.”

“And…and I can’t find his house,” Edward admits. “As soon as I am close, my mind gets all confused. I end up returning home without finding him.”

Carlisle nods slowly, considering the information. A slight noise creeps through the window and he stands up, walking over and waving at their family members returning in the distance, heading down from the mountain.

“That certainly does seem unusual,” he replies softly. “But it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a threat.”

“It would be naive to think otherwise. We should tell the family.” Edward joins his father at the window, watching Jasper and Emmett tussle down the hill.

“It is up to you Edward. But I would recommended you reconsider riling up the family before you’re truly sure. It might have unintended repercussions.” Rosalie will be quick to anger and quick to attack. Carlisle leaves, flitting down the stairs, scooping Esme into his arms.

Edward feels somehow more unsettled after the conversation with Carlisle, but instead of running from his family again, he sits at the piano and begins composing, bringing forth the emotions festering inside for his family to hear.

No one questions him just yet, but he knows he doesn’t have long before Rosalie will begin to haunt him for answers. Even Jasper may do so sooner rather than later, as Edward knows his own emotions are charting rather unusually, and Jasper’s thoughts are obnoxiously loud about how curious and concerned that makes him. Edward wishes he could turn off his ability and have a moment of peace. His own thoughts are taxing enough. He doesn’t wish to be subjected to everyone else’s as well.

“It’s a beautiful song,” Esme says from the couch, her hand clasped in Carlisle’s.

Emmett is playing chess against Alice, a regular past time of his even though he’s never won. Rosalie sits nearby, reading, a heavy scowl on her face and glare set on Edward. He cannot ignore her thoughts when she voices them aloud.

“Rather tortured, if you ask me. Why is that, Edward? Something to tell the family?” She narrows her eyes.

Edward pulls his fingers from the ivory keys and avoids glancing at Carlisle.
“What would I have to tell? As you know, he has not attended school,” Edward replies coolly.

“Yes. But what about his house? You did go check, right? To see if he killed himself.” Rosalie says it so curtly, so off-handed that Edward can’t help the hiss escaping. Emmett glares at Edward instantly, his thoughts screaming at him to back off.

Edward doesn’t bother replying to either of them. He forces himself away from the piano with stiff, jerky movements and retires to his room. As he leaves, Carlisle scolds Rosalie for her insensitivity, asking her how she would feel if it had been Emmett. Edward has felt the love Rosalie and Emmett hold for each other, the depth of their feelings that haven’t wavered since the moment they met. What Edward feels for James is not that at all.

What he feels for James is closer to fear than love. More similar to anger than care. He can’t help but feel Carlisle is projecting what he so desires onto the situation—for his eldest son to finally find a mate of his own.

Edward spirals again, under the pressure of protecting his family, avoiding these futures with James, and fighting his desire to know the human more. Jasper sends slight calming energy through the door a minute later, humming along to the classical music ringing loudly from the room.

Edward closes his eyes and lets the calm wash over him, grateful.

Chapter Text

Harry unhappily finds himself back at Forks High School on Thursday morning after two blurry days off. Kreacher had been in a right strop all morning in rebellion to Harry’s two days of indulgence, so he’d left the house early to keep the elf happy. Somewhere along the line, Kreacher has become a stickler for The Timeline, and Harry’s positive Kreacher even requested his own copy from Hermione just to keep them on track. Suffice it to say, Kreacher is unhappy with the two days off. Harry doesn’t even understand why—its not like the timeline is dependent on his attendance.

Harry personally feels the two days off are a win. Even with the doom and gloom of the last two days, he hasn’t offed himself. Really, his mental health is shining after a short dark patch. It’s possible he’s just feeling the effects of vitamin D—Merlin knows he’s likely deficient by ten years' worth after all that closet time when he was younger. Hogwarts isn’t the sunniest place either. It’s really not surprising that one glimmer of sun through the perpetually overcast Forks makes Harry feel like a new person.

He hasn’t even had a cigarette yet and he’s sat through two god-awful classes, one on Muggle history and the other trigonometry. No substances and he’s almost made it to lunch? Really, Harry is just doing amazing. The only thing that could bring this day down would be Alice, and she doesn’t seem to be at school today. He feels a bit horrible thinking that she might send him into a spiral, but she just reminds him too much of Luna. Sure, he had already been on thin ice mentally after a big move internationally and the actual reasons for said move, but honestly Forks had been a breath of fresh air to him and he’d been relishing in the anonymity before meeting her. It really did all go downhill after the welcome wagon.

“James! Come sit with us!” An arm latches around his own, one Harry jerks out of instinctually.

“Oh, sorry,” he says softly, wincing at the pouting face on Jessica. “I don’t like being grabbed.”

She’s a loud person, someone sociable and popular with their classmates. It had been an obvious change to the class dynamic when she sat next to Harry and began chatting to him loud enough for everyone else to eavesdrop. Harry’s depressed, not stupid, and he’s spent long enough being the most famous—and infamous, at times—wizard to realise she’s a chaser of the lowest form of clout: high school popularity. Harry can’t help but think a person like Jessica would be ecstatic to realise she’s rubbing shoulders with someone at his level of celebrity.

“Come sit! We have another new student too!” Jessica gushes, clapping her hands together.

“Uh, yeah, but she’s sitting with me,” another student says, someone Harry recalls being in the same class earlier, a blurry figure in the background of his memories. The letters on the front of his red jacket spell out SPARTAN in a bold yellow.

Harry doesn’t want to sit with them, or anyone. He would much prefer to find his own spot or, better yet, find somewhere not near the cafeteria to eat the lunch Kreacher shoved in his bag this morning. He just hopes there’s something edible in there. He prays it’s not a can of beans again.

“Sure,” Harry agrees belatedly, realising he has no good excuse to use. It wouldn’t hurt to have a group of people to sit with either. It will give him an excuse for Alice if she ever asks to sit together again.

Jessica squeals in happiness, seriously making Harry reconsider, and the red-jacket male leads the way to the table. Harry’s left dragging along behind the pair, sluggishly moving to what seems to be the packed center table. He should have known Jessica would be in the biggest group in prime position of school leadership. God forbid she sit on a table at the edge of the cafeteria.

“You must be the other new kid,” he says, looking over at the quiet brunette trailing along beside him.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me.” She laughs awkwardly. “I guess I’m the one sitting next to Mike.” She jerks her backpack higher on her shoulder. Mike. Yellow letters, he assumes.

“Well, I seem to be Jessica’s plus one.” He pushes his glasses up slightly. “I’m James, by the way. It’s nice to meet another new student.”

“Bella,” she replies with a smile. “You started earlier this week, right? I heard you’ve been away for a few days. Were you sick?”

Harry frowns as they walk, Jessica and Mike both calling for them to hurry up and gesturing at the empty seats.

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “Would have been nice if we started on the same day. Could have gone through that horrible welcome committee ordeal together.”

They both stop at the edge of the table, waving to the group and taking their assigned seats. The table is packed with people who Harry forgets instantly—too many names and classes dumped on him at once.

They’re so obviously teenagers that Harry suddenly feels old, withered beyond belief and unable to maintain the youthful energy they have. They’re so keen to learn about each other and the world. He feels decidedly out-of-place, an old man in a teenage body. He’s tired just sitting here listening to their barrage of questions. He’s just lucky that there’s another new student with him—all the questions are directed to Bella first, then him. It gives him time to think about his answers carefully. To remember to blend truths and lies the way Hermione taught him. Sometimes, they even forget to ask him, too caught up in digging for more information from Bella.

“Yeah, I really am from Arizona,” Bella says, moving the limp salad around on her plate and avoiding eye contact.

“Really? Wow.” There’s an awkward silence before Jessica continues, “aren’t people from Arizona supposed to be, like, really tan?”

Harry tries not to snort as he takes a bite of his sandwich. Kreacher really did a good job today. Roast chicken and salad with some pickles in a crunchy roll.

“What about you, Harry? You’re from England, right?” Bella asks innocently, but Harry can hear the deception in her tone. He narrows his eyes at her attempt to change the subject back to him.

“Yep,” he says half-heartedly, not expanding. Bella scowls at him, stabbing her salad a little harder. “I thought Arizona people were tanned too,” he admits, even though he has no idea where Arizona is. A little white lie to keep them asking Bella questions rather than him.

“Whereabouts in England?” Mike asks around a mouthful of the nutritionally questionable lunch food on his tray, ruining Harry’s diversion attempt. “I have family in London.” He smirks towards Bella.

Harry’s not sure why family in London is considered a social boon. Perhaps it’s a new muggle culture, one they didn’t have when he was younger. Or perhaps it is simply related to Americans.

“All around, I suppose. I have a house in London but I went to school elsewhere.” Harry should have said ‘we’ but he blames it on the fact this is the first time he’s actually using his backstory for real and that he was distracted by the odd idea that family in another country is considered somehow cool or interesting. Maybe this is a Forks thing, actually. Something small town people discuss as ways to make their own lives seem less dull.

“You have a house in London?” Mike asks, sounding impressed. “Like your family does?”

Harry’s a no-good idiot who forgets that most muggle families can’t afford to own houses in London. He pauses, one millisecond too long before answering, “yeah, my family.” He can tell the table doesn’t believe him by the way Jessica looks even more chuffed with her choice of sitting next to Harry.

“So, where’d you go to school?” Jessica asks, turning her whole body to face him, leaning into his side slightly. “Everyone has been dying to know why you moved here!”

“I went to a boarding school in Scotland.” Harry finishes his sandwich and wonders if that means he can escape with some excuse on starting homework or getting to class early.

“A boarding school! How British!” One of the other students says as she fiddles with a camera. He can vaguely remember her name as something with an A and that she is in his trigonometry class. “And? Why did you move, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Harry does mind her asking, actually. But he can’t very well say that aloud.

“Uh, I wanted to move and a family friend recommended here.” Family friend. Gringotts Goblins. Same thing, really.

“Someone recommended Forks?” Mike laughs loudly, slapping another nameless male next to him on the shoulder. “Probably shouldn’t have listened to them.”

“Who was it? They live here?” Jessica asks at the same time the camera-girl-from-trigonometry snaps a photo, the flash bursting in front of Harry. He’s used to the blindingly bright flash of photos after the number of times the paparazzi have caught him out and about over the years, so he barely blinks at the occurrence. Bella is not so lucky. She jolts at the light and pauses, like a deer in headlights.

“Sorry, it’s for the school newspaper! New kids edition!” The girl looks down at the camera screen with a smile. “We never get anyone new here.”

Bella obviously detests the idea of a newspaper article and, honestly, so does Harry. It blatantly goes against Hermione’s rule number twenty-three and thirty: avoid photographs at all costs and do not be mentioned in any media. Even a small glimpse of Harry in the background of a photo, or an off-handed mention of his name in an article could leave a trail, which may, eventually, lead to someone finding out about his scenario. They might stumble upon it accidentally and then begin to investigate in earnest, following a trail of digital and physical clues to realise Harry is someone immortal living under monikers.

Hermione is positive this is a risk for Harry and one that curves exponentially the longer he exists—that wixen in decades who think of Harry as legend will begin to research his disappearance, his lineage. She is not worried about him being found now, but about him being tracked centuries later.

So, as much as Harry’s spiteful side would like to leave Bella in the uncomfortable position of having their photo printed as payback for her turning the spotlight on him, he cannot. Instead, he has to take charge and ensure he sticks to his rules of survival as according to Hermione.
Harry’s not daft enough to think he can escape all photos forever—and it’s more than likely he’ll be snapped in the background of someone’s selfie before the year is up, but if it’s within his ability to try and erase any photos of him, well, he’ll do so.

“Er, sorry,” He says with a falsely apologetic furrow to his brows. “Can you delete that? I’m not allowed to have any photos taken.” He says it ambiguously, avoiding the eyes of those at he table.

Something good definitely came from his time as an Auror—and that’s his ability to act. He’s always been decent at it, though. He’d learnt to fake his true thoughts and feelings from a young age at the Dudley’s. Learning to truly manipulate is quite thrilling. To lay the scene carefully and allow someone to walk into a trap of preconceived notions. The goal is to lead them into filling the gaps in the story presented with the hidden information you subtly mention. It’s only with time and age that Harry realises the Sorting Hat may have been onto something all those years ago.

Just as he expects, the table silences and the teens consider his sentence. They think about what all the reasons might be and, hopefully, decide that he’s here under witness protection. Hermione will be pleased to know their plan is likely working out. If they believe he’s in witness protection, they’ll naturally start asking less questions in an attempt to be understanding, and they’ll accept weird, off-handed explanations for times he does answer. It’s a trap just for muggles who all know of the elusive witness protection system.

“Oh, right. Sure.” The girl clicks a few buttons on the camera. “All deleted.”

“And don’t print my name in the newsletter, please,” he tacks on for good measure. “Maybe just focus on Bella?” He can’t help the small smirk at her outraged gasp.

“No, no. Let’s just skip the article if James can’t be in it too!” She rattles off hurriedly, glancing to Mike pleadingly, who is too busy narrowing his eyes at Harry to notice.

“Yeah, it’s not worth it if it’s just Bella,” Jessica agrees in such a backhanded manner Harry almost wants Bella to decide to go ahead with the article.
The conversation stilts for a moment, awkwardness filling the table that Harry decidedly ignores as he packs up his lunch container and stands just as the bell rings.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he says, leaving the table in a rush.

He doesn’t get more than a few steps before he can hear them beginning to whisper about him, about how photos aren’t allowed and the cancellation of the article. He almost wants to laugh at how predictable it all is.

“You could look a little less happy about it all,” someone calls out, a few paces behind him in the hallway. Harry turns and gives Bella an innocent look. “Yeah, that’s not believable,” she mutters, brushing past him and stepping into the classroom.
He follows her in and they sit at a table for four, glaring minutely at the other.

“You kept directing their questions to me,” he says as way of explanation for the accusations in her eyes.

“You sold me out to the newspaper,” she hisses back.

“Quite right, and I’d do it again too.”

“Ugh,” Bella grunts and pulls her books out of her bag, dumping them on the table. “You’re actually sort of funny.” She giggles under hear breath, shaking her head almost in disappointment.

Harry spends that class smiling.

Chapter Text

On Friday, Harry realises what a halfwit he’s been. Honestly, Ron would have Harry’s hide if he were here. Hermione too. Harry’s been at this school for a whole bloody week and only just realised there are vampires here. Now that he sees the vampires, huddled together around a table in the corner, pretending to consume the odd choices of food in front of them—one of them has a bag of boiled eggs, for goodness sake—it's almost impossible to miss their vampirism.

Of course, he can’t be completely to blame for not realising earlier, since Griphook had assured him there were no magical creatures here and Harry was just taking his word at face value. Harry’s not really sure if vampires without magic count as magical creatures, the same way he’s unsure those giant shapeshifters without magic count either.

At the table of vampires, Alice is perched neatly next to a blonde-haired male, chatting enthusiastically. They aren’t the same as the vampires Harry’s used to. The first point of difference being they are outside during the day. Seeing as it’s Forks they’re not necessarily in the daylight, but they are outside nevertheless. It’s almost entertaining to watch them act human. The over-exaggerated movements, the way their shoulders move up and down almost in sync, the odd ways they pretend to consume the food on their table that’s not reducing in size. Harry feels like a right dunderhead. He wonders how he didn’t notice this on Monday. He supposes he was a bit out of sorts that day and he had been thrown for a loop when Alice had dredged up memories of Luna, but those aren’t really excuses for not noticing a vampire literal meters from him.

He’s luckily avoided Alice all morning. Or perhaps she never truly came looking for him. He has a feeling that if she wanted to harass him again like she had on Monday then she really would have had no troubles doing so. It actually feels as though Alice is attempting to avoid Harry now, rather than befriend him. The reason why, however, is unclear—and unsettling.

The light brown-haired male at the table, the one sitting slightly separate with a wounded dog expression, looks up, catching Harry’s eyes with his own. Harry feels it then—a slight nudge against his occulmency barriers. He narrows his eyes at the vampire and breaks the eye contact, mentally reinforcing his shields.
Not that it would matter much, anyway.

Harry’s mind healer told him his mind is unfathomable to those who enter, untraversable. A darkness that encroaches and smothers them, trips them into horrible memories and pulls at their sense of self until they find themselves lost in the festering hollows of his mind. It’s why Harry worked so hard on his occulmency. Wouldn’t want someone to accidentally get lost in his mind after all. He’s had enough of sharing the space. He’d almost lost his third mind healer in there and that was traumatising in and of itself.

“Who are they?” Harry asks his lunch group, turning his gaze back to his lunch and away from the molten gold ones staring at him. “The ones with Alice.”
Those at his table turn to look. Mike glowers and doesn’t seem inclined to answer, taking a chunk out of his pizza instead. Angela—the girl with the camera, whose name Harry finally learnt—lets out a little giggle, smirking at Harry.

“Someone caught your eye?” She teases.

“Just curious. Haven’t noticed them before. I talked to Alice on my first day,” Harry says to Angela.

“They’re the Cullens,” Jessica replies instead. “They were away yesterday, so you wouldn’t have seen them. Their parents pull them out of school when the weather’s nice and they all go hiking and camping and stuff. Tried that idea out on my parents. Not even close.” She rolls her eyes, stabbing her salad with a huff.
Harry takes another bite of his lunch, feeling the eyes of the Cullens on the back of his neck. He debates what he can ask without dragging too much attention to himself. It’s obvious they are already interested in him—or perhaps wary. Alice was the first person to speak to him, after all, and the brunette keeps poking his mind as though to do so more times would miraculously allow him entry. Harry wonders now how much of the welcome committee was true, and how much was a plan by Alice to simply get close to him. But why? Do they know who he is? Are they aware of wizards? Or is there a different reason for their interest? The unknowns make him uncomfortable.

Harry’s not completely sure what these unusual vampires are capable of, but he wouldn’t put it past them to have enhanced senses. One of the males obviously has some sort of mind ability, some way to infiltrate, but for what outcome he’s unsure. Harry might need to have a little conversation with the male if he continues to be so overt with his attempts to view Harry’s mind. He wouldn’t want to have him lost in there, after all. Plus, Harry simply despises having others pick around his brain like a free-for-all.

Luckily for Harry, Jessica is keen enough to prattle about the Cullens without any probably-not-subtle prompting from him.

“They’re all adopted, apparently. They moved here from Alaska like a year ago so Dr Cullen could help out at the hospital.” She leans across a little, bunching closer to Harry and Bella. “And, they’re all together. Like, together together,” she whispers conspiratorially. “Alice is with Jasper, the blonde guy who looks like he’s in pain. The big guy, Emmett, he’s with the other girl, Rosalie,” Jessica finishes.

“What about him?” Bella asks.

“That’s Edward,” Angela chimes in. “He’s in Biology with you two and Mike. Pretty sure he’s single, but he keeps to himself so who really knows. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend back in Alaska.” Harry’s yet to make it to a biology class, so its a nice surprise to hear Bella is in his class too.

Jessica scoffs. “More like no one here is good enough for him.”

“Oh,” Bella says lightly, finishing off the salad she carefully crafted earlier.

“So they’re siblings?” Harry can’t help the small laugh that bubbles out.

The idea of adopted vampires is quite funny. He wonders how that story makes sense to the muggles. For there to be five adopted teenagers who just so happen to be drop-dead gorgeous with golden eyes and snow-pale skin. Do they think Dr Cullen just has requirements for a person’s looks before they can be adopted?

“It’s weird if you ask me,” Mike interjects Jessica’s reply. “They’re siblings. They shouldn’t be dating.”

“Well, they’re not really related,” Angela argues.

“They live together!” The other male at the table interjects—one Harry is assured Angela has a crush on. Harry can’t for the life of him remember his name. “It’s weird.”
Harry just shrugs. “I’ve seen weirder.”

“Really? At that boarding school of yours?” Mike looks unconvinced.

Harry thinks of Nearly-Headless Nick scaring students in the hallways, of Hermione as a polyjuice-potioned cat, of giants and mermaids, of Quidditch matches and arms with no bones. He thinks of ear-wax flavoured beans and singing hats and stairs that disappear, of combusting birds and life-size chess pieces and love-potioned chocolates. Yes, he thinks, I’ve seen much weirder. Harry smiles in response.

“Has anyone done the Spanish homework?” He asks instead. “Can I copy the last answer?”

Bella, in what may be becoming their thing, accepts his horrible attempt at a subject change and quickly offers up her homework. He’s quite chuffed, since Bella’s Spanish is apparently the best out of all of them—except for maybe the other male at the table, whose name is elusive. Harry’s Spanish is, as expected, quite horrible. He’s never had the need nor time to consider learning another language. He supposes now he has enough of both that it’s likely beneficial for him to do so. Maybe one day he’ll find himself in another country. It certainly gives him more options of places to hide. Plus, he might find it enjoyable to travel around one day. When everyone has left him.

The table continues their chattering, Harry only commenting when addressed, as he copies down the last answer from Bella’s homework. For the entire remaining lunch period, Harry can feel eyes boring into the back of his head, can feel the scraping along his mind. He has half a thought to march right up to the vampire and tell him to cut it out. But he can’t. Not yet, at least. He needs more information before he confronts them all. He’ll do a little research tonight and perhaps firecall Hermione. He’s hesitant to do so, since she’ll likely want him to cut and run from Forks. It’s not the worst idea, considering there’s now two types of creatures here when they thought there were a grand total of zero. But if Harry’s honest, he doesn’t want to leave yet.

He’s managed to, somehow, settle into Forks within the week and—few days of spiralling aside—he quite likes the town and surrounding forest. He even has muggle friends! Or, burgeoning friends, at least. Something Harry hasn’t had for as long as he can remember.

Muggle friends who don’t know Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and his entire tragic backstory, the trauma and death laced into his very being. So what if there are a few shapeshifters and vampires? They’re not something Harry can’t deal with on his own anyway, now that magic leaks from his very pores, unbridled and unrestrained by the Horcrux it once had to subdue.

Since becoming aware of his status as Master of Death, his magic changed again, evolved even further than when he killed Voldemort. It feels as though he has two types of magic now. His own magic, fiery and erratic, filled with bursts of energy like cracks of lightening. And the magic of Death, slow and heavy, like a rolling darkness that grows so subtly it’s almost impossible to escape from by the time you notice it’s choking you.

It’s with resolution that Harry decides to do his own research before telling Hermione about this new development of muggle vampires in Forks. He wants to stay, even if just a week longer. If things go south, well, he can just obliviate them and be on his merry way.

The bell rings and he hands Bella her homework with a thanks. As they leave the cafeteria, Harry’s overly aware of a set of golden eyes following his every step.

___

At the end of Spanish class, Bella stops Harry from his usual abrupt exit.

“Hey, James? Are you free right now?”

“Uh, why?” He asks defensively. Plans sound horrible—even if they’re with Bella, who has quickly become his favourite muggle in just two days.

“My dad has been trying to get a hold of you all week,” she explains. At Harry’s confused face, she clarifies, “He’s the Chief of Police. I think he just wants to check in, since you’re new to town and all, but he hasn’t been able to find your house…” she trails off. “If you’re free, he’s asked if I can bring you round tonight. Just for a few minutes. I mentioned that we met yesterday, so…”

Harry sighs heavily and shuffles his bag on his shoulder. He wants to say no. He’d heard somewhere that Bella was the daughter of the Chief of Police, but he wasn’t aware there was some custom of being greeted by him. He wonders if this is again a muggle thing he simply had no exposure to during his childhood, or if this is a small town, American thing. Maybe he should adjust his wards slightly. Though, if he goes and visits the Chief then there’s really no need to do so, since there would be no reason for anyone to come looking for him again. Plus, it’s much more work to allow select muggles inside his wards when he has to filter them by intent rather than by who they actually are.

“Yeah, alright,” Harry finally agrees. “I’ve got some time.”

“Great!” Bella smiles and picks up her bag, shoving her books in quickly. “You can just follow behind my truck. It’s not far.”

In the car park, Harry spots the Cullens next to two cars, one an obnoxious red thing and the other a simple silver one. He squints his eyes to see the make of the cars but even once he can see them, Harry realises they mean nothing to him. Unlike motorcycles, he’s horribly uneducated on cars. Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact Bella’s truck is as loud as Hagrid’s snores and rusted to hell, Harry wouldn’t even have known her car was considered old and run-down. It had been a gift apparently. Bella honestly looks quite fitting in the hulking red thing.

He slips onto his motorbike, pulls his helmet on—he’s on the way to the Chief’s house, after all—and revs the engine alive. As Bella pulls ahead of him, waving to Angela out her window on her way past, Harry glances over at the vampires again. They’re watching him. Harry feels quite like he’s being sized up. The one male, Edward, stares him down again, eyes intense with focus as he brushes against Harry’s mental shields again. Harry crinkles his eyes with amusement and a small huff of humour slips from his nose. He slams his visor down and peels from the lot, dropping into place behind Bella.

____

The Swan residence is just a few minutes drive from the school off a quiet street with a large yard backing onto the forest. It’s quaint and homely and Harry is nostalgic for a home he’s never had. He wonders what it would have been like to grow up in a house like Bella’s. He parks his motorbike and swings his legs off just as Chief Swan steps onto the porch. Harry quickly takes his helmet off, dangling it from the handlebars.

“Hey Dad,” Bella says, climbing the steps. “This is James.” She gestures for Harry to follow and he does, eyeing up the Chief.

“Nice to meet you, James,” Chief Swan says, shaking Harry’s had with a firm grip. “You drive safe on that thing, y’hear?”

“Yes, sir. It’s nice to meet you. Bella said you’ve been looking for me.”

Bella steps inside, holding the door open with her foot. Chief Swan follows her and beckons Harry, leading him to the left into a small kitchen. Bella takes her bag upstairs, holding up a finger to Harry to say she’ll just be a minute. The table is a small three-person affair, pushed against the window and sporting a few unopened letters on top. They both take a seat across from each other and Harry feels a little like he’s in detention. He rubs at the glamoured scar on his hand.

“Yeah, I headed out to your place but it’s hard to find…” Chief Swan trails off with a frown. “Well, Bella mentioned you’d met at school, so I asked her to bring you over.”

“The driveway is notoriously hard to spot,” Harry fibs quickly. “Was there something you needed, sir?”

Bella steps into the kitchen quietly, stopping in the doorway as though hesitating on whether to join them.

“No, well, I just wanted to check in. It’s not often we get new people in Forks. Specially not teenagers. Your parents around?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m an orphan, sir.”

Bella takes a seat at that, sending him a small smile of encouragement and glaring at her dad.

“You live alone then?” Chief Swan perks an eyebrow.

“Just me.”

“Right.” There’s an awkward pause and Chief Swan clears his through before saying, “Well, I’m here if you need anything, son. Can’t be easy living on your own out there.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And Harry wonders if that’s really it. If he trekked over here—a total of two minutes out of his way—just to sit through this conversation. To be honest, he was expecting to be questioned more, for him to have to recall those lessons with Hermione on what to say to muggles, the excuses he can use that they’ll accept and the stories they have planned. He didn’t even have to mention his Aunt and Uncle who visit him from Seattle. Who would obviously be acted by Hermione and Ron, if the excuse was needed. Apparently Ron has been working on his American accent for the role. Hermione said he’s quite keen to get amongst the muggles and tell a few tall tales of a grueling office job selling muggle electronics.

“Actually, one of the boys from the res asked about you, too. Asked if I could get you to visit. Said he found something of yours out in the forest. You been hiking recently?”

Harry nods, although he hasn’t been out since he met the shapeshifters. He also never took anything with him on the hike, so there is no chance he lost anything.

“The res?” He asks slowly, glancing at Bella.

“The Quileute Reservation,” she explains. “West of Forks, towards the coast.”

“So he wants me to visit?”

Chief Swan lets out a short laugh. “Guess I weren’t the only one who had trouble finding ya.”

“I guess I can visit. How about Sunday afternoon?” Harry smiles sheepishly.

The afternoon will give him time to debrief with Hermione on Saturday and decide on a plan of action. Harry knows he never left anything in the forest. That leaves only one option—one possibility for how this boy from the Reservation knew Harry had been hiking. Shapeshifter. Why they want to talk to Harry is beyond him, but he won’t be going in unprepared.

First, he’ll need to find as much information as he can on these muggle shapeshifters and understand what their abilities are. How they might differ from magical werewolves. He knows how to fight magical werewolves, but Harry has a feeling muggle shapeshifters will be different. They already look different, even if they’re as tall as Ron, they’re nowhere near the seven foot height Remus used to reach when he turned. Plus they’re much less gangly prancing around on all fours than Remus was. They’re kinda cute, really. Very soft looking.

“I’ll let them know you’re coming by then.”

Chief Swan’s smile is soft and caring, his eyes scrunch at the side with heavy laugh lines. Harry thinks about his own father. How young he was when he died. Maybe James Potter could have smiled at him like that. Could have had a face weathered with happiness. Not even Harry will have that now.

“Right well, I’ll be off then,” Harry says quickly, deciding to cut that train of thought where it was. He doesn’t need to spiral again. He could do with letting off some magical steam. He really should change the Grimmauld dungeon into a duelling room like Ron suggested all those years ago.

“Thanks for coming by.”

They shake hands briefly and Bella follows Harry outside, waving goodbye when he pulls away.

Chapter Text

Harry’s in the kitchen with a piping hot tea when Hermione floos in unannounced. She’s a veritable storm to the kitchen, trailing a dusting of floo powder across the house that she didn’t bother shaking off, mouth already rattling about what she’d found.

“You really won’t believe it, Harry, it’s actually rather interesting how these shapeshifters came to be and—”

“Hermione? Where’s Rose and Teddy?”

The only reason Harry is up so early is because Ron is due to bring the two around. Harry has organised a whole day for it, too, complete with the brooms he’d bought the kids for Christmas that Andromeda and Hermione had forced him to “keep at Uncle Harry’s house because we have no room.” After getting them on their brooms, he plans to take them on a forest picnic—decidedly away from where he first met the shapeshifters.

“Oh, sorry, Harry. Play date is cancelled—Teddy came down with whatever Rose had earlier this week and I needed to come talk to you before your meeting tomorrow.”

He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face too much. Hermione is also fun to be around. She’s his best friend for a reason. Although, maybe she’s not a heap of fun when she’s on an abstract research rant, but he’s learnt to appreciate how happy they make her. How solving a problem makes her soul shine a tiny bit brighter. Harry finds peace in those moments, and he’s even learnt to keep up with the trails of clues in her information dumps. He’s always been rather good at solving mysteries.

“Let’s go to the library,” Harry says, eyeing the pile of loose papers wrapped in Hermione’s arm and the overflowing bag of books in her other. He takes the bag from her, lugging it with him as he focusses to keep his tea steady.

“Right, so, as I was saying,” Hermione continues, following him out of the kitchen. “These shapeshifters are extremely interesting. Did you know they actually are magical?” Harry pushes the library door open and sends her a disbelieving look over his shoulder. He tries not to laugh at a smudge of floo powder along her nose.

“I met them, Hermione. I’m telling you, they had no magic.”

She dumps her things on the large desk at the front of the library, stacks of books lining the room behind them. Harry stops her and gently removes the smudge off her face. She smiles at him sheepishly, muttering a small thanks. Grimmauld library used to be a dark and dreary affair filled with only Dark Arts books, many of which were missing pages or destroyed by damage through the years. The library is still filled with Dark Arts—thanks in part to Kreacher and in part to Harry’s morbid interest in the topic—but it’s also been supplemented with the books from the Black and Potter vaults. Hermione spent a lot of time here when it was first finished. These Dark Arts books are what helped her transform the fidelius charm that hides Harry. Ron’d nearly had a conniption when he realised Hermione was delving into Dark magic.

“Harry is literally the Master of Death, Ronald,” she’d said back, and it truly did shut down all conversations about Light and Dark magic. Whatever Harry is now is decidedly not Light, and really, when he thought about it, Harry has probably been more Dark than Light since he was one. He’s even thought to research Dark magic a bit more, since he has centuries ahead of him after all. Might be something fun to pass the time.

“You don’t understand,” Hermione says, cutting off his tangent thoughts. “They’re not magical. They have magic! It’s in them, inherited. Just like magical creatures they were created by magic, and continue to exist thanks to it, but they cannot use magic. They are a by-product of magic, like an echo through generations.”

Harry settles into the chair across from her, watching as she shuffles through her piles of research for the information she wants.

“Look here—” she shoves a photocopied piece of paper in his hands. He raises an eyebrow at it, questioning her. “Oh well, the Department of Mysteries was very adamant that the journals couldn’t leave the department, so I photocopied them. It’s rather silly, really, how easy it was to take this supposed-to-be-classified information from under their noses. They really need to increase their muggle—”

“Hermione,” Harry cuts her off. He shakes the paper. “Journal?”

“Right so, this is a journal of Phineas Black.”

“Black?”

“Yes, he was one of those burnt off the family tree. Phineas Black is the brother to Sirius’s great-grandfather,” she explains, pulling out a book detailing the Black family tree. She flicks to a page and plops it in front of Harry, pointing to a name that’s been removed from the page with a blast of fire. “See?”

“Right, okay.” Harry nods slowly, still not sure where she’s going with this information.

“Phineas was removed from the Black family because of his support for muggle-born wizards—truly before his time, he was. Can you imagine? Arguing for muggle-born rights in the 1890’s?” She plops herself into a chair and leans forward across the table excitedly. “Phineas Black is exiled from the family and eventually leaves the Wizarding World. Guess where he ends up?”

“Forks?” Harry offers, sipping on his tea. Hermione reaches and takes the tea from his hand, taking her own sip as she nods excitedly. He supposes that’s fair, since he was a bad host and didn’t offer her any.

“Right. Forks. Well, technically, he ends up on the Quileute Reservation. There he marries a local girl and has a son—Ephraim Black.” She shoves the mug back into his hands and pulls out a different book, this one old and weathered, cracked on the spine, the leather crying for an oiling. She flicks through the pages haphazardly. “Now, Ephraim is born as a Squib, or so Phineas reports anyway, and that’s what’s recorded in the Black family history.” She gestures to the family tree still in front of Harry. “Now the Black family doesn’t bother keeping track any further. Squibs rarely produce magical children and even if they did they would be ‘half-bloods’, so the Blacks effectively write off this line of their tree.”

Hermione dumps the book she’d been flicking through in front of him, on top of the Black family tree. Her eyes are sparkling and he can’t help the small laugh rumbling from his chest. She looks gorgeous. Her hair frizzing out the edges and her shirt slightly skewed, as though she simply didn’t have time to straighten it during her rush out the floo.

“Oh, hush,” she scolds, even as a smile spreads across her own lips. She giggles too but straightens her shirt and finally dusts herself off. “Now, here’s where we get a bit theoretical, but the Quileutes have their own tribe legends, and one of those is that they are descendant from wolves.” She holds a hand up stopping Harry from cutting her off. “There’s this whole section on astral projection, which in of itself is such an interesting concept—theoretically, the arithmancy needed to even conceptualise such magic is just unheard of.” She pauses on her own, narrowing her eyes at Harry before he can even utter a word to keep her on-track.

“Anyway,” she huffs. “Of those capable of astral projection, one of them in particular, Taha Aki entered the body of a wolf when his own body was unavailable.”

“Wait, his body was unavailable? What does that mean?” Harry asked, swigging down the last of his long cold tea.

“Well, there was a whole internal dispute and what-not ending with his body being possessed by a different person’s astral projection.” She waved the thought off. “It’s not terribly important right now, but Taha Aki effectively shared the wolf’s body. Their souls co-existed within the wolf and, eventually, Taha Aki could change between his original spirit form and that of the wolf.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “So that’s how the shape-shifters were made? How’s this relate to Phineas and Ephraim?”

“Taha Aki’s children could shapeshift just like him, but their children could not. It seemed to end after Taha Aki’s direct descendants.”

“Until Phineas,” Harry concludes.

“Right! Phineas is a pureblood!” Hermione looks ecstatic as she says it and Harry tilts his head.

“Right…” He trails off. “But pureblood magic isn’t any stronger than muggle-born magic.”

“Oh tosh, that’s not what I’m saying. Phineas is a Black! The Black family has been participating in magical rituals with nature for as long as they’ve existed—they have a connection to naturally occurring magic that we will never understand, especially Blacks from so many decades ago. Phineas’s wife was a descendant of Taha Aki! Phineas’s magic and his wife’s genetics allowed the shape-shifter gene to reactivate. His magic woke the dormant nature magic hidden in the genes of Ephraim.”

Harry lets out a harsh laugh, shoving his chair back and pacing the carpet.

“So what you’re saying is these shapeshifters are magical? They’re descendants of the Blacks? Hermione, that’s brilliant! That’s—”

“They’re not all descendants,” she cuts him off, standing now. “That’s what I can’t figure out. They can’t all be—the Black line of Quileutes is rather limited, only a father and son exist now. You said there were three shapeshifters in the woods.”

The hole in Harry’s chest expands and contracts at the thought and he stops his frantic pacing.

A father and a son.

Members of the Black family. Members who don’t know their family line is almost gone now, left puttering along in the half of it that exists within Draco Malfoy, in the quarter found in Teddy, in the memories of Sirius that Harry keeps stored in his chest. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, reduced to a few straggling survivors after the war. A war they actively participated in, wrongly. A war that destroyed their family and those who survived it. Harry stumbles back into his chair, clenching his eyes tight, pressing his palms into them.

His skin buzzes, stretches, too tight over him, restrictive and cold. He wants to curl into himself again. To escape from the pain that is to outlive all you know and love. That will be Harry one day—the last to exist. The last to know of the sacrifices of the Black line, how Sirius lost his family when he left home; how Regulus existed alone and, ultimately, died alone, sacrificed himself in an action that no one knew about; how Narcissa stood and lied to Voldemort with all the honesty she could muster, her face calm, voice strong; how Andromeda lost her family to persue her love; how Draco stood with his wand shaking and tears streaking his face and how his voice wobbled when he denied it was Harry he was looking at.

Bones wrap around his neck and Death wraps itself around him, encasing him, whispering in his ear, “take a rest, Master.”

“Harry!” Hermione calls for him, her voice ragged from use. “Harry just listen to me,” she pleads, gripping his hand tighter.

He doesn’t know when she’d grabbed them. Or when he’d opened his eyes again. How long she has been calling his name. He can’t help feeling like he wants to climb out of his skin and leave it behind. As though he isn’t designed to be encased by such mortal weakness. The hole in his chest isn’t a hole any more. Perhaps, it’s him. Who he truly is.

“Harry, come back, please,” Hermione cries, tugging him close and wrapping him in her scent, in her warmth. In the fire of her magic that crackles across her skin and through the frizz of her hair. “Please, Harry. Don’t get lost in there. This isn’t something sad, this is something beautiful. Something magical. It’s a gift, Harry. Don’t you see? These are people related to Sirius, people who are magical, who exist. More family you can find.”

“More family to lose,” He replies, voice muffled in her chest. “More family to die.”

“More family to love,” she whispers.

She pulls back and grips his face holding tight until he looks into her eyes, alight with fury and devotion and love, rendering him helpless in front of her. “That’s what you are, Harry. What you’ve always been.”

He crumbles in her tight grip, letting the tears well from his eyes.

“Do you think he knew?” He whispers back. “Do you think Sirius knew he had family out there?”

“No, I don’t. I think Sirius would have come here if he did. Imagine him? Padfoot, free with a pack of shapeshifters.” Hermione’s voice is soft, wispy. “He could have run as much as he wanted out here.” Harry laughs a little, sobs a little, a joint sound mixing at the thought of Padfoot racing behind those giant wolves he’d met—dwarfed by their size and nipping at their tails.

“He would’ve loved it.”

Hermione wraps him in her arms again. She grips him, fingers clenching on his shoulders, breath shaky against his neck.

“Next time, perhaps,” Death whispers, its grip loosening on his neck. Harry shivers. Maybe Death is the master of him.

“Sorry, Hermione.”

“Don’t, just—don’t.”

She lets him go, sitting back on her heels, kneeling in front of him. “I might not understand what you feel, not to the extent, but I understand, Harry. You’re doing the best you can. I know that.” She grips his hand, her thumb rubbing circles over the scar on his hand: ‘I must not tell lies’. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise how this information might make you feel. I was too trapped in the research of it.”

“No, you’re right,” he says, gripping her hand back. “It is magical. What are the odds? That I end up here, where Siruis’s estranged family is.”

“Odd, isn’t it?” Hermione looks thoughtful for a moment, furrowing her eyebrows. “Isn’t that rather peculiar? What are the chances of that?”

“Quite low, I’d assume,” Harry mutters.

Hermione stands up, turning to the desk and shuffling through her papers. She’s muttering to herself now, Harry forgotten behind her. He rubs his hand against his chest and remembers her warmth, tries to push it through his skin and deep inside, to the cavity of death in him.

“The Black family stopped tracking the line after Ephraim’s birth but that doesn’t mean everyone did. Harry, what if the goblins knew?”

“Knew what? That there were Blacks here?”

“Precisely. Isn’t it odd? That they recommended this town—out of all others, out of the thousands of choices that suited our needs. Why this town? Why here, of all of them? Why didn’t they know of these shapeshifters?” She gestures to the table of information. “They’re documented. Sure, not overly so and the findings are limited, separate pockets of information, but they are there nevertheless. The goblins must have known.”

Harry considers it. There’s a high possibility. The goblins are part of a separate society to wizards. They border the line between wizards and magical creatures, engaging with both. They have an unprecedented ability to wrangle nature magic. Every wizard knows the goblins have access to historical blood magic that allows them to define heirs to houses, to test the lineage of wizards. Why would they stop tracking the lineage of a family just because of a squib child?

“So you think they sent me here on purpose?”

“I don’t know. But isn’t it too much of a coincidence? For you, Lord Black, to end up here, in the homeland of long-lost Blacks? With shapeshifters?”

Hermione spins back around, picking up the book with a cracked spine, the one filled with the Quileute legends.

“Here—” she thrusts the book in his hand. “They talk about dangers, about entities threatening the tribe. When danger lurks, their abilities reawaken. Think of it like a complex blood ward, or protection charm, that only activates when necessary, when the tribe needs protection.”

“So there’s a threat nearby.”

Harry wishes he didn’t feel a sinking in his stomach. That he didn’t feel a bone deep weariness at the idea, the very concept of danger, of a fight to be fought. Maybe the threat to the tribe is him. His very existence may have woken them. A call in the night to protect them from Harry, who he is now with darkness roiling in his bones, with magic that leaks from his crevices unwittingly, from the green flashing in his eyes when he’s angry.

“Perhaps, but it’s hard to tell. Apart from their origin and a few journals from an over-zealous researcher, there’s very little information on them and how many shape-shifters there may be. I’m still unsure on the connection between Ephraim and the rest of the shape-shifters. Are they all Blacks? All descendants from Ephraim?” Hermione waves her hand in the air, between them, between Harry and the research. “But you said there were three wolves. How? There are two Blacks. How did Ephraim, reawakened by Phineas’s magic, change the shapeshifters? I still don’t know. We need more information.”

“And that’s where I come in?”

“You were already going to see them anyway,” she dismisses. “I’m just asking that you question a bit more. Find out who is a shape-shifter—their names—and who is not. I can continue to research myself. And,” she glares down at her research. “I think it’s time I visited Griphook again.”

“Can I tag along? I’d rather like to see the sneaky old bugger.”

“Oh, you must. I’d love to see his face. You’re rather scary when you scowl.”

Harry laughs, feeling some of the heaviness of earlier lift. Hermione’s right. Perhaps this is something good. Something purely magical. Harry’s aware that he’s a threat to those around him. He’s under no delusions that if the Ministries of the world knew what he was now, knew the extent of his abilities, that they would join hands to hunt him down. To eradicate him like the powerful wizards before him.

Simply the concept of the Elder Wand was enough to start wars over in the past. He cannot imagine the destruction if they learnt that not only was it truly his, but so too were the stone and the cloak. That to collect three is to become entwined with Death intimately. Not free from it, but enslaved to it, to the contentment it brings and the inevitability of those around you.

If the shape-shifters could feel that threat, if their magic, unknown and unique in its abilities, given to them from nature itself and invigorated by Phineas, if they could recognise his unnatural existence, then it would make sense that they’ve awoken with his proximity. However. However there is one more possibility.

“Hermione, look,” Harry sighs and rubs his finger along his scar. “I wasn’t going to tell you this—” she lets out an indignant squawk as he says this, hands promptly falling to her hips. “Look, I’d decided to do some of my own research. I didn’t want you kicking me out of Forks just yet, and I truly thought you were going to.”

“I would not—”

“Anyway! It’s just, with everything you found, and the possibility of Griphook having pulled the wool over our eyes, I think you should know. There’s…muggle vampires here.” He peeks from behind his hand, wincing at her infuriated face.

“There’s WHAT?!”

Chapter Text

Harry is rudely pulled from a quite nice dream of death by Kreacher’s tiny hand slapping his face. He splutters awake with a frown, jerking away from the knobbly fingers.

“What? What is it?” He asks urgently, a pit of fear sinking in his stomach. He scrambles for his glasses.

“It be time, Master.”

Kreacher dumps a tray on Harry’s lap. A modest looking breakfast of beans and toast. Harry enjoys beans and toast, but it seems rather an insult when delivered by Kreacher, who prides himself on having improved his cooking skills since serving Harry.

Harry’s brain finally kicks into gear and he frowns at the beans slopping across the plate, shoving his glasses on his face. It is Sunday. The day for his meeting with the shapeshifters. He supposes Hermione coerced Kreacher yesterday into making sure he was awake in time for the meeting.

She is rather good at wrangling the old elf. Apparently Kreacher is easy to understand if you know what he likes. Harry’s yet to figure it out and Hermione always refuses to tell him, saying that he has to be daft to not know. Ron usually agrees with a smirk. Harry assumes its Dark objects as there’s a large collection of random things around Grimmauld that have mysteriously gone missing over the years. Kreacher probably has a whole room upstairs dedicated to them. Maybe that’s where he’s hidden the old elf heads from the hallway.

“Right, thanks.”

Harry adjusts himself slightly, levelling the tray out on his lap and taking a small nibble on the corner of a piece of toast.

“Master be visiting the dogs today?”

“They’re not dogs, Kreacher.”

“Awfully dog-like, those muggle wolves. Kreacher be hearing them alls night. Werewolf friend of Master Sirius much better.”

Harry smiles sadly around his mouthful of food. “He was.”

Kreacher nods slightly, as though proud of his own comments.

“You know, they’re part of the Black line,” Harry adds, wanting to see what Kreacher thinks.

“The dogs?”

Harry sighs. “Ephraim Black was one of them. Son of Phineas Black. There’s still two Black descendants alive there now.”

“No good muggle lover, that Phineas, Mistress always said.” Kreacher shakes his head. “Master Phineas be Black at heart, Kreacher thinks.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asks around a mouth of beans. “He was obviously not a Black at heart, since he got burned off the family tree.”

“Master not be understanding the Blacks.” Kreacher shuffles to the door with a frown. “Master be leaving one hour. Very clear about that, Mrs Weasley were.”

“Can you call her Hermione, please? Or Granger!” Harry yells, just as Kreacher closes the door.

He hates when Kreacher calls her that. Makes him think of Molly and honestly, he’d rather not because it makes him depressed to remember all the family he left behind and all the friends he’s hidden the truth from.

Besides, Hermione hyphenated her name. She said she worked too hard as a muggle-born witch to let her accomplishments be written off to the surname of a pureblood. Ron had taken it hard for about one week, until Hermione passed a bill reforming treatment of magical creatures and their homelands only for it to be reported on as a successful bill passed by ‘Weasley’.

Ron let it go. After a few howlers sent Skeeter’s way and a particularly nasty joke letter that left the receiver with popping pustules for three days, that is. Harry’s under the impression Kreacher knows Hermione’s last name is not strictly Weasley and he simply ignores it. Maybe it’s a rebellion against Harry’s no-pureblood-shit rule.

He reviews Hermione’s key points from yesterday as he finishes breakfast. The shapeshifters are truly muggle, but their abilities stem from magical genes entering their lineage generations ago. All Harry needs to remember is that they are not limited to transforming on full moons, they do not have access to any other magic, and they apparently have the ability to communicate mentally when shifted.

Hermione was rather impressed by the journal she smuggled copies of from the Ministry—one written by a MACUSA researcher who spent a number of years living within the Quileute tribe decades ago. A wizard from Seattle apparently, who’d heard the rumours of the wolves and came to investigate if there was any magical mischief going on.

Hermione had been rightfully distraught to hear about the muggle vampires he’d discovered. Although, she did seem more put out by the fact she would have to research again—“It’s much more effective if you do it at the same time,” she’d complained. “What if there’s connections?”—and there truly was a connection.

In just another hour rummaging through the research she’d brought to Grimmauld, Hermione had found mention of ‘the cold ones’ in the Quileute legends. It was almost a relief to Harry to learn that it likely wasn’t him making the shapeshifter abilities awaken and was, in fact, due to these muggle vampires hanging around in unrealistically large groups of adopted, romantically-involved teenagers. Hermione, too, found their cover story rather ridiculous.

By the afternoon, she had penned a harsh letter to Gringotts demanding they explain why such beings were not included on their list of creatures in the area—even without magic, it’s considerably irresponsible to assume they are not dangerous to wizards at all and, seeing as muggle shapeshifters are a researched and documented branch of werewolves, they should really be included on the list of magical creatures. She wrote a second one too, to complain about the muggle vampires once she has enough information. “It’s much more efficient to simply write the letters together,” she’d explained, along with, “We should probably visit the next few towns on the timeline more carefully and ensure there’s nothing…untoward hiding there.”

Harry supposes that’ll be a task for them later, once this hubbub with these muggle—Can he call them that? Are they still technically muggle?—creatures is over.

----

He takes Sirius’s bike to the Reservation. It’s the longest trip he’s ridden since moving to Forks and the giddiness bubbles in his chest, overflows from the hole there, out into the air in small laughs. It’s beautiful here. It reminds him of home. Of Hogwarts. With the green trees and fog, the crisp air beneath rolling grey clouds. He’s cold, but he welcomes the freedom.

The ride is cut short.

He slams his brakes on and pulls the bike to a stop, chest heaving as he narrowly avoids a man standing in the road.

“You must be James.” The man takes a step closer, his hand touching the bike’s handles. “Turn it off.”

Harry is flabbergasted—first of all, the man is a giant, literally looming over Harry on his bike, and with arms almost as thick as Hagrid’s. Second of all, he’s prancing about in a pair of denim jorts. Only denim jorts. He looks positively ridiculous with his sun-tanned skin and flexing abdominals.

Harry narrows his eyes. “Take your hand off, before I make you.”

So much for his calm and collected, friendly local wizard approach. He’d had a whole plan of attack formed with Hermione, too. Act a little dumb. A bit dopey. Like Ron, from second year. Lower their guards, collect information, maybe make a deal if he felt okay about it. Instead, he’s goading on this stout man whose body shakes in barely-suppressed and over-reactive rage.

They stand frozen for a few seconds, eyes locked in a fierce match, just long enough for two wolves to slink from the trees bordering the road, muzzles pulled back to bare their fangs. Harry glances at the two wolves for just a moment before locking his eyes back on the man in front of him. He doesn’t even need to say the word, he just thinks it, off-handedly, accidentally wills himself to sink into the man’s eyes, to swim through the brown water and into his thoughts.

The man’s mind is a dense forest with winding streams at his feet and mountains in the distance. Thoughts tumble by but memories are organised in the trees, locked in pine cones and branches. It’s rather tidier than he expected. He’s a danger to us, the man thinks to himself—Sam, his name is Sam. Harry knows this now like he knows Sam is new to being a leader.

He was alone for so long, a lone wolf protecting the tribe. He’s angry. So very, very angry at their fates, at the vampires that curse their youth into wolves. Harry finds it interesting that Sam views his condition as a curse, much like Remus did, yet the shapeshifting of the Quileutes seems so different to Harry—so freeing, something so closely entwined with the magic of the nature around them he can’t imagine how someone could perceive it as anything but a blessing. To be gifted the strength to protect your family by nature itself. The wolves remind him of Padfoot, who loved and breathed his animagus form as a means of escape, as a way to ditch the restrictions and complications that come with being human and to live freely.

Deep inside, Sam is also wary, hesitant, hiding his fears inside so his pack mates can’t feel it. Harry can feel it though, in the distance, hidden in the shadows of the trees, calling to him, pulling forth Death’s magic from that empty space inside him.

Harry can understand now why Sam doesn’t find any happiness in his wolf nature, considering the mantle that came with it. Leader. Alpha. Protector of his pack, his tribe, his town. His friends and family. People he doesn’t know, too. A chosen one, you could say, burdened with the lives of those around him simply because of who he is—who he was born as.

“Turn. it. off.” Sam growls out, unnaturally low, unnaturally guttural, eyes still locked with Harry’s in an attempt in dominance, to overpower, without knowing it’s his biggest weakness.

Harry considers it for a moment. He feels a bit icky now. He’s never like legilimency and the ease with which it comes to him now—as easy as considering it, as easy as blinking or breathing—is a little disconcerting to him. He regrets it almost instantly. But, more than that, he dislikes Sam and his approach, all machismo and dominance.

Harry flicks his hand and Sam skids back, involuntarily shoved. His body begins shaking, fists clenched by his side and Harry remembers Remus when he transformed, the way his body bent and broke to form anew. The dark grey wolf on Harry’s left snaps its maw, leaping forward, closing the distance between them. Harry sends the wolf flying back with very little effort—a wave of his hand, barely a glance. The wolf crashes into a tree with a slight yelp and he worries that perhaps he pushed too hard.

The smaller wolf on his right stomps its giant paw on the floor as it growls. Harry imagines they’re rather intimidating for most. Facing Fluffy in first year makes them look quite cute. Just one of Fluffy’s heads is bigger than both of these wolves put together. The second wolf snarls and leaps, slobber flying from its extended canines and in the background Harry can see Sam’s body shudder, his transformation beginning. Harry curls his hand, clenching it into a fist and pausing the smaller brown wolf mid-air before cutting his bike engine. He leans back, hands raised slightly, gently lowering the frozen wolf to the floor.

“I don’t want to fight, Sam.” Although he should have known wolves would be hot-headed and quick to retaliate over any small slight.

The grey wolf limps back to the road with a snarl, placing himself behind Sam with the brown wolf who had skittered there with his tail between his legs the second his paws had touched the ground. Sam’s eyes are closed, his breaths deep. It takes a long minute before he opens them and looks back at Harry with murder in his eyes.

“You don’t want a fight, but you attack.”

“Rather immature of me, sorry. I don’t like being told what to do. Or intimidated.”

Sam glares for a minute. “You know me?”

“I do now.” Harry flicks his leg over stands up, brushing his hand lovingly over where Sam’s had been resting on the bike, looking at the metal as though it could be damaged.

“What are you?” Sam growls, body quaking like a leaf in October.

You’re a wizard, Harry, Hagrid whispers in his mind; You’re a waste of space, Petunia sneers; You’re a very good person, Sirius says, who bad things happen to.

“Well, I’m not like you three. Why’d you call me here?” Harry leans against his bike, crossing his ankles and his arms.

“Your house was…difficult to find,” Sam grunts, crossing his own arms, his body relaxing slightly, the shakes dissipating.

Harry laughs. “Yes, Chief Swan said.”
One of the wolves snarls impatiently and Harry glares at him.

“Who are you?” Sam asks, face scrunched in distrust. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, didn’t we just establish this? Hi, I’m James. You asked me to come here.” He waves.

“Why are you in Forks?” Sam explains with a barely suppressed growl. “We have a duty to uphold.”

“Why do you think I’m a threat to this duty of yours?”

“Because you’re not normal.” Sam waves his hand at his two wolf mates, who pace slowly behind him, obviously rearing for a chance to attack. “We can feel it, when we’re shifted. You’re not human. And you just proved that.”

“Rather hypocritical of you, wouldn’t you say?” Harry raises an eyebrow. “I’d say I’m more human than you.”

“You’re not making this easy for me. We will not hesitate to kill you to protect our tribe.”

Hah. Perhaps being ripped apart by wolves would take longer to regenerate from. Although the scars would be a pain to hide, what with canines so sharps he’s sure his body would be riddled with them, more so than it already is. (Riddled, oh the irony).

He runs his hand through his hair, eyeing the trio in front of him. His original plan is long shot—there’s no chance to act like a second-year Ron any more, so he may as well just put all his cards out there.

“I already told you, I don’t want to fight.” Harry pushes himself off his motorbike. “I moved here under the impression there were no magical creatures here,” he explains with a frown. “I was obviously duped, but it’s whatever now. I just want to live here for a few years in peace and then move on. That’s it.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I wasn’t even planning on coming to the reservation and had already began avoiding your territory, now that I know where it is.”

“Magical creatures?” Sam questions.

“Right, you lot. And those vampires in town.”

“You know the Cullens?”

Harry shrugs. “Know is a strong word. I noticed them at the high school.”

Sam looks confused and the wolves behind him glance at each other, their heads cocked. “So, you’re not with them?”

“Me? A vampire?” Harry laughs. “God, no. Look, Sam—”

Sam cuts him off. “How do you know my name?”

He can’t well say he just took a little jaunt in his mind. Merlin knows Harry’d hate it if someone said that to him.

“I did some research after I met you wolves on the mountain. Wanted to know why there were shapeshifters here.”

“Shape—”

It’s Harry’s turn to cut Sam off. “Look, it’s a long story. Do we have to do this here?” Harry gestures around them at the empty road.

Sam takes a minute to respond. He’s quite sure the dark grey wolf would prefer to bite his head off right now rather than let him enter, a deep growl echoing from his chest. Harry almost asks him to try. It could be fun.

“Follow me,” Sam says with a grunt, jerking his head back toward the reservation.

Chapter Text

Sam Uley hasn’t liked James from the moment they met in the mountains.

There is something about the teenager that sets his wolf on edge, has it pacing inside and scratching beneath his skin. A darkness that calls to it. For the wolf to attack, just like it does for the Cullens. Beneath that is something comforting. Familiar. Something that stopped him—told him the teen is not like the bloodsuckers. It’s the only reason he didn’t order his pack mates to rip the boy apart when they first met on the mountain.

Sam isn’t sure if that was the best decision, seeing as they were unable to track the teenager down again. They knew where he was. They could feel him, could taste that darkness in the air as they stalked closer to his house. But then they would be turned around, confused, hunting an elk miles away or returning to the reservation with odd thoughts. Even in their human forms, they had no luck approaching the area they knew his house was.

Sam is forced to consult the elders. Something the Alpha in him dislikes doing—asking for advice, doing what he’s told. It grinds his wolf the wrong way, but the human in him accepts the wisdom the elders hold in their age. Still, Sam doesn’t like what the elders propose, though. They want to speak to the teen, to meet him and see for themselves. To invite him onto Quileute lands.

They’re fucking senile, Paul argues, They don’t understand.

Jared agrees, adding an enthusiastic, We should ambush him.

And all Sam can think is the way James spoke to them that first time, his voice soft and calm, hiding the darkness roiling inside him. The electricity Sam could feel on his tongue. We don’t kill innocents, he reminds his pack, the words hollow in his mind.

The elders ask them to escort James, using Billy Black to get the Chief to send the teenager their way. Instead of escorting him, Sam decides that they’d spend a bit of time questioning him first.

Remember, we’re just talking. No fights—and that means you, Paul, Sam thinks, snapping his maw at Paul’s ear. He is innocent until proven guilty.

He’s guilty, Paul hisses. I can feel it.

Innocent, Sam growls, lacing his thoughts with intent. Until I say so.

Paul whines slightly, dipping his head. Sam doesn’t get a chance to say so, since when they meet, James attacks first, sending him sprawling backward with an invisible force straight to his chest, a stinging on his hand as it is flung back from the motorbike. Paul attacks instantly, canines aiming for the teen’s neck as Sam regains his balance, forcing his wolf down inside.

Paul flies through the air. Crashes into a tree. He lets out a sharp yelp and Sam’s wolf takes over, snarls in his mind to protect his pack, his tribe, his family. Jared leaps next and is frozen mid-air, James waving his hand carelessly, like stopping a wolf is as easy as breathing. Sam can feel his transformation starting in his toes. And then James cuts off his engine, lifts his hands in surrender, and Jared floats slowly to the ground.

Sam realises he knows very little about the world around him.

They walk towards the reservation slowly. James has left his bike on the side of the road. He’d waved his hand at it and it disappeared. Sam refuses to ask. Paul and Jared border him, smushed against his legs tightly and he doesn’t know if it's for protection for him or from James.

“So,” James says, dawdling up beside them, as though his pack mates aren’t foaming at the mouth to attack, their legs shaky with fear. “How’s it? Being a wolf?”

“An honour,” Sam grunts out. James looks at him with an odd expression.
Jared shuffles away from James discreetly, changing sides to join Paul. James notices and winces.

“Sorry about before. I can get a bit unreasonable when people order me around.”

He has the gall to look sheepish, as though he isn’t a threat to Sam’s entire tribe. As though he hadn’t flung his pack mates around without breaking a sweat. Sam doesn’t respond. He continues their fast-paced trek.

“One of you guys a Black?” James kicks a rock on the road.

“No.” Sam pauses. “Why?”

“We’re related. Sorta.”

Paul lets out a sorrowful howl and Sam is inclined to agree. Family is sacred. Family is off-limits. If James is truly related to the Blacks, they won’t be allowed to kill him, even with his freakish abilities and the danger he represents to them all.

“Related how?”

“Long story,” he says with a shrug.
Sam scowls and speeds up. No, he really doesn’t like James.

----

Harry thinks the wolves are quite boring and, honestly, rather vindictive for such small slights. He supposes there’s a lesson in there about learning to reign in that habit he’s developed of attack-first-question-later. His time with the Aurors, working without a partner and often finding himself inebriated on the job led to his tendency to send off a few spells at the first hint of hostility. A horrible habit.

The Quileute tribe isn’t how Harry had imagined it at all. He was expecting a bit more mystique, what with their long history and imaginative tribe legends. Maybe something like Diagon Alley. A secret entrance, or a mysterious shapeshifter house. It looks much like Forks but smaller with houses spread further apart. Sam leads him to a community centre in the middle of a small clustering of stores selling local produce, hand made wares, and second hand items. They’re all closed.

Inside the community centre sits a huddle of three men with four empty chairs closing out their circle. Not the mysterious shapeshifter house he’d been expecting. Far less people than he thought, too. He glances at Sam and the two wolves—who both bare their canines at him when they notice his stare.

“What?” Sam gruffs out.

“There’s really only three of you?” Harry asks, cocking his head.

He assumes the other men aren’t shifters, since two are rather old and one is in a wheelchair. Although maybe he shouldn’t assume. Maybe grandpas can shift too. There was a part of him that was hoping there’d be more of them. That perhaps the Blacks would be wolves, too.

“For now.” Sam approaches the elders and nods his heads. “Elders. This is James. James, this is Billy, Harry Clearwater, and Quil Ataera Senior, our elders.”

“Hiya!” Harry waves his hand and smiles. He notices Sam’s low-effort attempt to hide Billy but decides not to comment on it. Yet. There’s only one reason Sam wouldn’t mention Billy’s last name.

“We have confirmed that James is not human,” Sam says gravely. “However, he denies any connection to the Cullens.”

“Is that so?” The man in the wheelchair, Billy, asks, looking Harry up and down. Harry feels the distinct urge to straighten his clothes for the man, knowing who he could be. “Thank you, Sam. Sit down boys, please. Jared, Paul.”

Harry sits down happily, directly across from the three elders, turning to unabashedly watch the wolves shift back. They trot out of the room when they spot him watching, the dark grey one sending a glare over his shoulder. Harry clicks his tongue and turns back. Sam sits next to him, strategically moving his chair forward, as though the extra centimetre would help him jump between Harry and the elders if he decides to attack. It’s a sweet thought.

“Lovely to meet you, gentlemen,” Harry says. The men don’t reply, eyeing him.

“Sam, what did you mean by not human?” Quil asks from beneath a rather fashionable camouflage cap.

“He—”

“Isn’t that a question for me?” Harry asks with a small tilt of his head.

The two shapeshifters walk back in, one with a sharp face, all edges and frowns, and the other with swagger, as though he hadn’t be shaking in his proverbial wolf-boots minutes earlier. They slink to the last two remaining chairs, dragging them as far away from Harry as they can. One of them has a large bruise radiating down his side, all purple and green, yellow on the edges as though it’s already healing.

“Did I break your ribs?” Harry asks, leaning over to inspect it.

“Get away from me,” the man hisses through clenched teeth. “I’m fine.”

Sam sighs. “I asked you to stop harassing my pack mates, James.”

“I didn’t realise showing concern is classified as harassing.”

“He’s fine.”

“I can heal him—” Harry offers, waving his hand in the shifter’s direction, which ends with the injured one clattering from his chair, shuffling backwards, and the other shaking in his chair as though he could burst from his skin. “Oh, sorry.”

Harry meekly lowers his hand. The elders look on with concerned frowns. Harry’s under the distinct impression he’s ruined this meeting before it even began. Maybe he should have asked Hermione to come with him. No, he should have asked Ron. He’s good at talking to others now, diffusing situations. He’s quite charismatic these days.

“He’ll heal,” Sam grunts out. “Stop waving your hands around. Paul, Jared, relax.”

“What are you?” One of the older men—Harry, ironically—asks.

“I’m a wizard.” There’s a long moment of silence and all three elders look disbelieving. The shapeshifters look rather thoughtful. “Why are you struggling with the concept of wizards when you have shapeshifters literally in this room?”

“It’s—it’s not something we’ve heard of before,” Billy says. “Please, explain.”
Harry eyes the man for a moment. He glances at Sam, who tenses slightly and avoids his eyes.

“Billy, you wouldn’t happen to be a Black, would you?”

“Yes, I am. Why?”

Harry sends Sam a shit-eating grin. Sam scowls at him.

“James here has claimed a relationship to the Blacks. Although he did not explain how,” Sam grunts out.

“A relationship?” Billy snaps his head back to Harry.

“How much do you know about Phineas Black?” Harry starts, leaning forward slightly. “Father of Ephraim Black. The first Alpha, no?”

“How—How do you know that?” Billy asks.

So Harry explains it all to the best of his ability: Phineas Black being a wizard who left their society and how his magic reignited the shapeshifter ability in the Quileutes. How Harry moved here under the impression there were no magical creatures and was rather shocked meeting the shapeshifters on the mountain. That he was equally dismayed when he noticed the Cullens at his school.

“How does this make you related to the Blacks?” Sam asks, face softer, less angry.

Throughout the conversation Jared and Paul had relaxed, too. One of them even sent out questions, like how many wizards are there? (more than you’d expect), and can you fly? (only on a broom), and he had more, so many more, but one of the elders made him stop asking questions lest they be there forever. Harry was thankful. He was bordering the Statute of Secrecy with the whole conversation, playing around with how much he was willing to tell and how much he thought half-muggle creatures should know to ensure their peaceful co-existence. That’s the term Harry settled on for both the shapeshifters and the vampires—half-muggle creatures.

“My godfather was a Black. I guess I’m not technically related, but he’s the only family I ever really had.” Harry scratches his head as he thinks. “I guess he would’ve been your second cousin, Billy. He was descended from Phineas Black’s brother.”

Billy looks a little sad. “So, he’s passed then?”

Harry remembers Sirius, face falling lax, eyes flat and empty as his body falls through the veil. Sirius, who promised Harry a home and love, who fought against Peter before anyone else knew, who stumbled over his best-friend’s bodies to pull Harry from their house. Siriuis, who survived Azkaban with nothing more than vengeance on his mind. He remembers sitting in front of the fire at Grimmauld with Padfoot curled next to him, the shaggy black dog whining whenever he stopped petting his ears. Harry thinks of Sirius calling to him from the veil, from the void of Death’s embrace, from the stone he lugged to his death.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says softly, pulling Harry from the depths of his memories, from his grief. He hadn’t even needed to respond. “For your loss.”

“I had hoped to meet you today.” Harry changes the subject with a small shrug. “Once I learnt that there were Blacks here. I inherited a lot from my godfather, you see. I’d like to share what I can. Nothing too magical, of course. I think my godfather would have liked you all—he could transform into a dog, you know?” Harry laughs slightly. “I think if he’d known you were here, he would have joined you years ago.”

“He could turn into a dog? Can you turn into a dog too?” Jared asks, pulling his chair closer. “What type of dog? Was he big? And—”

“Jared, god, shut up.” Paul shoves the teen. “Can you, though?”

“Unfortunately, no. I haven’t spent the time learning the magic necessary.”

“Oh, so it’s not just, like, there? You have to learn it? That’s kinda lame, you know. For us it just happens. Like, one day you’re normal and then you’re hot and angry and—”

“Jared.” Sam cuts him off.

“Yeah, magic’s not like that. We go to a wizarding school from eleven-years-old so we can learn to use our magic.”

“Tell me more,” Jared whispers.

So, Harry explains what he can about Hogwarts, about the Wizarding World, redacting information where he deems necessary, like the fact they have unforgivable curses and maniacal dark lords and high-school death tournaments. He keeps the Wizarding World how he wishes it were—fun, safe, a world full of kind people and without bigotry. In turn, he collects information on the wolves.

He learns that the members who can shift are those descended from Ephraim Black’s original pack, which isn’t necessarily a limitation on who can shift, since the pack members have married between families and mixed without. Like Jared, who has a father from outside of the pack and whose lineage isn’t directly related to any of the original members.

Harry doesn’t try to understand it, simply memorise it, so he can regurgitate it back to Hermione later. Maybe just give her the whole memory. Only from the moment they started to get along. No need for her to see the whole kerfuffle of the first few minutes.

The wolves tell him about the Cullens, about how they are frozen, inhuman beings. How they are only allowed to live because of a treaty started by Ephraim Black—how the Cullens think of themselves as ‘vegetarians’ since they only drink animal blood, which is the sole most hilarious thing Harry has ever heard before. Drinking from animals makes you quite the antithesis of vegetarian in Harry’s opinion, even if there’s something to be said for the vampires restricting themself from their main food source.

They explain their treaty with the Cullens and how they maintain a watchful eye over them. Paul seems ready to rip them to shreds simply for existing. Sam comments that their existence alone is what turns them into wolves. It’s what awakens the magic in their blood, Harry supposes. Hermione will be delighted to learn about this. It really is like a protection ward of sorts, woven into their DNA when the half-muggle vampires are nearby. Likely why it skips generations at times. When the Cullens—or others—aren’t nearby, there’s no need for the shapeshifter magic to awaken.

The meeting ends on a good note, with Jared seemingly obsessed with Harry, Paul grudgingly impressed, and Sam, as expected, bristly and distant. They form a new treaty, not to trespass on each other’s dedicated lands and to maintain secrecy. If Harry harms a human, the wolves will attack. Harry requested the same condition in reverse, simply because it seems rather hypocritical of them to assume that Harry’s more dangerous than a pack of six-foot-tall wolves.

Harry sits on the front steps of the community centre, waiting for Sam to finish his top-secret-meeting with the elders and escort him back to his motorbike. He wanted to head off alone—it’s much faster, after all—but Sam requested rather harshly that he wait for an escort. Harry doesn’t want to ruffle the feathers of their new treaty quite that quickly, so he waits on the step, arms draped over his knees and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The reservation is quiet and the main street is empty apart from the distant sound of a truck plodding along. There’s a low fog rolling in across the road, oozing from the tree line.

“I didn’t think wizards would smoke,” Billy says as he wheels up behind Harry.

“We all have our vices.” Harry stamps the cigarette out anyway. He looks at Billy briefly over his shoulder but promptly turns around with a lump in his throat.

He knows that look.

Hermione used to have that look a lot. Merlin, she still does more often than he’d like. More people than Harry would like to admit have looked at him like that. With soft, sad eyes. Crinkled at the edges. Mouth slightly pursed as though they’re both holding back words and struggling to speak. Faces off worry and concern.

“So. Your godfather,” Billy starts off in an extremely not nonchalantly way. “How long ago did he pass?”

Harry closes his eyes. “Nine years ago.”

Billy rolls his wheelchair next to Harry, as close as he can get to the step.

“You must have been young. You’re seventeen now?”

And yeah, he was young. Seventeen was a fever dream to him. But he wasn’t eight when Sirius died. Maybe if he was, it wouldn’t have hurt so much. He wouldn’t have known him, just like his parents. He could have learnt about Sirius later and imagined all the what-if’s without actually knowing, without actually having felt his hug or heard his laughter or known what it was like to have Sirius fight by his side. Sirius didn’t die when Harry was eight. And Harry’s not really an unscarred seventeen-year-old. But Billy can’t know this, even if he’s one of the last Black’s left.

“Yeah,” Harry mutters back, wishing he hadn’t stamped out his cigarette.

“Your parents?”

“Dead.”

“After?”

“Before.”

“Anyone else?”

“Just me.”

Billy sits quietly. Eventually Sam arrives, scowl permanently etched onto his face and his loyal pack mates trailing behind him. Harry’s excited to leave, standing up and slithering down the stairs as fast as he can, wishing the wolves would stop stomping along and pick up the pace.

“Not anymore, son,” Billy says, calling out just enough for Harry to hear him as he retreats hastily.

Harry rubs at his chest until it hurts.

Chapter Text

Edward sits on the couch reading, lifting his legs as Esme runs the mop around the house and under his feet with vampire-speed. He’s only half paying attention to his book. He’s read it before—a collection of poetry from the 18th century. One from Carlisle’s bookshelves, a handwritten and hand-bound poetry collection gifted by Pietro Metastasio himself as gratitude for being a good friend. A remnant from Carlisle’s time with the Volturi, yes, but enchanting all the same.

It is by no means a fact that death is the worst of all evils;

when it comes it is an alleviation to mortals who are worn out with sufferings.

Edward sighs. They’re old words, ones he’s read many times in his hundred years of existence. He agrees, of course, that death is not evil—not to him anyway. Not to many of the Cullens. But he’s often wondered why Metastasio thought so. For Edward, to die would be a blessing. It is still one he runs from nevertheless. It’s a sick game, to crave death and the experience of it, yet to avoid it when it calls.

He supposes it has to do with the way of dying. Most of the Cullens have experience dying in morbidly human ways—painful, tragic even. To die again in such fashion isn’t appealing. His desire for death is restricted to the slow version: the deterioration of mind and body. To watch family grow older around him as he slowly withers away, naturally, in sync with the world around him and part of the cyclical nature of Earth. To be a part of it, not a memento frozen within it, forced to watch for eternity as the world evolves around him, without him.

Esme clatters something in the kitchen—probably the pots and pans she cleans once a week in some imitation of a human routine—and it drags Edward from his thoughts and into hers. I should change up the living room again. It’s really been too long since we had a new couch and perhaps it’s time for the house to have a more warm feel—Edward flicks his book shut and closes his eyes, attempting to drone out Esme's thoughts on updating the perfectly fine interior design of their home.

Instead, he’s pulled to Alice, her pencil pausing on the paper she’s scratching out a design on. Some sort of woman’s suit, from what Edward can see in her mind, abstract with the ideas she’s considering. She lets out a small gasp as the vision that pulled Edward to her floods her mind. It’s James and he’s—

Someone knocks on their door.

James is knocking on their door.

Esme drops a pan in surprise and Carlisle flits from his office just as Edward escapes the lounge room, running to meet Alice at the bottom of the stairs. Jasper stands behind her with a tense frame. A soldier’s stance.

“I—I didn’t see, I swear he only just made the decision and he was already here. I don’t—I don’t understand,” Alice frets, waving her hands around. “I was watching him so carefully and it was all black, and the next thing I know I see him deciding to come here but he’s already at the door!” She hisses as James knocks again, a rather impatient rapping in an oddly musical tune.

“What’s happening?” Rosalie asks, appearing behind Jasper with Emmet in tow. “Who is it?”

“James,” Alice whispers back.

And before Edward can even consider how to feel—before he can even process what is happening, Carlisle has already opened the door. They continue to loiter on the stairs, listening in, hesitant to move as though to do so would break the illusion and make what’s happening real.

“Hello. Can I help you?” Carlisle says with all the poise of a 365-year-old vampire who interacts with humans daily.

“Hullo. My name’s James. I’ve come to make a treaty.”

Edward almost combusts. He’s convinced the only reason he doesn’t is because Jasper sends out a very overwhelming wave of calm and serenity. It’s overkill, truly, but Edward isn’t the only one who needs it. The entire coven’s minds are rampaging, screaming out an incoherent barrage of thoughts all rapid-firing within their respective heads. Edward can feel them battering around in his own, smashing against the inside of his skull.

“A treaty?” Carlisle asks hesitantly.

“Like the one you have with the Quileute wolves,” James says as though he didn’t just spout off two long-held secrets casually.

Emmett laughs suddenly, boisterously down the stairs, looking straight at Edward with a grin. Perhaps your human isn’t so human after all, he thinks. Edward already knew that. Deep down, he knew that. But for James to appear out of thin air, for him to waltz right to their front door is another thing entirely.

“Please, come in. It seems we need to talk.” Carlisle opens the door and gestures for James to step inside. “I’ll have my family meet us in the living room.”

The Cullens congregate themselves hastily, Emmet almost pushing Edward through the wall in his rush to see the drama. By the time James has walked to the living room, they have seated themselves naturally, assumed their human positions, even if they may no longer be needed. Edward holds his book open, pretending to read. Alice and Emmett are halfway through a chess match after rapid-firing the game with their vampire speed, now slowing down and pretending to think long and hard about each action they take. Jasper watches them, pretending he cares at all about the game and that his attention isn’t solely on the heartbeat in their home. Rosalie simply sits, poised, waiting.

“Thank you for having me,” James says to Carlisle as he steps into the room. “I know this is rather sudden.”

“Well, it is a little surprising,” Carlisle says diplomatically. He directs James to a chair, one off to the side so he isn’t lined up facing a couch full of vampires. Carlisle sits next to Edward on the couch.

James’s heart rate is slow, steady. Edward fights the urge to breathe James deep, to scent him. He can already taste him in the air, something Edward has never experienced before. He’s never been this close to James before. Never been locked in a room with only his heartbeat to focus on, only his scent permeating the air.

Edward closes his mouth and decides against breathing.

He wonders what it would be like if he hadn’t recently fed. If his eyes were darker and the thirst was burning across his tongue like James’s scent is now—what would have happened if James and him had a class together, locked in the tiny rooms with the heaters blasting, windows closed against the cold, no ventilation. The thought alone sends a shiver down his spine.

Edward can feel James’s green eyes inspecting him and he can’t help staring openly back. James is much more up close. More of everything. More beautiful. More intimidating. More sad. Edward cannot see the scar he is sure should be there, not even a hint of makeup covering his skin. His hair is long down his forehead, shaggy curls looping around his face. James has dark circles under his eyes and long, dark lashes that only emphasize the unnaturally bright green of his eyes. Edward can’t recall ever seeing such eyes. Even behind a pair of thick glasses, they’re gorgeous. Deadly.

James stares at Edward almost as much as Edward stares at him. It feels like a game, almost. Between predator and prey. Lion and lamb. But there’s something there, in James’s eyes, something malignant that calls to Edward, whispers along the crest of his ear and promises him death. He’s not sure any more that he’s the predator, and the thought scares him.

He knows that if his heart could, it would beat from his chest. It would pump blood around his body and adrenaline would flood his system and his fight or flight would kick into place. He can almost feel it happening now. The desire to crawl both away and to James is overwhelming. His chest hurts. It’s a new feeling. Edward considers the likelihood of him dying right now—simply ceasing to exist, crumbling into powder right here, collapsing inward at his chest and onto the floor like a sandcastle. There’s a hole punched through his chest and gaping open for the world. No, for James.

Esme rattles into the room with a tray of coffee and cookies, acting out the slight shakes in human hands when they walk, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of them. James cuts the eye contact, releasing Edward from his prison. He fights the urge to clasp his shirt, grip at the light fabric encasing his body, weighing on his chest. He wants to check he truly hasn’t been ripped open, that there isn’t simply a gaping darkness where his heart used to lay uselessly.

James frowns at the tray but accepts the coffee gratefully when Esme offers. There’s an awkward minute of introductions, where Carlisle points out each member of the Cullen clan and James pretends he didn’t just ask his school friends their names two days ago at school even though they all listened to him do so. Edward wrestles with his own mind, fighting his emotions and rampant thoughts into books and records, stacking them neatly on shelves so he can at least focus. It is likely only possible because of Jasper. Poor Jasper, who is drowning next to Alice, hand curled so tight in hers that Edward’s surprised she hasn’t cracked beneath it. Jasper is overwhelmed by the family, by himself, by James. Edward is grateful for him. He’s constantly being saved by Jasper’s ability, but it hurts to read how much he’s suffering now, crushed beneath all of their unstable moods.

“Now, James,” Carlisle says slowly. “Please explain a bit more. I’m confused as to why you’re here.”

James takes a sip of his coffee and instantly blanches, placing it back on the table. Oh no, did I make it wrong? I could have sworn the instructions said to—Edward cuts his mind from Esme and hones it onto James, focusing as hard as he can to read what he’s thinking, to know why he is here. His heartbeat is slow and steady. Unhurried.

“As I said, I’d like to make a treaty. I was just at the reservation and they explained they have a treaty with you, too.” James shuffles one of the cookies into his hand and inspects it, rotating it before sniffing it slightly. He takes a tentative bite and, after a moment, throws the entire thing in his mouth.

“Did you make these?” He asks Esme.

“Oh, yes. I hope they’re okay.”

James throws another two in his mouth with a nod of his head. “They’re delicious! I didn’t think a vampire would know how to cook.”

Edward is instantly barraged by his family’s internal voices, each overlapping into one. Esme stutters slightly, her eyes wide, glancing to Carlisle. Edward doesn’t know who to listen to—let alone what to think himself. Here he’s been agonising over his condition, over the possibility that James could figure out what they are, and James literally does just that. Figures it out. Announces it. Asks for a treaty.

He should have known, really. That any person in a vision with him was not going to be normal. He’d hoped that they might be. As much as he was adamant he wouldn’t engage with James, he did have some morbid interest in connection with the teenager.

Watching him age, maybe. Watching him grow old and die. To experience and perceive a life in full, even if it isn’t his own. Even if it is the life of someone he might love one day, if Alice’s visions don’t change. It’s selfish, perhaps, to think James would want to die. Would want to allow Edward to watch him do so.

But that doesn’t matter now. No, the dream—because that’s what it is, something abstract and forgettable in the morning, something that crawls into his mind at night and ruminates into possibilities, ideas, experiences, only to blend into obscurity when the sun rises and Edward allows the reality of the world to restart—the dream of watching James grow old beside him has well and truly disappeared.

He already knew it, but now he can truly acknowledge that he will never be with James; that he won’t allow himself to drag James into his depths or force him to experience life alongside someone frozen and immortal. Vision or no visions. To grow old isn’t the blessing. To be able to do it alongside another is the true blessing. Edward wouldn’t wish it on another to miss that chance.

Edward and his siblings no longer pretend to be involved in their own human-passing activities. They now stare unabashedly, unblinkingly, realising their need for performance is gone.

“Sorry, James. I’m still quite confused. Are you a shapeshifter like the Quileutes?” Carlisle asks. “Did they tell you what we are?”

Because if they did, it’s a violation of the treaty, Carlisle thinks.

We should hunt those dogs down, Emmett thinks.

They’ve jeopardized our family with their loud mouths, Rosalie thinks.

“Oh, no. I noticed on Friday at school,” James says casually, crunching on another cookie. “The wolves didn’t have to tell me.”

What the fuck, Edward thinks.

Why didn’t I see this coming, Alice thinks.

Why don’t I want to feed on him, Jasper thinks.

And that catches Edward’s attention. He stops trying to drill into James’s impenetrable mind and flicks to Jasper, who is glaring at James as though he is a nuisance more than he is food. Jasper’s mind is clear, calm. Nothing like the frantic thoughts and constant mantra of ‘relax’ he experiences when at school. Edward hesitates just a moment before he breathes deep, opening his mouth slightly, allowing James’s scent to sit on his tongue.

He smells…

Absolutely divine.

Like thunder and lightening on his tongue. Like ozone, like rain from a storm, like the salt splash of choppy waves churning at night. There’s something heady beneath that makes Edward’s skin crawl, as though reminding his frozen body about the concept of goosebumps. If he could shiver, he thinks he would.

This whole week of agonising about James, Edward hadn’t even noticed how appealing James smells—now that he has, he can feel the elongating of his fangs, the pooling of venom in his mouth. But the bloodlust he expects doesn’t come. It’s there, beneath the surface, lacing up this throat and filling his mouth. But instead of bloodlust, Edward is consumed by the desire to envelop James, to wrap his arms so tight around him that he wouldn’t be able to leave. To drown in his scent. In his being.

Edward has never been particularly fussy, even as a human. But he’s always been traditional. A man who wants to find a woman and court her slowly, to develop the trust between them and eventually ask her father for permission to take her hand in marriage.

Edward hasn’t seriously considered finding a male lover before. It may have crossed his mind once or twice, in the dead of night, in the throes of loneliness. He’s seen gay couples many years before they were commonplace. He’s stalked past men making out in dark alleyways that made them perfect victims for evil humans. Edward had no qualms saving them without them noticing. Still, witnessing gay men and being a gay man are two different things in Edward’s mind.

He feels he’s being manipulated by Alice’s visions. Falling prey to the allure of possible futures, ones that may not even come to pass. He doesn’t feel disgusted by the idea, or by himself if he is truly gay. What he feels is a distinct lack of self. A loss of who he truly believed himself to be until this moment right now—with James’s green eyes boring into him as though they can read his very soul, their lustre eerie and unnatural; with James’s scent brushing across his tongue and setting fire to something within him he didn’t know existed any more.

“You seem to know about our condition,” Carlisle says, ending Edward’s existential crisis of self. “Would you mind explaining yours? Are you not…human?” Carlisle cocks his head to the side.

James takes a beat, cookie halfway to his mouth.

“I probably should have started with that.” He shakes his head and frowns at the cookie in his hand. “I’m a wizard.”

“A…wizard?” Emmett asks, sending Edward an amused smirk. “Like with magic?”

“The very same.” He puts the cookie down.

“We’ve been alive for a long time.” Rosalie’s voice is harsh, sharp and acidic. “If wizards were a thing, we would know.”

James’s fingers tap on the armrest of his chair, a rhythmic tone of impatience, perhaps, or even annoyance. Rosalie has that effect on people.

“You would not. It’s illegal for us to reveal ourselves. Normally, at least.”

“Normally?” Carlisle latches onto the word. “But you are telling us? And you told the wolves?”

“Yes, well,” James pauses, as though deliberating what to say. “The wolves skirt the law for a couple of reasons.”

“And we do, too?” Edward asks. James shakes his head.

“Not as far as I know, yet.”

Edward can’t help the anger leeching into him slightly. “Does this not put us at risk? Put you at risk?”

He takes too long to reply, but eventually mutters out, “No.”

This scenario is unusual and unsettling—James himself is unusual and unsettling. It doesn’t matter how nice he smells. It doesn’t matter how many possible futures Alice has seen with him. It doesn’t even matter that Edward just felt his entire world, his entire perspective crumble around him and rebuild itself after James. What matters is his family and their survival. James’s death. His fingers twitch at the thought.

“Don’t bother,” James says, his voice dull, eyes cutting from Edward’s twitching fingers back to his face. “You couldn’t kill me even if you tried.”

There’s a darkness radiating from James, oppressive and heavy. It clings to his skin and weighs Edward down. He feels as though he’s drowning. As though he should gasp for air and flail his limbs to climb from the pressure. To escape the weight in those green eyes.

Still, Edward doesn’t believe him.

He truly doesn’t.

Chapter Text

It’s as though Edward’s suddenly become the marble he’s always felt like—heavy, cold, immovable. The tenebrosity emanating from James makes Edward scared, in the truest sense of the word, like he’s being hunted by something far beyond his comprehension, his capabilities. He feels rather human, weak and breakable. It’s a novel feeling. One he’s only felt in James’s presence and one he’s oddly starting to adjust to. It's the belief that he could cease to exist at any moment. He feels mortal, in a profound way that shatters his perception of himself.

Yet, all he can think about is how sad James looks beneath that gloom, how the pressure he releases is ladened with mourning and grief, how the shadowy power doesn’t taste like lightning and isn’t tangy in the air, it’s twisted and ashy on his tongue. That all-encompassing desire to embrace James returns, even as Edward feels frozen, locked by fear. By power.

“Nobody will be killing anyone,” Carlisle orders, his eyes heavy on Edward. “Please, James. Explain it so we can understand. We have our own laws about revealing ourselves to others, too.”

I’m sure I could kill him. He looks like a twig. Wizard or no wizard, I’d end him, Emmett thinks.

“You do?” James asks, interest flicking across his face as he leans forward. The darkness that held Edward hostage releases, disperses into the air as though it were a figment of his imagination. “Does that mean you have a governing body?”

“Yes, something like that.”

James makes a pleased face before sighing. “Usually I shouldn’t be revealing myself to you. But, it’s come to my attention that the wolves are—in part—magical. This exempts them from the Statute of Secrecy, since they're no longer considered muggles.”

“And muggle is a person with no magic?” Alice interjects, a small, secretive smile on her face.

Surely, if she’s happy, then there’s no reason for Edward to be so tense. Apart from the murky power that James captured him with briefly, there have been no other signs that James might randomly up and decide to kill them all. Edward wonders if he could do it—if James could murder the entire Cullen coven without being taken out first.

He doesn’t think so.

It’s statistically unlikely, practically impossible. There are far too many of them and their speed and strength gives them an unfair advantage. Magic or no, there’s no way James could take them all down instantaneously. Perhaps one or two of them would die, but the rest would be able to take him down while he is distracted. Edward knows that Jasper thinks so too—can hear it in his mind, can read how Jasper would attack.

He would leave Edward and Carlisle to take the first hit. They’re the closest, after all, and would protect Esme from any attacks even at the cost of their lives. Edward agrees with Jasper’s assumption. He would, without hesitation. Carlisle would too, but Edward is faster. Jasper would make his move once Edward and Carlisle have been attacked. Lunge for his throat. Jasper doesn’t even have the urge to drink from James, but he would still rip his throat out. It’s the fastest way to end his life from where Jasper sits now. Breaking his neck would be easier. Cleaner. But he won’t have the right angle unless James moves during the struggle with Edward and Carlisle. Perhaps Emmett could find his way around while Jasper attacks, snap his neck from behind.

But Jasper doesn’t need to plan for ways to kill James. And neither does Edward need to prepare for the outcome if it were to happen. Edward can see that now, with Alice’s small smile and her hand gently resting on Jasper’s knee. She must have seen their future with James, something new about the situation at hand. Edward tries to read it, but Alice sings in her mind—a horrible song from the radio at school that Alice knows Edward despises—cutting him from the vision by not allowing it to resurface. He glares at her. She seems pleased with herself.

“Yes, that’s what we call those without magic,” James continues, mere seconds having passed since Alice spoke. “I’ve come to the conclusion that your kind are likely the same. Beings whose origin stems from magic. I have someone researching it for me.”

“And if that’s not the case?” Edward asks, turning his gaze back to James’s haunting eyes. “If our kind don’t originate from magic—what happens to us then? Have you jeopardized us by telling us?”

“If you’re not, well, I’ll ask them to overlook it just this one time.”

“And why would they listen to you?”

The smile that spreads across James’s face is slow, mischievous. Like he knows a secret the Cullens don’t. He doesn’t explain, instead saying, “Don’t worry too much. The worst that would happen is that they erase your memories. They won’t kill you for knowing.”

Edward’s stomach drops.

He hadn’t known it could still do that.

He hadn’t known he could still feel fear like that, so human and volatile. Something that spread weakness in his stomach. This is worse than what he felt earlier, when he felt mortal and weak and inches from possible death. That was fear of death and power. This is fear of loss.

It is much scarier.

The fear of forgetting James. Of never having seen him. Of the visions, gone. Never to have existed.

Those visions that he so despises, that left him ruminating for months, that he collects like a crow collects precious things, hoarding them in a corner of his mind to review when the sun is down and the night is long. Even if they’re not real—even if they’ve never happened and might not ever happen—Edward still cherishes them. Cherishes the possibilities they hold and promises they whisper, of a life where he’s not alone forever.

The only benefit of living for so long is that that one can experience love for the same length of time. Edward has always been excluded from this. Alone in his family of lovers. He used to sit in his meadow and remember his human years, as much as he could. The touch of his mother’s hand on his forehead, the scent of his father. Abstract and distorted through time. Barely memories any more. Merely fragments, remnants of his failing human existence. He used to sit and wish to remember the vivid clarity of mortality and his existence as a human. The pain and pleasure he knows he felt in those short seventeen years. Since James, though, Edward hasn’t sat and wished to remember his human years.

Not once.

Instead, he takes the visions with him to the meadow nearly every night. Sits under the stars alone and replays them. Visits his favourite ones over and over and over again. One of him and James, in that very meadow, entangled in each other’s arms, bathed in the warm sunlight of spring. Another, of them together at home, Edward’s home, in his bedroom, listening to his favourite record spin on repeat as James rests his head on Edward’s lap. He’s reading and carding his fingers through James’s hair, the soft locks curling between his fingers in dark clusters, stark against his own skin. There’s one of James listening to Edward play piano. One of Edward running alongside James on his motorbike under a crisp morning fog.

And more visions, those even more precious. Even more coveted. Ones Edward wishes Alice had never seen—not because he doesn’t want them to exist, but because he wishes he could keep them all for himself. To remove them from her memory completely. One of James and Edward, tangled in his bed, his hands running along the divot of James’s spine, fingers gripping those alluring dark curls and pulling until those bright green eyes stare back at him. One of Edward, his back against a tree, James’s lips against his own, his hands dipping beneath Edward’s shirt and running along his chilled chest.

Another, one so depraved and secret Edward disappeared for two days when Alice first saw it. She never spoke of it, never even thought of it again. But Edward remembers it—he’d shoved it into a corner of his mind where he could pull it out in secret, roll it around in his hands and consider the implications of such a thing. The fact it even exists as a possibility. What this means for who Edward believes he is, again. His sense of self constantly being attacked and destroyed by James, in visions and in real life.

The vision taunts Edward with pleasure and pain. With the knowledge of what might come to be, and Edward’s horror at the idea—and the undeniable excitement that has venom pooling under his tongue. It’s one of a house Edward doesn’t recognise. A room with deep red walls and expensive, wooden furniture. Grand furniture with gold accents and elaborate designs carved into them. There’s a four poster bed with light tulle draped from the top, a soft cream that cuts through the darkness of the room. It matches the curtains, which are open, peeled back and tied at the sides, only letting the moonlight inside. The fireplace across from the foot of the bed glows with dying embers, the flames barely flickering.

James is on the bed, the covers sprawled around him, half on and half off. His chest is bare, but blurred, as though pixelated and undefined in the vision. His neck is bruised, the outline of a hand and dark kiss marks lining his throat. He cocks his head and curls his finger, calling Edward to the bed. Back to the bed. Edward knows those marks are from him. The idea is horrific—that he would exert such strength onto James. A human. Or a wizard, now, but soft and breakable all the same. Edward has never imagined himself to be someone rough. Someone aggressive. Until this vision. Until he first saw how he crawls to James when he beckons, how he grips James as though he belongs to him. How he kisses along James’s neck to the sounds of soft moans and rough fingers pulling him closer, tugging at his hair, legs wrapping around his own. How he opens his mouth, fangs elongated and—

“What do you mean?” Edward snaps, cutting the vision off. He can feel his family watching him because of his harsh tone. “They’ll make us forget? You can do that?”

James stares at him before slowly nodding. “Yes, although I doubt they would, if I asked. Besides, it won’t matter if my hunch is true.”

“So the wolves are magical,” Carlisle reiterates. “And you’re a wizard. You must know why we find that hard to believe.”

Instead of replying, James waves his hand gently in a complex loop, flicking his fingers just so. From his fingertips, a burst of blue light escapes, releasing a small orb that hovers in the air, blindingly bright.

“Oh, sorry,” James mutters sheepishly, waving his hand again and dimming the orb. “There. Is this proof enough?”

The Cullens don’t reply. They all stare, transfixed on the orb floating magically around the room, bouncing slightly like a jellyfish would under water. Edward wants to touch it. He wants to grab the ball and wrap around it and keep it protected from the ugly world outside. He releases his fists, letting the cracked fissures in his knuckles heal as he glances back to James, the scent of ozone thick and heavy in the air, on his tongue. He wants to drink it in. He slams his eyes shut, begging the idea, the vision to disappear. For his fangs to retract and the venom to stop. He swallows it down, takes a moment before reopening his eyes.

James is watching him. Watching his hands. Watching those small cracks heal as Edward shakily lets the death grip go and feels his fangs retract. James waves the orb away.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Edward doesn’t know how to tell James he wasn’t frightened of his power, or the glowing orb that floated around the room, or the crackle of energy that flowed from James’s fingertips. No, what he was afraid of was the way it made him feel. The way that magic called to him, deep inside, at something he always swore didn’t exist any more. The way he could have sworn his frozen heart stuttered a beat.

“You know, it’s quite hypocritical of you to not believe in magic when the wolves, and yourselves, exist.”

“I suppose seeing really is believing,” Emmett mutters.

“I’m sorry, James. We didn’t mean to offend you. You must understand why we were hesitant to believe such a story. It seems we shouldn’t have been.” Carlisle shakes his head, a small, disbelieving smile on his face. Nearly four hundred years and I’m still learning new things about this world. “What is this treaty you have in mind?”

James nods his head, but Edward’s still lost. Lost in himself. In the thoughts of James. In the visions he shouldn’t have hoarded and reviewed until the point of memorisation. He feels untethered in time, watching everything speed by when usually it’s so slow to pass. Edward can’t help wondering what this means for him and for James. What are wizards capable of? How long do wizards live? Is this why James watches them in Alice’s visions? What does this mean for all those possible futures? Is this where they begin? What does that vision mean for him and his place with the Cullens?

He knows that Carlisle is discussing something important. Logically, he knows that. But his brain is separate from the discussions he should be actively listening to, actively participating in. It’s a shockingly human experience. One that niggles at memories long-thought lost, erased to time mercilessly. He truly could be sinking, drowning, and he would be unable to notice. He has the oddest urge to drag in a deep breath and oxygenate his brain.

He doesn’t need to. Not that it would help him, anyway. Jasper, as always, is there to save him, prodding at his emotions until they’re boxed up, until whatever it is that shuffled awake inside of him slumbers again and Edward feels his focus hone in, his brain clear, and his ears reopen to the noise around him. You can’t fall apart now, Edward. You’ve just found him, Jasper thinks and Edward doesn’t dig any further. Doesn’t want to know what Jasper feels deep in Edward's emotions, in the places he begs ignorance to.

“We can agree to that.” Carlisle gives an affirmative nod. “If you agree to a few of ours.”

Edward has been rather unstable lately. Maybe I should talk to him. Maybe I need to mention it to Carlisle, Jasper continues to think, unrestrained thoughts, floating into existence before he has time to check them and attempt to hide them. Edward looks at Jasper with scornful eyes, shaking his head in a pleading no.

“What’re your conditions?” James asks, head cocked to the side as he throws another biscuit in his mouth. The coffee sits untouched still. Edward knows Esme will be in the kitchen practicing brewing all night.

“First, we ask that any information you find or learn about our kind is shared with us. It’s something of a personal interest of mine, you see.” James nods in easy agreement to Carlisle’s first condition.“Secondly, I must ask you to refrain from telling anyone else about our condition. Obviously, this will be reciprocated. Lastly, it would be appreciated if you could visit us sometime. There are very few people we can interact with on a truly honest level. I feel your friendship would be invaluable to us.”

I can always count on Carlisle, Alice thinks with overwhelming joy. Edward falls into her head, searches, just slightly, trying to find the vision she’s speaking of, to make her recall it, but she starts singing again. He rips himself from her mind with a glare.

“I suppose that’s fine,” James agrees reluctantly and Edward realises how long the silence was for. He looks back, only to be caught in James’s eyes once more, falling into their depth. James is frowning at him slightly. Edward wonders how long James was watching him for.

“You don’t want to do that,” James says, staring straight at Edward now.

“What?” Edward rasps out, gasps out, grumbles. He’s not sure how he responds, really, only that air whooshes from his lungs and the sounds form in his mouth and James holds him prisoner still.

James taps a finger to his forehead. “My mind. Stop trying to get in.”

Edward reels back. He hadn’t realised he had been trying to—but at this point, it’s more like habit. To graze along the thoughts of those around him. To drop in and out freely.

“What do you mean?” He somehow says, playing dumb.

“It’s a pain, constantly feeling you scraping against my barriers. You don’t want in—trust me. Could get lost in there. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve been told it’s a rather uninhabitable place for others.”

Carlisle touches Edward’s shoulder and he realises his hands are creaking, cracking again under the pressure of his grip. He wishes to fling from the couch and into James’s mind even with his warning. In fact, the warning has made him more intent to see. To know what lies beneath. How different it is to others.

“You can feel Edward reading your mind?” Carlisle asks, fascinated.

“So, you’re a mind reader.” James's tone is rather unimpressed. “I can feel him against my barriers. He’s lucky I have them.”

“You can block him from your mind? Is that something you can teach?” Rosalie asks, for once speaking softly, her tone hopeful.

“Perhaps. Depends on how magical you are, really. How many of you have these abilities?”

“Edward is our only mind reader. Jasper is an empath, so he can sense and manipulate moods. Alice can see the future,” Carlisle explains.

James lets out a short, sharp laugh and is promptly standing from his chair. Edward scrambles from his, unsure why he feels the need to chase. James’s heart rate is through the roof. His blood too fast, each whoosh through his heart is a call of anxiety, of stress.

“Right. Do we have a treaty, Dr Cullen?” James holds out his hand and Carlisle stands, shaking it firmly.

“We do, James.” Carlisle hesitates slightly. “Are you okay?”

James nods his head before turning to Alice. She stands up, sombre, face unflinching. She was expecting this. She was waiting for it. From her vision that she wouldn’t let Edward see and now he resents her for it—resents her for keeping it to herself when it obviously it is important enough to make James leave so hastily. To fill him with the acidic scent of anxiety, lace it with the crackle of power so intoxicating Edward wonders if it’s light-headedness he’s feeling.

“James,” she replies softly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop them.” James scowls and turns from her, pacing for the door. “They’re not set in stone,” Alice calls after him. “They’re malleable. Changing. Simply glances into possibilities.”

“I don’t care,” James replies over his shoulder. “Keep me out of them.”

And then James is gone, disappeared into a black fog, displacing the energy in front of the door that he stomped to but didn’t even use.

“What the fuck was that?” Emmett asks Edward, as though he is somehow more knowledgeable on the mystery that is James Granger.

Chapter Text

Harry slams the shot of whiskey down, wishing it were a strong double of Ogden’s finest rather than the muggle stuff. He needs it. Something stronger. Something more. Something dulling.

His visit to the Cullens went fine. Better than he expected, even. Less hostile than he thought they might be. Vampires are volatile creatures, after all. Harry had thought it best to kill two birds with one stone and get both treaties set up in one day and enjoy the rest of his time in Forks without interference from the two half-muggle creatures. That was, at least, until he learnt of Alice’s visions.

Merlin.

He just can’t catch a break. What is it with these seers constantly surrounding him and ruining his bloody life? No wonder Alice had given him the creeps that first day of school. Vampirism aside, she really is too much like Luna. At least Luna is discreet about her skills—in the sense she never voices them properly, never actually prophetises. She just leans into her intuition. Seems abnormally perceptive, even.

Alice on the other hand.

Harry remembers what she said that first day to him, the way she’d declared his future happiness and rattled off that she’d seen such a thing happening. Such a casual vision. A casual prophecy. A casual way to trap Harry into a new future of someone else’s design, someone else’s accord.

“Another round?” The bartender asks, collecting Harry’s tumbler with the ice still rattling in it.

“Give me the whole bottle,” Harry replies, digging in his pocket for several crumpled notes. He slaps them on the table. Likely too much but he doesn’t care.

The bartender slides the bottle over and plops a fresh ice cube in his glass, pocketing the cash hastily. Harry rather likes him. He reminds Harry of Mundungus, all rough around the edges with a strong scent of tobacco and alcohol. Questionable morals. That works in Harry’s favour though, if the bottle of whiskey in front of him is anything to go by. He didn’t have to confund him or anything. He was much too happy to earn some coin, even from someone who looks like a teenager.

“You get sick and I’ll kick you out.” The bartender mutters, shuffling off to the next customer.

Harry is a little surprised he’s not the only one here at three AM. It’s a dingy bar in Seattle, off the port and nestled between two buildings, the stairway to the basement bar almost undetectable. Harry has a nose for these things now though. Maybe he always has. Had a nose for scenting trouble, noticing when something is just slightly amiss. When danger lurks in the air. He found this dive easily, even without a sign out front and it being two levels underground. There are two old men across the bar, curled around a small table with large pints of beer in front of them.

Still, they’re not the only ones here.

“How long will you stand out there watching?” Harry mutters under his breath, slamming another shot of whiskey down and pouring another two fingers.

The vampire opens the door and walks in, ignoring the greeting from the bartender and sitting next to Harry, turning to face him completely.

“Let me guess?” Harry drawls, picking his glass up and using it to point lazily at Edward, the vampire who constantly tries to enter his mind. “Alice?”

“She told me where you’d be.”

Harry laughs and shakes his head. “Of course she did.”

“She doesn’t mean any harm by it. She knew I wanted to talk to you.”

“Right. And what about what I want?” Harry asks, slamming his glass down too roughly, the alcohol slopping over the sides and across his fingers. “Did she ever think about that? Did you?”

Edward frowns. “Perhaps you should stop drinking, James.”

“Why? This conversation sucks when drunk. Can’t imagine I’d want it to continue sober.”

“Well, you’re underage, for one.”

Harry’s laugh is short. He downs his drink pointedly and pours another. He’s lost count of how many he’s had now. Ron would rip him a new one if he found out just how much he’s been drinking, but luckily for Harry, Ron isn’t here.

Edward sits in silence, his thick eyebrows furrowed so deep Harry’s surprised they don’t slide off. Merlin, he hates him. He hates the way his chiselled face looks worried for him—worried for Harry. Hates the way those molten eyes look distraught. Hates the way he wants to collapse in the man’s arms and curl into a ball like he does only for Death. It’s a horrible feeling. One he doesn’t trust.

“Why are you here?” Harry growls out.

“I—” Edward pauses. “I’m not entirely sure myself.”

And isn’t that just great? Harry’s stuck with a vampire who has attachment issues.

“I’d appreciate it if you fuck off. It’s rather obvious I want to be alone.”

“Do you really, though?”

Harry pushes his chair back and stumbles to his feet. Edward’s marble hand shoots out and grabs his bicep, stopping him.

“Wait, please. I’m sorry. Don’t leave.”

Harry rips his arm from Edward’s grip. There’s a fire along his arm down to his finger tips. He shakily curls his fingers into a fist, stretching them out again slowly.

“Don’t touch me,” he hisses, but he stumbles back into his chair. “Don’t touch me,” he mutters again, shuffling his cup between two hands in front of him, mesmerised by the ice sloshing around.

“Hey man, you ordering something?” The bartender asks Edward, very much implying he’s unwelcome if he doesn’t.

Harry hears Edward order and soon another whiskey glass, empty apart from some ice, is plopped in front of them. Harry fills the glass from his bottle of shitty muggle whiskey even though he knows Edward won’t drink it. Can’t drink it.

“Why are you here?” Harry asks again, this time his voice comes out soft, tired. Resigned.

“I was worried. Alice had some unusual visions.”

Harry doesn’t want to know that. He drinks his whiskey and refuses to ask. Edward stares. He doesn’t touch the glass in front of him, doesn’t fidget in his chair, barely even moves his shoulders in an imitation of breathing. Harry scowls.

“Don’t talk about Alice,” he replies, instead of calling Edward out on….on something. On his lack of humanity, perhaps. The idea is almost ludicrous—calling another being out on their inability to die.

“Why do you hate her so much?”

“Hate her?” Harry asks, gobsmacked. “I don’t hate her. I hate her visions—I hate prophecies.” He spits the word too roughly, too harshly.

“They’re not prophecies. They’re options. Possibilities,” Edward explains, as though Harry doesn’t know that. As though he isn’t aware that possibilities themselves are prophecies, that just their existence can lead to them self-fulfilling.

“Right. Did this conversation work out in the future you saw?” Harry asks him, glaring. “Let me guess. Alice views the possibilities and you pick the best one?” He snorts at Edward’s slightly sheepish face. “Yeah, you can fuck right off with that.”

Edward rotates the glass in front of him slowly. He takes a long time to reply. Maybe this conversation did go well in Alice’s vision—why else would Edward have come to talk?

“It’s not like that with you,” he says softly. “The visions are different.”

Harry wants to bash his head on the counter. Just the thought of being special again makes him want to kill himself. Literally. He’s sick and tired of being the chosen one in some way.

“The visions about you, they’re incomplete. If she can even see them. They’re just snippets of moments, stolen between gaps she can’t see.”

“Huh,” Harry says.

That’s a good thing, at least. Maybe it’s because of his magic. Maybe it’s because of Death. Both options are fine, as long as Alice can’t see his future and rattle off a prophecy like it’s nothing. Like they don’t actually hold weight and meaning and people’s lives.

Harry drinks his whiskey slowly now, avoiding the curious gaze of Edward. He’s unreserved with his stare, unabashed in his attention. Harry can feel him grating across his barriers. How much of his ability is subconscious, and how much does he actively push to enter others minds? How much can Edward see when he reads their minds? Is it like legilimency, where someone’s memories are like movies, playing around the viewer? Or is it more personal than that, more first-person, like when Harry was Nagini, attacking Mr Weasley?

“I told you to stop it,” Harry says, cutting his eyes over to Edward.

“I just want to know.”

Edward doesn’t even have the gall to look slightly mollified, slightly shamed. It’s as though his ability gives him the right to delve into everyone’s mind, to invade their privacy and manipulate inner thoughts, steal them and mould them into fact.

“So because you want to know, you deserve to?” Harry scoffs. “Because you have the ability to do so, it is your right to do so?” He can’t help the anger seeping into his tone.

“It’s not—”

“It is like that though, isn’t it?” Harry laughs, mockingly, cutting his eyes to Edward in a harsh glare. “You think everyone’s mind is yours for the taking? That you deserve to know what we’re all thinking? The actions we might take and the words we might withhold?”

“It’s not something I can control,” Edward exclaims, his eyes wide, flicking between Harry’s.

“Bullshit. I bet you’ve never even tried.” Edward looks away, hand curling around his glass of whiskey. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry, James.” Edward stands so quickly it couldn’t have been human. He stalks to the door and Harry watches him go for just a second before the anger takes over.

Maybe it’s the muggle whiskey—perhaps it’s stronger than Harry ever really gave it credit for—or maybe it’s simply that Edward’s behaviour is so selfish. So power-hungry, controlling, all without even acknowledging it. So much like Voldemort and Dumbledore, in the way they casually invade other’s minds. How they dip in and out of thoughts and memories, collect nuggets of a being and collate that information into a dossier of pros and cons, weaknesses and strengths, things that can be manipulated. Edward is the same—someone who is so used to living their life by pre-empting those around him, by gleaning information from inner selves and using it to inform his own actions, or to manipulate their own into an outcome he prefers. Worse yet, he combines his own personal knowledge of those inner workings with Alice’s visions. Her predictions for the future combined with Edward’s knowledge on the person, on their likely courses of actions, their thoughts and feelings and reactions to the world and people around them. The idea riles Harry up.

He throws Edward’s whiskey back and picks his whiskey bottle up by the neck, lugging it with him as he stalks Edward out the door and up the stairs as quickly as his inebriated steps will let him.

“Stop!” He yells, stumbling just a bit on the uneven ledge of the doorway.

Edward pauses, already long down the street, stopped under the lone light. Harry begins the trek towards him but Edward turns and suddenly appears before him, his hand out as if to grab Harry and stabilise him.

“You should go home, James.”

“Do you want to know?” Harry asks, slurring slightly.

“To know what?” Edward furrows his eyebrows.

His eyes are a shockingly bright gold in the night. Lit up against the darkness, the dank light from the stairwell shining across them. Harry remembers them being dark before, sometime previously, when he first saw Edward. He doesn’t know when, can’t really place any day before today correctly in his mind, but he knows they were once pitch black against his pale skin, not iridescent like this. Not molten and sorrowful.

“What it’s like for everyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

Harry grabs onto Edward’s arm to stop himself from keeling over, the whiskey bottle barely remaining in the weak grip of his left hand. Edward is cold. Even through the jacket he wears, Harry can feel how cold he is. How hard his forearm feels. It’s like a rock. A block of ice, even. It’s not comforting in the least. But the coldness makes his hand light up in a flurry of tingles. He stabilises himself using Edward and pulls himself to full height. He still has to look up at Edward, up into those confused golden eyes and past those soft pouted lips, curled into a frown.

He slips in naturally, softly. Unnoticed. This isn’t legilimency as he’d always known it. It’s not even the same as it was with Sam. It feels more, in every sense of the word. With Sam, it had been an accident and brief, a quick glimpse into his inner workings and slipping straight on out. Harry rarely uses legilimency on purpose. It makes him feel icky—reminds him too much of those months with Voldemort's magic laying tendrils in his brain, flicking through memories. It reminds him of Dumbledore refusing to meet his gaze. Of Snape, forcing his way in.

But with this, it’s purposeful. He’s purposeful.

Edward’s mind is chaotic. More so than he’d expected from someone so high strung. Usually people who are stressful have rather tidy minds, everything collated into categories and organised based on dates, emotion, impacts. Like Hermione—her mind follows the Dewey decimal system with further breakdowns into muggle and magical within each category. She’s one of the most high strung people Harry knows, yet her mind is the most organised. To be high strung is almost synonymous with controlled.

Harry had assumed Edward would be the same. He seemed like the most on edge out of all of the half-muggle vampires. At their impromptu meeting, Edward had barely glanced away from him. Harry was sure he could hear the man’s thoughts from across the coffee table as he’d considered every possible outcome and tried to predict every action of each person in the room. Due to that, Harry had assumed Edward’s brain would look like Hermione’s. Maybe it wouldn’t be a library, but something similar. He would have a system in place for collating memories and storing them.

But Edward’s mind is like the ocean. Churning around him with choppy waves going in every direction. Harry rather feels as if he’s drowning and it takes him a minute to find his metaphorical footing, to latch onto a thought floating past and allow it to drag him beneath the whitewash foaming on the waves, down with the undercurrent, and into Edward’s mind fully, past the rudimentary defences. James is too drunk, the thought projects. He shouldn’t be out here alone at night. He shouldn’t even be drinking. Harry’s rather impressed that there are defences at all. Edward’s mind-reading ability certainly lends him skill in occulmency. Whether he purposely crafts the defences or not is another thing. Still, they’re weak as defences go, and past the waves and through the murky depths of the underwater currents is his true mind.

Here, it is calm. A bright, airy room. Views of moss-covered trees outside, much like those in Forks. There’s no bed, simply a white leather lounge chair with a stack of precarious books on the floor next to it, each more worn than the last. A desk in the corner is covered in stray sheet music with a pile of pencil shavings brushed into the corner. And on Harry’s right is a wall of shelving, packed to the brim with records. In the middle sits a record player, embedded within the shelf. He inspects the records up close. Those on the top left are much older. Those on the bottom right are newer.

It’s still not what he expected. It’s tidy, organised, but there’s also mess, in the pencil shavings on the floor and the clothing dumped on a chair in the corner. There’s a chronological order to the records, but afterwards there’s seemingly no order, or perhaps an order that only makes sense to Edward. There’s an empty shelf and Harry avoids looking at it too much. Harry might have entered Edward’s mind on a whim and under the influence, and he might be testing his own comfort limits just in that action alone, but he’s not sadistic nor cruel enough to dig for memories Edward has hidden even from himself.

What? What is this? Edward thinks, his body materialising beside Harry.

“It’s your mind,” Harry replies, dragging his fingers along the records lightly, hearing the memories muttering beneath their cases. Here, inside, he’s not drunk. He can walk straight and talk normally, even though his physical body is inebriated to the point of needing Edward’s strength to keep him up.

My mind? Edward looks around. It looks like my room.

“It does?” Harry looks over his shoulder at the vampire. “It’s a nice room.” He taps his finger on a memory, on a record. He curls his finger and drags the record from the shelf lightly, looking down at the cover. “How does it feel, Edward?” He asks as he drags the record from its protective case and slips the record onto the player, lowering the arm and allowing it to spin. “To have someone in your mind? Rifling through everything you are?”

The memory jolts the room into the distance, the music bringing forth a memory.

It feels horrible, Edward whispers as the memory begins to play.

It’s Edward, playing the piano. Harry knew it would be. He could sense the memory before he chose it. One of serenity. Contentedness. With his sobriety came resignation. Harry lost his vindictiveness once he entered Edward’s mind. His anger melted away into more annoying emotions of empathy and understanding.

Edward doesn’t know any different. He’s lived his entire life—his entire existence, more so—being able to read other’s minds. Not knowing how to stop it, or maybe not even trying. His way of life, his very core, has been tied to this ability from the moment he awoke as a vampire. Harry knows that now, can feel it in his mind and echoing out from the memories. His ability is as much a part of Edward as Harry’s magic is a part to him. It defines him, and has done since he woke with red eyes. Edward doesn’t know how to exist without the protection, the safety he feels when using his ability. To lose it is like losing an arm to him, something he relies heavily on in his daily life. It’s how he copes. It’s why he’s been—in his own thoughts—a complete mess since Harry has arrived. Because he cannot read Harry, and being unable to do so wrangles at his control issues.

And whilst Harry wants to make Edward understand, wants to teach him a lesson in the pure invasion of privacy it is to constantly skim everyone’s minds, he doesn’t want to hurt Edward. Doesn’t feel the vindictive need to make Edward realise how invading it is to have another troll through your mind, dig into aspects of yourself that maybe you don’t even understand or know. So he’d chosen the piano.

It’s a soft song. Melancholic. It reminds Harry of his time in front of the Mirror of Erised. Filled with a deep longing for the things he wants in life. Edward sits alone at the piano in the dark. Moonlight streams in from outside and lights the keys.

“Where is everyone?” Harry asks, turning to Edward at his side, the one watching the memory with him.

They all left. To spend time together, Edward says, or thinks, watching himself with furrowed brows.

“Without you?”

Together, he emphasises, as if that should be enough.

Harry realises it is.

“Don’t read my mind, Edward,” Harry says softly. “You don’t want to see what is in there.”

But I do, he thinks back as Harry closes the door to Edward’s room behind him and finds himself swept back into the currents, spun out into the waves and back into his own mind.

Harry apparates instantly, not giving the vampire time to accost him again.

Chapter Text

It takes Edward a while to pull himself from his mind, to find his way out of his room and through the waves and into reality. He’s left disoriented and unsure about the world. About himself. When he’s free, he notices James’s absence. His icy skin burns where James’s hand had gripped him, where he’d held himself upright against the onslaught of alcohol he’d consumed.

How many times has James drunk himself to that extent? How often does he rely on alcohol to cope? Do wizards take longer to get drunk? Do they need more alcohol, or is James simply someone with a high tolerance? There are too many questions in Edward’s mind about wizards and their unknown anatomy. He much prefers the standard human and their easily understood bodily functions. Wizards are simply beyond his scope.

Edward touches his arm, right where the skin burns insidiously, grazing his fingers along his forearm as though testing his marble skin is still actually there. He can still feels James’s fingers, those calloused hands curled around his forearm. He latches onto the memory with the focus of an addict, curling the feeling and memory into something tangible to revise later, when he’s not frozen in a stupor.

He stands in the street for a long, long time.

Long enough for Emmett and Jasper to come and collect him, usher him into the darkness of the forest at the edge of the port, where they corral him up the mountains. They don’t return to Forks. Instead, they head off to hunt. Edward doesn’t need to feed, and neither do his brothers, but they do so anyway. They take the time to track their prey across the range, to race to their hearts content, to allow that creature inside him to break free for a brief moment and exist without the constraints Edward tries too hard to keep bound around himself tightly. He corners his prey at the base of a cliff, and laughs.

Edward enjoys the hunt. It relaxes him to chase until his prey can’t run any more, until its heart beats rapidly in its chest and sometimes the beats skip from stress. Edward loathes the sadistic side of him that enjoys it. The vampire side, who takes pleasure in his prey’s fear, in providing it glimpses of hope before snuffing them out.

Jasper understands, and struggles with those same feelings himself, disgust and elation constantly warring against each other in his mind. They both enjoy the hunt, but renounce the side of them that does so. Jasper spent many, many years hunting. Many more than Edward. Many more than even Carlisle. If anyone understands the hatred Edward holds in his heart when he finally relieves the mountain lion in front of him, when he finally ends its life by clamping his jaw onto its neck, then it would be Jasper.

Emmett whoops in joy as he tackles his own prey down. He doesn’t waste time, quickly ending its life and drinking his fill. The hunt is enjoyable to Emmett in a way Edward can’t remember feeling. There’s no doubt in Emmett about who or what he is. About actions he’s taken. The hunt is simply that—a hunt for necessity, for food, with an enjoyable round of tag beforehand. To Edward it’s more than that. It’s a reminder of what he is, who he has been, how he will continue to be.

“What happened?” Emmett asks later, as they lay in the grass staring at the stars above with their bellies full and their hunts ripped apart, scattered around the forest for other creatures to feast on.

“He read my mind.”

Emmett laughs. “How was it?”

“Horrible.”

They lay silently, listening to the forest around them, watching the stars spin in the sky. Edward has seen these constellations many times in his life. For a century, he’s looked up at the sky and seen the same constants, watched as they remained immovable, unchanged across time. They’ve seen every version of him to exist.

They’ve seen him as a human, when he was young and impressionable. When he first fell sick. When his mother died, clutching Carlisle’s hand and begging him to do anything in his power to save her son. They saw when Edward began his painful transformation, when he first hunted, when he first betrayed Carlisle. They watched silently when he abandoned his morals and began murdering humans—horrible, despicable humans, but humans nonetheless. They watched as his red eyes transformed to gold, then again as they bled back to red. And then, with time, back to gold. They watched him be surrounded by family, by lovers, and watched, still, as he became alone in a coven of those who love him. The stars know every aspect, every version of Edward. Even those he regrets and those he wishes never existed. The stars know every version of James, too. And Edward wishes he could read their minds and find the secrets they hoard.

“Was it really?” Jasper asks, mere seconds after Edward has spoken, even though he already knows the answer, can feel it rattling around within Edward, willing to be acknowledged.

Edward tries to ignore it. To ignore the feelings he can read Jasper getting high on. He wants to remain ignorant to what he feels, to the way something festers inside him now. He cannot ignore it, the same way he cannot ignore the way James calls to him, the way he wants to find himself outside of James’s house right now, watching, waiting. For something. He cannot ignore the bubbling in his chest, the same way he cannot ignore Jasper’s thoughts as he drowns in the something oozing from Edward.

“No, it wasn’t. I think it was meant to be. That he wanted it to be.”

When James first entered his mind, Edward knows it was maliciously. James wanted to show Edward—to prove—that reading someone’s mind is wrong and that to enter it willingly, at random, is a violation. Maybe it is. Edward still isn’t sure even after James’s supposed lesson. Listening to people’s minds is second nature to Edward. It’s so inherently a part of him, who he is, how he understands his world, that he’s never even considered just…not. It seems James views that lack of thought as something that proves Edward is power or information-hungry, rather than simply narrow-minded or short-sighted.

But still, even with such hatred and contempt poured into his actions, James had stopped. Edward doesn’t know what made him do so. Because James had stopped. There had been a moment where James had perused Edward’s mind, spotted all those things Edward tries so hard to bury and forget. Things he’s proclaimed lost to time, but really are lost to himself. Edward knows James saw them.

Instead of proving his point, instead of dragging those fears and worries and haunting moments to the forefront, James chose a memory that was kind. One that didn’t hurt to relive and one Edward didn’t mind sharing. Out of everything, that’s what made Edward pause. It isn’t that James had entered his mind, perused it and his memories like a public library. It isn’t even that Edward found himself physically within his own mind-scape, not that he managed to perceive a mind in a way he had never considered before—his ability doesn’t lend itself to physical renderings of someone’s mind, after all, he simply views their thoughts like notes being handwritten on a page, or an image being sketched out in abstract ways. He learns and processes their thoughts and emotions at the same speed someone thinks or feels them.

No, what made Edward pause was that James could, but he didn’t.

He had every reason and some to do so, every chance and more, too. But instead, he chose kindness and care, chose not to inflict pain and torment on Edward just to prove his point, even though Edward could tell how angry he was, and how hurt, how scared he felt deep beneath that anger.

“I wonder what else he can do,” Emmett muses, arms crossed beneath his head. “Maybe he can see the future, too, since he can read minds.”

Edward shakes his head.

“I don’t think he can read minds. It’s…different.” Jasper and Emmett wait for him to explain. It takes him minutes to form the words. “It isn’t reading minds, it’s entering them. Existing within the mind, reliving memories together. He could have seen anything he wanted, from the moment I was born, if he chose.”

“Wow,” Emmett says with a low whistle. “Remind me not to get too close to that guy.”

“But he didn’t,” Jasper states, a non-question with a question loaded within.

“He didn’t,” Edward agrees. Why?, is all he can think.

Emmett and Jasper eventually leave, dissolving around Edward as he sits unmoving in the meadow, listening to the world rustle around him, to the snuffs of grazing elk in the distance and the echo of the river rushing downhill. He doesn’t truly acknowledge that they left. It’s a small thing in a distant corner of his mind. He’s lost within. He thinks about that room in his mind, his room, with his memories lined on the shelves instead of his collection of records. He wonders how to get back there. If it’s possible to do so on his own, even. If he could sink back into the depths of that space and explore his memory in a less abstract way, in a more purposeful attempt to remember and forget.

He considers what it is between him and James—what those moments meant when Edward found himself untethered from all he believed about himself and his environment, what it was when James curled something ashy and dark around himself and narrowed those haunting eyes in Edward’s direction.

His reverie is broken by the shrill ring of his mobile, lodged in his front pocket. There’s no way his family would contact him now unless it were important, doubly so with Emmett and Jasper both having returned home and shared the outcome of his ill-informed decision to track James down in Seattle.

He digs the phone from his pocket and answers it just as the first ring cuts.

“Alice.”

“Edward, it’s about James.”

He didn’t really expect it to be about anyone else. “What happened?”

“I can’t…I can’t see, exactly. It was black for so long. But, I managed a glimpse of him, just for a second. He’s all…” she trails off. “All mangled.”

Edward’s words get caught in his throat. “Ma-mangled?”

“I don’t know,” she says softly. “He was just on the ground, covered in blood, his body was all messed up. I couldn’t tell where he was. Home, maybe. The room has dark wooden floors and red curtains.”

He remembers a room similar, knows Alice does too. The room from that cursed vision, that delightful vision, the vision that Edward hoards in secret. James’s house. The place he can’t find. The place that plays tricks on his mind and turns him inside out, confuses him into forgetting what he came for. There’s one thing that’s different now. Something Edward might be able to use to find James.

“I’ll send Carlisle to meet you,” Alice says, ending the call. Edward runs.

_____

Edward and Carlisle don’t have to wait long at the border before the wolves show up. Sam stalks out of the trees with a scowl on his face and dirt smudged on his cheek. He’s flanked by Paul and Jared, who slink forward with their muzzles low to the ground and deep growls emanating in their chest. They stop just shy of the border. There’s a good few dozen feet between the two groups, but Edward is fine with that. As long as they can hear each other.

“What do you want?” Sam grunts out, folding his arms across his chest.

“We were visited earlier tonight by James,” Carlisle says diplomatically. “We have entered a treaty with him as well.”

“Great.” Sam turns and they begin to head back.

“Sam,” Edward calls, stopping Sam’s retreat. He turns back with a glare. “We are here for information. Do you know where James lives? It’s important.”

Sam spends a minute thinking over the sentence, considering the pros and cons of sharing information. Sam doesn’t know that just by thinking about the information, just by considering sharing it, he has already given Edward everything he needs. Edward now understands that the wolves know where James lives, but that they, too, can’t enter. That they find themselves turned around and confused. He had been hoping otherwise—hoping to use the information from the wolves to find out where James lived in more detail, perhaps a way to enter.

Still, Edward learns something else from Sam’s mind, something rather interesting. James is related to Billy Black. He had a godfather who was related to Ephraim Black. This is something Edward can use to find out more about James, begin to cross-reference in his research. All online searches for a James Granger led to dead ends, but maybe with this information Edward will be able to find something. To find this godfather, and in turn find out more about James.

He hears something else in Sam’s mind. It’s short and bitter but Edward notices it all the same—a deep-seated shock of fear, thoughts of powers beyond comprehension, of energy pushing him back and throwing a wolf and freezing another mid-air. Edward takes a lot of pleasure in the fact James beat the wolves up a bit, and in a decidedly one-sided way. How he would’ve loved to be there to watch when it happened. Sam doesn’t recall the whole thing in detail. It’s abstract and choppy, scenes between adrenaline and the haze of wolf-anger. Still, Edward enjoys the memory, the thoughts, of the wolves being cornered by James.

Deep down, though, Edward thinks he might also be filled with fright, just like Sam.

“If he didn’t tell you where he lives, then we’re not going to,” Sam eventually replies. Not that knowing the location does much good for Edward—he already knew where it was, anyway. He wanted to know how to enter. If they could enter. “Talk to him at that high school of yours. Leave us out of it.”

“Thank you for your time,” Carlisle says, retreating slowly. Come, Edward. They won’t give us any more. I hope you found what you wanted.

Edward nods slightly and follows Carlisle away from the border. In just a few seconds, a harsh howl cuts through the woods and three sets of paws scatter back through the forest.

“What will you do?” Carlisle asks.

Edward considers it for a moment as they race through the trees. He knows he shouldn’t bother, shouldn’t waste his time, but he wants to go and he will.

“I’m going,” he eventually replies.

“Do you want me to come?”

Edward shakes his head.

There’s no point in Carlisle coming with him. It’s not like Edward will be able to truly find James’s house. He’ll probably find himself back at home rather quickly if his past few visits are any indicator. He will likely wind up back at their front door thinking he has to feed their pet cat again.

“Be careful, son,” Carlisle says softly, before breaking off from Edward and disappearing into the trees. His thoughts slowly drift further away as Edward continues running to the area he knows James lives. To the same spot the wolves had been multiple times when trying to find the elusive home themselves.

Edward begins to walk as he approaches, taking each step painstakingly slow to attempt to avoid whatever magic it is that sends him packing. Or, at the very least, to figure out where the magic starts—how close he can get before it attacks. He counts the steps from an identifiable tree, making it all the way to one-hundred-and-twenty-three before he feels a crackle along his skin and the niggling of an unnatural thought in the back of his brain.

He stops where he is and uses his foot to mark the line on the ground. The beginning of the magic. A spot where he can withstand. He takes another step forward, and another, and another, until the niggling voice in his head is a full blown siren of intrusive thoughts blasting through his calculating brain. He quickly scratches out another line in the dirt before he takes two more steps and the thought, the suggestion, settles in him fully and he turns and begins to head back home.

When he’s past the first line etched in the dirt, his phone rings. It breaks Edward’s stupor and shocks him back to reality, one where he doesn’t have a human girlfriend waiting for him to pick her up for a date. He fishes the phone out and answers.

“Thanks, Alice,” he says shortly, before hanging up.

Edward knows where the limit is now. He’s not sure what to do with that information. He knows where he can stand in proximity to James’s house without finding himself turned around, literally, but that’s all he can do. He can’t even see a house—he can just scent James in the air, taste him on his tongue. He can feel with every fibre of his ungodly body that James is nearby, somewhere in the dense forest blurring his view.

He can’t approach. He can’t call out to James. He can’t even check if James is actually mangled in his house like Alice saw. All he can do is stand here, at the edge of the boundary and watch, waiting and hoping for James to see him, perhaps. Edward stands and watches, for the entire night.

James never shows.

Chapter Text

Harry’s head feels as though it’s been stomped on by Buckbeak and tap-danced over by Grawp while he dings the cursed bell on his favourite set of bicycle handlebars. Harry groans himself awake and is bombarded by the aches across his body, the tight skin stretching over new scars, and the tingle of freshly healed wounds. He cracks an eye open, regretfully squinting up to Kreacher who stands with his little fists curled and big, walloping tears dropping from his eyes. Harry closes his eyes and sighs.

“MASTER!” Kreacher screeches, his normally rather low voice cutting into new octaves just to ensure it grates on Harry’s ears. The horrid dinging of Grawp’s bell continues in his head as he curls his hands over his ears with a plaintive groan.

“Please, Kreacher, not now,” he whispers.

That muggle whiskey really does kick a punch. He’s not sure why he always forgets that in the moment. Maybe because it doesn’t burn enough on the way down. Not like firewhiskey does. Not enough pain to make him feel like he’s really getting a good hit, perhaps. Hermione would tell him to talk to a mindhealer about that if she knew.

“Master be lying here alls night,” Kreacher grumbles, tears falling. “Kreacher try to floo the Weasley’s, but youse be a horrible, no-good Master, terrible Master, turn off floo, forbid Kreacher from calling.”

“I’m sorry Kreacher,” Harry says. And he is. Sort of.

He doesn’t remember blocking the floo or banning Kreacher from contacting anyone, and he feels pretty bad about using his powers as Kreacher’s master to stop him from doing so. But…he can’t truly bring himself to regret the decision, since it kept him from having to wake to an unimpressed Ron and Hermione. Godric knows what they would have done.

“What happened?”

He sits up with a grunt, the ringing shooting through his ears and into his stomach, instantly making him nauseous. His back cracks in several places as it realigns after a night on the hardwood floors. He supposes Kreacher didn’t move him out of spite. He knows for sure that Kreacher could have levitated his body onto the bed if he so wanted.

“Master cannot even magics properly. Splinched every time like a novice.”

Kreacher stomps from the room and slams the door behind him, something he’ll no doubt apologise for later, and ask for a punishment because of. Harry rather enjoys when Kreacher acts out. He’ll have to make sure to tell Kreacher to slam doors when he’s upset more often. Make it an official task.

The dinging in his head continues as he crawls over to his bed, wishing that Kreacher would have at least left him a potion to sober up with. Harry manages to haul himself up into the bed and inspects the new skin on the left side of his body. His clothes are missing chunks over where he splinched himself, leaving his left thigh and bicep exposed. They’re both terribly scarred now—although that’s not new for Harry. He’s splinched himself dozens of times and each time the scars only seem to get worse. He’s surprised he didn’t die to his injuries this time.

He knows he didn’t though, because if he had, he wouldn’t be so hungover. It’s almost appealing to toddle off to the bathroom and run a warm bath to off himself in just to get rid of it. Not off himself in the muggle way, though. He doesn’t like how that one feels. It’s too slow. Too much like falling asleep. Dying should be a shock to the system, something instantaneous and unique. A feeling he can’t get just by clambering into a warm bed at night and dozing off.

Still, even without dying, Death has been working hard to keep him alive. It might be slow and it might be inconsistent, but Harry’s healing is above-average. Even without dying, if he finds himself close enough to the line for too long, his body will start to etch itself together in physically-defying ways. It just takes a while. This splinch must have taken at least five hours, maybe more, if the sun spilling through his curtains is any indicator.

Harry flops onto his pillows and debates calling for Kreacher and begging him for a potion to sober up, maybe even a pain-numbing and a dreamless sleep too, so he can knock out for a few more hours. He’s rather tempted. But then he remembers the tears in Kreacher’s eyes and decides against doing so. He doesn’t want to have to deal with that guilt just yet. Instead, he closes his eyes and attempts to sleep.

It doesn’t last long. Not with the ringing in his ears and the pain in his arm. It takes him a good eight minutes before he realises the ringing isn’t just in his head. Well, it is. But it’s not because of his hangover. It’s his wards dinging, alerting to someone at its edges. Harry grumbles when he realises that whoever it is likely won’t be leaving, since they’ve already been there for a good ten minutes. He scowls and sits up, fighting back a wave of nausea. He takes a deep breath and holds it, clutching the edge of his shirt and apparating near where the wards that are dinging for attention.

He stumbles slightly on the landing and promptly wretches the slight amount of food in his stomach at the base of a nearby tree, one hand clutching the bark and the other gripping his left knee. His exposed left knee.

“Fuck sake,” Harry mutters, looking down and realising his clothes are still shredded, the left sleeve missing all the way up the shoulder and partly to the chest, the shirt only managing to stay on because of the thin strip of the neckline on the left that survived. His jeans almost look like they could be artistically ripped, if it were normal to only have your left leg visible from mid-thigh to just below the knee.

The thought of apparating back home and changing clothes then apparating back makes Harry hurl one more time on the tree, and the ringing continues obnoxiously in the back of his head, as if he hadn’t heard the warning of possible intruders for the last fifteen minutes. Harry promises himself to change the alert design as soon as he’s fully functional again.

He focusses his magic to conceal his scars, enlisting the familiar magic he encases himself in every time he leaves the grounds. It tingles over his new scars, warming up along their edges and sinking through his skin as the magic improves, updates for the new scars it needs to cover. He attempts to transfigure his shirt but it ends up worse than before, with half of it turning into lace and the hole becoming larger, somehow now a stylistic choice of the design. He sighs and undoes the dodgy transfiguration, lamenting inside how disappointed McGonagall would be in his alcohol-depleted skills.

He stomps towards the wards, ready to give whoever is there a piece of his mind. Not that they’d know just standing that close would alert him in the form of an obnoxiously loud dinging, but he still feels the need to rage a bit. The wards are designed rather cleverly, with a two-way-mirror-like aspect where Harry can see out of the wards but the outside cannot see in. They just see a rather dense forest reflected back.

At the edge of the wards, staring into the reflected tree line with squinted eyes is Sam, Billy Black sitting in his wheelchair next to him. Sam must’ve carried Billy in—or wheeled him over the uneven forest floor—because there’s no way Billy would have been able to wheel himself out here.

Harry feels his anger putter out and instead bone-weary tiredness sinks into him. The hangover and nausea make him take a deep breath, look up at the blindingly bright clouds for a second before scrunching his eyes shut and letting the air out in a shaky breath. He walks forward and waves his hand, dispelling the mirror effect on the wards and allowing them to see through.

The wards are set a good kilometre or so from his house, so they can’t see the cabin, only the continuation of trees in the distance. The only difference from the reflected view is Harry, standing directly in front of them, not two metres away. Sam jumps in shock when Harry materialises out of nowhere and Billy struggles to maintain a straight face.

“Sam, Billy,” Harry says slowly and with a slight frown he tries to wipe off his face. “It’s a bit early for a visit, no?”

“It’s the afternoon,” Sam grunts at the same time Billy replies with, “Hello, James. What happened to your clothes?”

Harry waves his hand dismissively. “A slight accident. How can I help you?”

“We were coming to—” Sam starts, before Billy cuts him off.

“May we come in?”

Sam’s eyes bulge open and he looks at Billy as if he’s gone mad.

Harry eyes Billy for a moment. He wants to say no. He probably should say no, considering his house is not muggle-proof and the outside is a cabin whilst the inside is Grimmauld place and Kreacher is there and Harry’s home is his safe space. But then he thinks about how Billy is a Black and Grimmauld is literally a part of his family history, a part of who he might have been, if anyone had bothered to keep track of the family line other than the Goblins.

Harry sighs and waves his hand, opening a small gap in the wards for them to come through. He gestures with his head and Sam, after only a few seconds of hesitation, pushes Billy forward slowly, as though waiting for them to both go rebounding backwards. When nothing happens, he rolls the wheelchair forward with more confidence until they are both over the invisible line of wards. Harry looks back out, ready to close the wards, when he spots the mind reader.

Edward.

In the tree line, watching, with molten golden eyes that catalogue him, grazing up and down his body, staring intently at the skin exposed by the holes in his clothes. Harry doesn’t know why Edward is here. Doesn’t know how long he has been here. But whatever the reason, and however long, he doesn’t like how it screams ‘Alice had a vision so I’m waiting here to see it play out’. He scowls at Edward and waves his hand, slamming the wards closed again and relishing slightly in the upset furrow to Edward’s eyebrows when the three of them disappear from view.

“Was that a Cullen?” Sam asks, lifting his chin as he sniffs the air. Harry ignores his comment.

“Its a bit of a walk. I can take us there,” he says instead.

He doesn’t really want to apparate again, and not with two extras, but he’d apparate over walking any day. The him right now couldn’t make the walk even if he tried.

Sam looks unconvinced but Billy takes him up on the offer. He’s not sure if Billy is just curious, or if he’s trying to prove something. Perhaps that he’s not scared of magic the way Sam is. Harry’s never tried apparating with a wheelchair before but he figures it can’t be that different to apparating with Moody, since he’s practically more machine and object than human anyway.

Harry grips both of their arms.

“When I say ‘go’, take a deep breath and hold it. You’ll feel it in your stomach and it’ll feel like being pushed through a tube, but just relax. Don’t push my hand off, or you could end up elsewhere.”

Sam shakily nods. Harry can feel his boiling skin under his grip and finds it rather amusing that Billy is the calm one of the two. That the big, bad alpha wolf Sam is seemingly rather terrified at the prospect of magical travel.

“Go,” Harry says and waits until they’ve both taken a breath before apparating them.

They land outside the cabin with Billy wheezing and Sam stumbling away from Harry’s grip, his body shaking and his eyes wide. Harry shuffles to the side and gags, resting his hands on his knees as he fights to keep whatever is in his stomach down. It takes Billy a second to get his composure, but when he does, he calls out to Sam, willing him to maintain control.

“Breathe, Sam. Just breathe,” he says, wheeling himself backwards slightly.

Harry stands there for a moment, nausea calmed down and spit swiped from his chin. He decides he doesn’t want to be there, awkwardly watching Sam fight his internal wolf, so he stalks to the cabin, climbing the few stairs to his front door. He stops at the top and looks at the stairs. There’s no way for Billy to wheel himself up—not that he’s trying to do so right now anyway, with Sam shivering like Harry’s old Sneakoscope used to and Billy trying to calm him down. Still, Harry figures he should make it more accessible. While Billy talks Sam down from his wolfy-crisis, Harry focusses on transfiguring half of his steps into a ramp.

“Thank you,” Billy says after a minute, when Sam has collected himself. He stands with his shoulders spread wide pretending he wasn’t just half on the ground in a battle against himself and his fear. “Your magic sure is convenient!” Billy jokes in an attempt to make the past few minutes less awkward, wheeling himself up the ramp.

Harry wishes he could feel as relaxed about his magic as Billy is. Some days it feels more like a curse. One he wouldn’t trade for anything in the world, true, but he enjoys despising it at times. Everything bad to ever happen in his life stemmed from magic. Everything good, too. It’s a love-hate relationship with something he would never give up, and something he could never truly hate.

“So this is the elusive house,” Sam says, stepping up. “It’s a hard thing to find.”

Sam inspects the cabin slowly, eyes stopping on the slight imperfections that hint at its handmade origins. One of the logs on the right-hand side has Ron’s initials scratched into it with Harry’s right beneath it. Something stupid they did a few butterbeers deep, after a day of heavy lifting and long hours sawing logs. It was fun. They felt stupid and youthful and that night Harry cried in his bed.

“Purposely,” Harry replies, opening the cabin door and stepping inside.

He holds it open for Billy but leaves Sam to hold it open himself. They stop in the doorway as the cabin turns into the grand foyer of Grimmauld place. Billy whistles as he looks up at the chandelier over their heads and the staircase leading up to the second floor. Sam stands in the doorway with half a foot out, looking ready to transform and run at the slightest hint on danger.

“This doesn’t look like a cabin,” Billy says, wheeling himself inside further. “It’s impressive.”

Grimmauld looks rather different to how it used to be when the Order was shacked up inside. Harry wonders if Billy would have still thought it were impressive if Walburga was screaming slurs and dark magic crawled from its crevices, and the walls were stained black like the family who owned it. Harry doesn’t know how to reply to Billy, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with the fact that he’s here at all—that Sirius’s long-lost second-removed muggle-born cousin is here, in the house of Black, accompanied by a half-muggle werewolf of all things.

“It was my godfather’s. The house, not the cabin,” Harry settles for saying, turning to the drawing room. “We can sit in here.”

Sam and Billy follow diligently—Sam more cautiously—and both take a minute to glance around the new room with wide eyes. Sam settles into the armchair across from the fireplace and Billy wheels himself next to it. Harry plops onto the chaise, his favourite chair to lounge on, head pounding almost as much as his heart and his stomach swirling with the remnants of whiskey. He casts a quick cleansing charm at his mouth to remove the thick layer of filth that’s built on his tongue and the acid on the back of his teeth.

“So,” Harry starts after it becomes clear to him that his guests are too busy looking at the painting above the fireplace—the forbidden forest at night, with trees blowing in the breeze and the slight glimpses of creatures in its depths, a gift from Luna. “Why are you here?”

“The Cullens—” Sam starts, before Billy cuts him off, again. Harry narrows his eyes.

“I wanted to check on you. See how the treaty business went with the Cullens, so I made Sam bring me out here.” Billy finally looks away from the painting. “This was your godfather’s house?”

Harry nods. “Yes. This was the Black family manor. It’s been in the Black family for generations. Until now.”

Sam looks mesmerised by the painting still, his eyes darting left and right as if he could catch the creatures within. Maybe the painting looks different to him, or maybe it calls to a part of his wolf. The magic of the forest is similar to the nature magic that the wolves have a connection to, after all.

“I’m sure your godfather considers you a Black,” Billy says with a smile.

“Perhaps.” Harry’s fingers tap on the edge of the chaise. He would kill to eat something right now. And to drink some water. “Why are you really here?”

“I had something to ask you,” Billy says, his face pinched slightly. “It’s about my son. He’s sixteen.”

“Jacob, yes?” Harry asks.

Billy nods and Sam seems to finally lock back to the conversation, his eyes slinging away from the painting.

“Jacob? What happened to Jacob?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to ask for James’s permission to explain the treaty to him. I think Jacob deserves to know our family history and, well, perhaps you could be friends.”

Twenty-six-year-old Harry doesn’t want to be friends with a sixteen-year-old possible werewolf. Scratch that. He doesn’t want to be friends with a sixteen-year-old point blank. But right now he’s not Harry Potter, he’s James Granger. And James is a seventeen-year-old.

“Sure,” he says, hesitantly. “He already knows about half-muggle werewolves and vampires. A wizard can’t be that shocking.” Although maybe it is, since both the werewolves and the vampires had a hard time believing in the concept of magic.

“Actually, Jacob doesn’t know about the wolves. Or the Cullens,” Billy says.

“Uh…why not?”

“We keep it a secret,” Sam explains. “Unless you transform. We have stories, of course, tribe legends that the elders share. But the kids don’t tend to believe in them until it happens.”

Harry supposes it’s similar to how magic was for him. But he was raised by the Dursley’s. The Weasley’s all learnt about magic from the moment they were born, and they were surrounded by friends and family and a culture that supported magic and developed their growth. Harry doesn’t understand why the Quileute tribe wouldn’t live like that too—why they would treat their magic as something of legend until it can no longer be denied.

Harry’s entire world view changed at eleven, and he was still young and impressionable enough for it to be a good thing. He can’t imagine what would have happened if he had to live with the Dursley’s until he was sixteen before learning about magic. He wouldn’t have been the same person, and he wouldn’t have been as happy to learn of another world he should belong in but had been blocked from.

Billy seems to notice Harry’s conflicted expression, but he doesn’t get to verbalise his thoughts because Kreacher pops into existence with a tray of tea and biscuits, with a potion balanced on the edge. Sam leaps up from his chair with a yell, bumping Billy’s wheelchair and knocking his hat askew. Kreacher eyes Sam—perhaps warily, or maybe with distaste, Harry can’t be too sure—before turning to Harry.

“Master not be informing Kreacher of guests today.”

Harry sighs heavily and considers just trudging up to his room, leaving Billy and Sam to fend for themselves.

“Kreacher, seriously?” Harry complains, throwing his hands up.

“It be rude not to serve refreshments. Master always forgetting. Muggle upbringing, Kreacher thinks.”

Kreacher begins dishing out the cups of tea and biscuits, placing a small jar of sugar in the middle of the coffee table. He hands Harry the potion with a purposeful look, as if saying he wouldn’t be receiving this if guests weren’t here.

“Master?” Billy inquires, gently patting Sam’s arm to get him to sit back down and straightening his hat. Harry swears Sam’s nose twitches as if trying to sniff Kreacher. He swigs the potion back and sighs at the instant relief to his head.

“Kreacher is a house elf. He’s…like an employee.”

“Yes, Kreacher is free elf now. Unfortunately,” he drawls. “Master be gifting Kreacher a sock.”

“Uh, right” Harry mutters. “He is actually paid, you know.”

“Kreacher much preferred the old ways.”

“Kreacher!” Harry whispers harshly through his teeth. “Stop confusing them.”

Harry can feel Billy and Sam’s eyes batting between them, watching the conversation play out like a ball rebounding across a tennis court.

“Muggle upbringing?” Billy asks, his face perfectly passive but eyes burning with what Harry suspects is a too-strong dose of interest.

“Master be—”

“Kreacher.” Harry’s voice is low and harsh and Kreacher pauses instantly. After a second, Harry continues, in a much softer and kinder voice. “This is Billy Black.”

Kreacher’s face lights up.

“Black! A muggle Black!” Kreacher shuffles forward and bows to Billy, whose eyes dart to Harry for help. “Master Billy be a wolf?”

“Oh, no. That’s just Sam here,” Billy says.

Sam sits, petrified in his chair, hands gripping the arm rests and eyes bulging from his head as he stares at Kreacher’s large eyes and boney fingers and flopping ears. Kreacher turns to Sam and he sits up in his chair with a ramrod straight back, his face a careful mask. A complete Alpha recovery.

“Youse wolves much too noisy,” Kreacher says with a glare before turning back to Harry. “Muggle Black in Grimmauld. Mistress must hear of this!”

Kreacher grins at Harry with an evilness he hasn’t seen in a while and apparates from the room with a happy glint in his eye at the idea of causing Walburga distress. He developed a somewhat morbid delight in torturing her as they renovated Grimmauld place together, something that stuck enough for him to request to keep her portrait in the dungeon for entertainment purposes. Harry let him—she bullied Kreacher for enough years that Harry thought Kreacher deserved the chance to enjoy some revenge.

Besides, Kreacher’s version of torture is to tell her all the news of the Black family line and the upgrades made to Grimmauld. The only descendent Walburga hasn’t denounced so far is Malfoy, unsurprisingly. She rather thinks he’s some Dark Lord in the making and Kreacher, perhaps out of some old, lasting reverence to her, doesn’t seem to have it within him to tell her Malfoy denounced the old ways after the war and used his memories as evidence against all those who claimed to have been under the influence of imperio, even his own family.

“Mistress?” Billy asks, his voice incredulous. He’s done nothing but repeat words as questions since Kreacher has arrived. It’s better than Sam though, who still sits rigid and poised and barely present. Harry wonders what his mind would be like now. “You’re married?” Billy manages to ask through a choked voice.

“No, the Mistress is my Godfather’s mother. She’s a painting. Rather horrid bitch if you ask me,” Harry says. “Kreacher enjoys bullying her.”

Billy jerkily nods his head and Harry realises that perhaps there are things better left unsaid.

Chapter Text

Edward forces his siblings to school early on Tuesday morning even though Alice sees that James won’t be there until five minutes after the first bell rings. 

He just can’t help himself. All bets are off for him now that he knows James isn’t a human. He’s a wizard and has unknown abilities, both of which make Edward consider that maybe all those visions Alice had—has—of the two of them aren’t so ridiculous after all. Maybe there’s a chance there, for something to be. 

Besides, Edward tortured himself all Sunday night by waiting as close to the border of James’s property as he could get, just to see if James was alive inside or if he was truly mangled like Alice had seen. Sunday night turned into Monday morning and then Monday afternoon, which led to Sam arriving, wheeling Billy over the uneven ground and even lifting the wheelchair at times to get them right to the edge of James’s property. 

Edward knows Billy is a very proud man. He doesn’t take his limited mobility lightly. Billy prides himself on his ability to cope just the same in a wheelchair as he did out of it, and he rarely asks for assistance. 

To see Billy being carried, wheelchair and all, to read his mind as it happened, Edward knows how much Billy sacrificed of his own pride and autonomy to do so. All because Billy was worried about James, about his family member James, about how lonely and lost he had seemed when they’d talked down on the reservation. How James had described himself as alone and his family members all dead. Billy was worried enough to ask Sam to bring him to the border of James’s property, with no knowledge on how to enter nor how to get past the odd magic Edward and the wolves have struggled with. In that moment, Edward felt a sense of camaraderie with the old man. 

And then James had appeared, suddenly and with the distinct scent of alcohol and bile and electricity clinging to him. Edward could trace him in the air, smell him on the breeze that whistled through the forest. The scents came suddenly as if released from behind a glass wall. James eventually let Sam and Billy inside and Edward couldn’t help himself from stepping out of the trees and edging forward as if he could sneak through behind them and into James’s home. He should’ve known it was a useless thought. James spotted him instantly and glared, slamming the border closed again, cutting off the taste of ozone on his tongue and the acidic scent of bile. 

Edward waited there until Billy and Sam left, almost an hour later. Edward originally decided to wait to see if James was going to attend school, perhaps whether he might attend late. A useless thought, really, seeing as James had already demonstrated he has no issues skipping school on a whim, and regularly. Waiting, however, turned out to be the correct decision—because Edward managed to read Billy and Sam’s minds. He found out more about James in the minute he spent reading their minds than he had in the last week of stalking James. 

He managed an abstract understanding of the living area in James’s house—something he’s seen before in Alice’s visions,a place where James is often predicted to be lazing on a chaise, drunk. But more than the understanding of his house, Edward managed to compile more information on James himself: that he lived with an odd creature called Kreacher who Sam views as horrific and unnatural and scary. Billy had been thinking about a slip-up in conversation, where the creature revealed James had a ‘muggle upbringing’ and the way James had shut that particular conversation down. 

More than that, Edward learned the house inside the house was called Grimmauld Place and was actually once owned by the ancestors of Billy Black. Edward was jealous of the open-invitation James extended to Billy and his son, Jacob, to visit whenever they’d like. He even said that if he was not home, Kreacher would let them in. His house was as much theirs as it was his. 

Billy didn’t believe that himself. He knew the house was James’s, didn’t even want to take it or attempt to pretend he had some claim to a magical house of his ancestors. He rather thought it was odd James felt he had no claim to something he rightly inherited from his godfather, and Edward was inclined to agree. What Billy truly had wanted, however, was to get closer to James and, in a way, his actions had managed it. A way into James’s house seemed as good of an outcome as any, and Edward agreed, with a pit of some festering, unknown emotion in his gut. 

Ruminating on that new information kept Edward busy all Monday night and now, on Tuesday morning, he finds himself standing alone in the parking lot, waiting for James’s delayed arrival. His siblings all left him with varying degrees of annoyance. Edward doesn’t particularly care. He’s existed for decades having to do things for his family, like vacating the house for privacy or moving cities because someone slipped up. He doesn’t ask for much from his family. He knows that’s why they’re indulging him now. Even if their internal thoughts are annoyed, he knows that deep down each of them are hoping for something too, wishing that Edward could find his someone the way they all have. 

Some of them, like Rosalie, have doubts about James. Edward does, too. But others, like Alice and Emmett, think that Edward’s too cautious and too slow, that he should hurry and make a move on the wizard. Edward may not be able to read James’s mind, but even he knows that is a bad idea. James is skittish and quick to anger. He doesn’t want anyone getting close to him, that much is clear. So Edward will have to work hard to do so. Just to see. Just in case there really is something. 

James’s motorbike can be heard across town and Edward waits for him as the bell rings for class and the late students rush inside. He waits patiently, frozen, until James pulls into the parking lot, five minutes late just as scheduled. He looks unimpressed to see Edward as he rips his helmet off and glares at him across the lot. 

“What are you doing?” James mutters, not bothering to raise his voice. Edward crosses the parking lot in a flash and stops at James’s side, something giddy building in him. 

“I was waiting for you, obviously.”  

“Why?” James drawls, swinging his leg over his bike.  

Edward takes a moment to think it through. He can’t say that he’s here to see if Alice’s visions have any merit, because James has made it abundantly clear how he feels about Alice’s visions. Edward could say that he wants to be friends, but he doesn’t want to label himself as something innocuous when he is really looking for possibilities that there could be something more. He especially shouldn’t call himself a friend when he’s possibly interested in that something more. Even if the likelihood is low. 

Just two days ago that thought sent Edward into an emotional spiral—the fact that he was, or could be, interested in a male—but now it feels a rather idiotic thing to be stressed about. He’s simply testing the waters and if it turns out true then, really, what difference is it to his life? Either way, he’s been lonely for a century. A male partner might be just what he’s been waiting for his entire existence, without even knowing it. 

Edward takes long enough to think of his reply that James sighs heavily, like a grandfather ladened with too many burdens, and lights a cigarette. 

“I want to get to know you,” Edward eventually decides on. 

“No, you don’t,” James responds, smoke floating from between his lips up to Edward.

“I do.”

“I’m boring.”

“I can assure you, you’re anything but.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“You talk to the humans just fine,” Edward says, a sulk slightly echoing in his tone that he fights to reign in. “Why can’t we also talk?”

“They don’t wait outside my house or in the car park to ambush me.”

Edward nods his head. “Sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry. He doesn’t even feel very sorry. He looks for an excuse. “It’s my vampire side.”

That manages to drag a small chuckle from James, cigarette dangling lightly in his calloused fingers. Edward wants to ask why his hands are like that. Maybe it’s something to do with magic? It would make sense actually, the placement. If someone did wave a magic wand around enough, surely they would develop callouses from where it rests in their hand. But Edward has never seen James with a wand and magic doesn’t seem to need one according to James’s demonstrations. 

“As opposed to what? Your human side?” James asks. 

“I just like watching.”

“You can’t even read my mind. What good is it to watch?”

“You’re interesting.”

James looks up at Edward, meeting his eyes for the first time the whole conversation. Edward enjoys seeing the green up close. It’s rather shocking. Brighter than he thought, but muted, as if shining through a pair of coloured contact lenses, even though James isn’t wearing any. The thick lenses of his glasses warp his eyes so they look a little bigger than they should be, but Edward finds it endearing not silly. 

James furrows his eyebrows. He watches for a minute before glancing away and scuffing his cigarette out on the tarmac. He waves his hand and it disappears. Maybe he always does that when people aren’t looking—simply removes his litter with magic. Edward didn’t notice last time if the cigarettes he stamped out were left behind or if they disappeared. He adds it to the list of things to find out about James. 

“Let’s go. We’re late,” James says, jerking his head to the school and looping his backpack over his shoulder. James stalks off speedily as if he could walk fast enough to leave Edward behind. Edward grins to himself and flits to James’s side, following him into the building. 

———

Edward doesn’t have any classes with James, so he makes it a personal mission to visit the office after school and organise transferring into as many as he can and hope James doesn’t kill him for it later. In the meantime, he takes whatever James will allow him, which seems to be accompanying him to his class rooms and following him in the hallways in between. 

“What is your favourite colour?” He asks as James swaps a book in his locker. 

“Red,” James says, but his heart stutters and Edward is left to wonder if it’s a lie because he has no other way to tell.

“Do you have siblings?” He asks as James exits his classroom with Bella Swan behind him, who watches their exchange intently.

Her mind is worse than Charlie’s, whose is dense and foggy, hard to sense anything from. It’s different even to how it feels with James. With James, there’s a wall blocking him from thoughts he knows exist. With her, it’s like nothing. Just an empty shell with no thoughts. 

Maybe if Edward had met her a week earlier, he would have been intrigued beyond a simple acknowledgement of her unusual mind. Maybe he would have found himself perched outside her house attempting to figure her out instead. But he didn’t, and he won’t. James is much more interesting, someone who calls to him on a different level. Someone who Alice has seen him with. 

“No,” James replies curtly, shuffling down the hallway and into his next classroom. Bella follows hot on his heels with eyes darting back to look at Edward. 

When did they become friends?, someone thinks and Edward has to stop himself from appearing too giddy at the prospect that James and him seem like friends. 

“What is your favourite food?” He asks as James dumps his books in his locker and slams the door closed. 

“Seriously? Enough with the twenty questions.”

“I just want to understand.”

“Do you see anybody else harassing others with questions? Just find out the normal way, like everybody else.”

James crosses his arms. Edward wonders what classifies as the normal way if not asking. He never usually has to ask to know. His family does, but they simply ask what they are curious about. It comes to Edward’s attention that perhaps he’s lost more of his human self than he was aware. What do humans consider a normal way to find out information? 

James seems to read these thoughts on Edward’s face and he lets out a slow, suffering sigh, a noise Edward has become increasingly familiar with when in James’s presence. 

“Slowly. Over time. You know, naturally.”

Edward nods. “Sure. Over time.” He likes how that sounds. It implies they’ll remain in contact for a while. Long enough to find out information slowly, over time. “Alice wants to know if you’ll sit with us,” he continues, gesturing to behind him where Alice stands waving at the opposite end of the hallway. 

“For lunch?” James looks confused. “But you don’t even…” he trails off and shakes his head. “Sorry. I told Bella I’d sit with her.”

Edward plays up his sad expression in the hopes it kindles some guilty response from James. It seems to work, because he rolls his eyes and invites them to join his table. Although, Edward isn’t sure that’s the outcome he was hoping for and James seems to be betting on Edward not wanting to sit with the humans, if the small grin and glint in his eye is anything to go by. I won’t join him, but you should, Alice thinks from down the hall. 

“I’ll join you.”

James’s face drops imperceptibly and he lets out a dry laugh. “You don’t give up, do you?”

Edward simply smiles back and follows James to the cafeteria. His siblings sit in their usual spot across the hall and they all seem rather entertained watching Edward trail behind James. Apart from Rosalie, who sends him a glare and some rather choice words in her mind. 

The thing is, Edward already knows how she feels about James, and it’s truly nothing but hope. Hope that James might actually be the one for Edward. The one who can stop him from acting like an “emo depressed teenager”. She also holds onto the hope that James can teach her to block her mind from Edward’s interference. So, she can swear at Edward and curse him for being an idiot by engaging with the wizard, but he knows that she also secretly hopes that it goes well. Maybe that’s why she curses him out so much—because she knows that he knows. 

“Uh, hey guys,” James says awkwardly as he stops at the rather packed table where he usually has lunch. “I invited Edward to sit with us today. If that’s okay?” 

Mike Newton is glaring at Edward already and his thoughts make his displeasure clear. Jessica Stanley seems more than happy at his arrival, so he makes a mental note to avoid sitting near her. He can already tell she’ll be touchy and talkative and, really, he’s only here to be near James. 

“Of course that’s okay. Shuffle down guys,” Angela Weber says, shoving Eric Yorkie down. Bella stares at Edward as she shuffles down as well, squishing her side against Angela. 

James sits next to Bella and eventually looks up at Edward with a raised eyebrows, gesturing to the small sliver of bench next to him. Edward sits himself down, carefully avoiding touching James. Even if James knows that he’s a vampire, he can’t imagine it is pleasant for a human to touch his skin. Wizard or not, James must feel the chill of Edward’s thigh through his jeans. 

“Who’d have thought that the great Edward Cullen would ever grace our presence?” Mike Newton says, his face crumpled up as he leans back, arms crossed. 

“Oh, shut up, Mike,” Jessica says with a roll of her eyes. She turns quickly to Edward and smiles with a flirty bash of her long eyelashes. “Edward! It’s so nice you’re here. I’m a little surprised, of course, since you never wanted to sit here when I invited you…”

Bella snorts from beside James and she receives a glare for it. Edward decides to be honest. 

“I’m only here for James.”

James’s elbow jerks straight into Edward’s ribcage and he wonders if that hurt. His ribcage is not soft, by any means. It was a rather harsh jab too. Still, Edward does understand the subtleties of human behaviour and knows that such a jab means he should shut up, or perhaps shouldn’t have said it in the first place. He doesn’t mind. Edward doesn’t want these humans getting the wrong idea—he is really not interested in mingling with them and, according to their thoughts, many of them are hoping to use this as an opportunity to get closer to the Cullens. Which his siblings would definitely not appreciate. 

“What he means is that he’s here because I asked him if he wanted to join us,” James explains, before he artfully changes the subject, asking Angela what book she’s reading. 

“Oh! Lord of the Rings. It’s for literature class,” she says.

A classic novel. Not Edward’s favourite—too many logic fails and riddled with stark social conservatism that reminds Edward too much of his own childhood. Still, he’s read it many times, if only to perhaps perceive it with newer, modern views. If anything, his adjusting views only make him dislike it more. 

“What’s that?” James asks. 

The table stops for a moment. 

“You don’t know Lord of the Rings?” Jessica laughs. “Isn’t it literally a British book?”

Edward watches James to see what he says. His heart rate is about the same apart from a small jump. Perhaps because he slipped up, said something he shouldn’t have. James, a wizard, hasn’t heard of Lord of the Rings. Why? How? One would have to live on a different planet to not have heard about it, especially after the movie was released. The series is rather old now, each a cult classic in its own right. 

“Oh, uh,” James pauses for a second too long, and Bella jumps to his rescue. A pattern of behaviour they seem to have developed since her arrival. A co-dependency on protecting each other’s peace almost. Edward doesn’t like it, even if James seems relieved by her jumping in.

“You know, that reminds me of a book series my friend used to talk about. No one ever knew it, but he always swore it was super famous,” Bella says, her expression morphing into a frown. She stabs the bell pepper on her plate a bit too hard. Edward wishes he could know what she’s thinking. 

Angela seemingly takes pity on Bella and the awkward silence that engulfs the table, asking, “What series was it? I’ve read a lot, so maybe I’ve heard of it.”

Bella crunches on her bell pepper with a bit of gusto and shrugs. “He read it when we were in elementary school. Some children’s book series. Harry Potter’s Adventures or something,” she says. 

Angela frowns and says she hasn’t heard of it before and whips out her phone, searching for it online. But Edward doesn’t focus on her. He’s not truly focused anywhere, because he’s pulled in too many directions—the first, and strongest, is to James and his reaction to the book title. He seizes up, hand clenched so tightly around his spoon that Edward can see it bending and can feel the crackling of his magic in the air. James’s heart stops and starts again, much too fast, blood whooshing around his body. Edward can taste the acrid scent of stress and fear permeating the air, leeching from James. 

Apart from James, Edward is also pulled to Alice, straight to her mind and the new visions bombarding her. Ones of James standing up and yelling some sort of spell. A memory wipe, it seems, with the way he sits back down and pretends it never happens and the table continues talking about Lord of the Rings as if Bella never spoke. 

Another vision starts, of the cafeteria exploding, glass shattering, benches flying across the room, dozens of humans sprawled on the floor in pain. 

Another, of James disappearing from the seat, completely evaporating and leaving the entire school confused. 

And one more, a dark one, of James calmly walking from the room and finding his way to his motorbike, speeding it home only to crash it into a tree. Not on a bend or a turn, but from a straight road, after jerking the motorbike to the side as if to purposely curl it around the trees. 

“It’s not even online!” Angela wails. “Are you sure that’s what it was called?” 

Bella shrugs again, her eyes sliding over to James as he begins standing up. “I think so—hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay,” James mutters slipping his bag over his shoulder. “Sorry. Need some air.”

James walks from the cafeteria slowly, calmly and Edward stands, ignoring the table of humans asking questions and blocking their thoughts from distracting him. His untouched tray of food stays on the table next to James’s half eaten one. 

“Hey! Edward! Wait!” Bella calls but Edward pretends he can’t hear her, stalking from the cafeteria and running to the parking lot, hoping he can catch James before he leaves. 

Chapter Text

Harry can’t breathe. 

His lungs are broken. Maybe they’ve collapsed? It feels much like when he impaled himself and one lung couldn’t inflate. The air gasps into his mouth in giant gulps, but it doesn’t seem to go anywhere. His hands shake as he tries to get the motorbike to start. He should just leave it behind. Apparate home. 

Home?

The idea makes him burst into a fit of giggles. Grimmauld is home, maybe. But Forks certainly isn’t. What good is a house—home?—if everyone he loves is dead—or will be dead—and he’s the Master of Death—but really they’re the master of him, since they refuse to let him die, refuse to let him age with his friends and godchildren and to live a life with wrinkles and a sore back and grey hairs. 

Harry jolts back to reality at the touch of icy fingers brushing against the feverish skin of his curled white knuckles. Harry is back to reality, back to the school, back to the lack of oxygen in his lungs and the fact Bella said his name. 

His name. 

Edward doesn’t speak. He locks eyes with Harry instead and moves his shoulders in an overly exaggerated way, breathing in and out slowly, five seconds each, his fingers softly moving along his skin, leaving ice cold trails. Harry matches Edward’s breathing actively, the familiar routine of something Hermione has done for him many, many times before. He keeps his eyes locked with Edward’s molten gold, his fingers twitching beneath the vampire’s chilled hand. It takes a while. A few minutes, at least. But Harry eventually feels his lungs fully inflate and the claws in his chest release to the point he can feel his lungs inflate again, and the rough grip of Death on his neck loosens.  

He doesn’t remove his hand and neither does Edward, whose touch is not cold any more. It’s warm, soft, like the touch of someone more alive. It’s a cruel joke, almost. That Edward is dead and now warm, and Harry is alive and now cold. He can’t stop the shiver from hitting him as the adrenaline and panic recede from his body and Edward jerks his hand back, an apology in his eyes. 

Harry wishes Edward had kept his hand there a bit longer. It anchored him to this world. Now he feels as though he could float away any second. As if he could disappear between the passing of years into nothing more than legend. Nothing more than a name in a children’s book. Nothing more than a myth about the Boy-Who-Once-Lived-And-Died-And-Disappeared. 

“What is it, James?” Edward asks softly, voice a whisper like he’s afraid to disturb Harry’s thoughts. 

“Don’t,” Harry gasps. “Please don’t call me that.”

Harry knows he’s being unreasonable. That Edward doesn’t know any different and that the name James is just that—a name. His name, even. His middle name and his father’s name and a name he decided would be a bit like an inside joke to use. It had seemed funny at the time, but now it feels suffocating. James. Who even is James? Merlin, who even is Harry?

Does he ever get to be Harry again? Truly? Because James Granger is just the first in a long list of fake names and fake IDs and fake families. He is the first stop of a century-long plan in which Harry Potter ceases to exist, apart from within memories and stories, until one day his life becomes a thing of legend, like Merlin himself. 

And there he will find himself, undead and unnamed. 

“What should I call you?” Edward asks, his head cocked to the side and his hands curled into fists. 

Harry wonders if Edward’s angry. Still, he shakes his head. He can’t be called Harry. But he doesn’t want to hear the name James right now either. Edward seems to understand because he doesn’t ask again, barely even moves, simply stands and waits. 

“Bella is coming,” he says eventually, after a long silence.

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t—” he stutters, stops. 

“Come with me,” Edward offers, holding his hand out. 

Harry looks at it. Decides not to let himself think about it. He takes a deep breath and kicks his leg off the motorbike, unseating himself, holding onto Edward’s hand. Edward leads him to a silver car quickly, one Harry has seen the Cullens congregate around before. He finds himself seated rather suddenly, and between recognising the door closing and blinking, Edward appears in the driver’s seat, engine on. 

He wastes no time in taking off. Harry spots Bella through the side mirrors standing on the steps of the high school, watching the car drive away. Raw guilt floods him as he watches her face recede in the mirror. She has become something of a friend in the few days he’s known her. They have an understanding on both wanting to avoid the new-kid-limelight and helping each other do so. Godric, even mentioning his name stemmed from Bella trying to distract the table and change the subject for him.  

She’s a muggle for Merlin’s sake—how was she supposed to know he is actually Harry Potter from the books of her obviously magical friend? Who shouldn’t be talking about such novels to muggles in the first place, anyway. Harry shouldn’t have overreacted the way he did, but it had taken him by surprise so much, to hear his name spoken in a town he’d never though he’d hear it, surrounded by people who shouldn’t know it, at the beginning of a journey he’s just realised will leave him without it. 

And, of course, came the existential crisis and the urge to end it all. Literally. To crawl back to Death for a reprieve from it all. To be cradled in their chest and smothered from his senses and to sleep. Merlin, how he wants to sleep, to rest in a way he never gets in a bed, only in Death itself. 

Edward jerks his head to Harry with a frown.

“What?” Harry asks. 

“I thought—” Edward stops himself and shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Edward doesn’t talk again, simply drives the car at a speed Harry is sure Chief Swan would disapprove of. Harry feels Edward’s curious graze against his mental shields every now and then. He doesn’t know what it is about this particular half-muggle vampire that he finds so infuriating, so annoying, so intriguing. He can’t stop himself from searching a room for Edward. From wanting to run away from Edward but also finding himself drawn to him like a magnet. The mind-reader seems the same in many ways—curious to a fault, maybe, but cautious and unsure. As if fighting warring instincts to simultaneously be closer and further away. 

Harry doesn’t bother asking where they’re going. It doesn’t matter to him, really. He can simply apparate home should he choose. He wants to, but it’s easier to stay with Edward. To go home is to be with Kreacher, who will ask too many questions, and then the desire to kill himself will be harder to resist. He’s not even sure why he bothers resisting. For Ron and Hermione, he supposes. Because they ask every time. Because they worry and Kreacher worries. There are not many other reasons. 

The minutes he gets with Death are some of his most peaceful. His least painful. He almost wonders if it wouldn’t be better to have some sort of permanent death contraption, that simply continues to kill him each time he’s revived—a perpetual nap with Death, which he thinks could be almost comparable to the time he experienced true death. 

Harry still can’t figure out why Ron and Hermione are so against his twenty-minute jaunts with Death. The worst that can happen is that he doesn’t come back, and in Harry’s opinion that’s actually the best case scenario. For some reason Hermione and Ron don’t see it like that. They don’t want to see him die—but they can’t understand that Harry doesn’t want to watch them die either. To watch them, and his godchildren, and their children, and their children’s children, die. Why is it so hard for them to watch him die, knowing he’ll come back, when he has to watch them age and die at an achingly slow pace, knowing they will never come back and he will never get to join them?

“What are you thinking about?”

“Death,” Harry responds almost intuitively. Edward’s hands clench on the steering wheel and it creaks under the pressure. “Where are you taking me?” Harry asks instead of giving Edward time to comment on his morbid thoughts. 

“Why are you thinking of death?” 

Edward doesn’t seem to understand the human habit of changing the subject and graciously allowing someone to do so. 

Harry shrugs. “You don’t?”

Edward doesn’t respond for a minute. “We’re going to the mountains. There’s a spot I like to go, when I need to clear my head.”

Harry hums and looks back out the window, watching the green trees speed by. It reminds him of flying. High-speed races over the Forbidden Forest.  

“What are you thinking about now?”

“Flying.”

“Like in a plane?”

“No,” Harry turns to look at Edward, meeting his confused golden eyes that are glued to his face and not the road. “On a broom.”

Edward furrows his brows. “Really? Wizards fly on brooms?” 

“Watch the road. And yes, we do.” 

“Is it difficult?”

“For some people.”

“For you?”

“No.” Harry smiles, just slightly. “For me, it was like breathing.”

Edward makes a sharp turn and brings the car to a dirt side road. “Was?” 

“Are we here?” Harry asks instead as Edward cuts the engine. 

“We have to walk from here,” Edward replies, a frown on his face.

Harry doesn’t really want to walk but anything is better than being back at school, so he hops out and follows Edward along a small, barely noticeable path up the mountain. Some of the path can hardly be considered a path, with the forest growing over the dirt, rocks and roots jutting from the ground. 

“What did you mean by was?” Edward asks, waiting a few metres ahead, watching as Harry clambers over a root system. “When you said flying was like breathing.”

“Just that it was,” Harry huffs out. 

“So it’s not any more?”

Harry stumbles on a loose stone as he climbs and Edward is there, hands out, ready to catch him. Harry doesn’t need catching, but he finds it oddly comforting anyway. People rarely offer him help any more. They haven’t in years. Only Ron and Hermione do. Ron said it was because people feel awkward around him now—he’s the wizard who defeated Voldemort, multiple times at that. What help could they possibly offer him? 

A lot, in Harry’s opinion. 

“I don’t fly much any more.” He does fly sometimes, but only with Rose and Teddy. It barely counts. It’s more like hovering than anything else. 

“Why not?” Edward asks as he flits ahead and stops, waiting again for Harry. 

“I guess…” Harry stops to think about it. 

He knows why he stopped flying. Because he didn’t want to continue flying and override those memories he has. All the great times he has of flying with friends, at the Weasley’s house playing pick-up Quidditch, or winning the House Cup at Hogwarts. 

It started because of something Hermione said one day, a throwaway comment in the midst of her studies. 

“Memories are finite you know,” she’d said. “If you’re alive for long enough, surely your brain will begin to forget old memories to make room for new ones.” 

So, Harry stopped flying. He stopped visiting Hogwarts. He stopped doing anything that might end up overriding a previous memory he holds dear—like visiting the Burrow or shopping in Diagon. He started a collection of memories like Dumbledore, copying them into small jars lined on a shelf in the basement of Grimmauld, next to his own pensieve from the Potter vaults. Just in case. Because he’d hate to find out one days his memories have been lost, but to not even know what has gone missing. 

“I just lost interest in it.” Harry knows Edward doesn’t believe him because of the way Edward frowns at the ground and lets out a small sigh. Edward seems to frown a lot when Harry is around. “How much further?” 

“An hour.”

“An hour?!” Harry exclaims.

“We could run there. It would be faster,” Edward says. 

“Run?! Are you insane? I can barely walk up this.”

“I can carry you.”

Harry stops hiking and considers it. Being carried by Edward sounds rather awkward but continuing to hike this mountain sounds horrendous, especially for another hour. On most days he would probably relish the hike and enjoy the slow passing of time, that aching in his muscles that he learns to appreciate as being alive—even when he wishes he wasn’t. It’s his therapy task as well, one he promised Hermione he’d continue whilst in Forks. But today Harry finds he would rather return home and crawl into bed. He doesn’t want to hike and he definitely doesn’t want a reminder of being alive. 

“Alright. Let’s run.” 

Edward looks shocked for only a millisecond. He manages to hide it quite well, really. He appears next to Harry with his vampire speed—which Harry is really beginning to think Edward’s much too comfortable showing in front of him—and stands there, hands hovering as if unsure where to touch him. Harry rolls his eyes and steps forward, looping an arm over Edward’s neck and jumping up. Edward catches him automatically, scooping his arms beneath Harry’s knees and holding him princess-style. 

“Er, how’s this?” Harry asks after a few seconds of silence. Edward’s hands tighten on his thighs and release.

“Let me put you on my back,” he says slowly. “It’s easier.”

And Harry finds himself flipped around and hooked onto Edward, pressed up against his cold spine. Edward doesn’t provide any instructions like ‘hold your breath’ or ‘don’t let go’, he simply takes off, leaving Harry breathless and gasping to hook his arms around Edward’s neck tighter. It’s exhilarating. It seems about the same speed as his fastest broom, perhaps just slightly faster, but it's ten times scarier on the ground without the ability to look ahead for obstacles easily.

The world passes by in a blur, blending into a haze of greens and browns. What does Edward see? Is it a blur for him, or is it clear as day? Harry can barely pick out trees in the mask of colours surrounding him and he struggles to inhale, the air whizzing past him and pushing from his lungs faster than he can truly grasp. His brain feels so human now, so slow and unprepared. Edward stops suddenly but doesn’t let Harry down. 

“We’re here,” he announces, as if Harry couldn’t tell. Couldn’t see the meadow in front of them, filled with flowers and sunlight. Long grass sways in the breeze but patches are worn down, flattened where they’ve been grazed on by wildlife. “Can I put you down?” Edward asks after a minute. 

“Oh. Uh, yeah.” 

Harry releases the death grip he has on Edward’s neck. It’s a good thing Edward has an unnaturally strong neck, as Harry’s sure he would have choked to death otherwise. Edward slowly lowers him down and his legs wobble a bit from the adrenaline dump. 

“So, this is your spot?” Harry asks, taking a tentative step forward and hoping his knee doesn’t buckle.

“Yes.” 

Harry turns back to look at Edward. He stands stiff as a board, hands curled into fists beside him and face crunched into a complicated expression. Harry cocks his head to the side and debates asking. He turns around and continues walking instead. 

“You come here often?”

“Nearly every night.” 

Harry explores the meadow, Edward’s heavy eyes on him the entire time, picking his way between the grass and stopping to inspect the flowers. Harry wonders why Edward brought him here if he was going to be so aloof about it. It’s a beautiful meadow. Maybe just what Harry needs—a place away from all the muggles, high up the mountains where they can’t bother him. Can’t find him. Can’t remind him. The sun shines through the trees and Harry finds a spot to sit and lay back, crossing his arms beneath his head and closing his eyes in the rare sunlight. 

Eventually Edward sidles over with quiet yet undeniably purposeful steps. He stops a few metres away and Harry eventually cracks an eye open to stare at Edward, just barely covered by the shade of the trees. 

“Are you joining me?” Harry asks, patting the ground beside him.

He can’t tell if Edward is hesitating or if he truly hasn’t heard what he said, because Edward stands so still. Harry wonders if somehow Edward has been so distracted by something else in that over-active mind of his that he managed to miss what Harry asked. Until Edward steps forward, then Harry knows that Edward wasn’t distracted, he was hesitating. Harry opens both eyes to get a better view. 

“You’re sparkling,” he says as Edward lays next to him. “Is that normal for half-muggle vampires?”

“Yes,” Edward replies, crossing his hands over his chest. He lays stiffly, rigid like a rock, skin glittering under the sunlight. It shimmers, silvery and ethereal, like unicorn blood under moonlight. It reminds Harry of the swirls in a pensieve and the flashes of light reflecting off the stone sitting on his bookshelf at home, like the shimmer of his cloak before it falls into place. 

“It’s rather pretty,” Harry says, turning his head back to the sunlight and closing his eyes. 

After a minute, Edward softly replies, “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Harry finds the rest of the week goes rather smoothly after his slight breakdown. Edward doesn’t bring up their afternoon in the meadow. Harry had eventually fallen asleep curled into Edward’s side, until the night grew dark and cold and he woke up shivering, apparating home with a small thanks whispered to Edward.

He’s rather grateful for Edward letting the odd moment slide. Bella doesn’t mention his abrupt escape from the school either, but Harry feels her curious brown eyes darting between him and Edward all week. Jessica has no such reservations, asking where they’d both disappeared to rather loudly. Harry learns Edward is rather smooth with his lies, and quite skillful at impromptu gaslighting.

Harry also notices a small change in Edward’s behaviour after their afternoon in the meadow—Edward stops calling him James. Instead, Edward words his sentences to avoid needing a name, or ensures Harry is looking directly at him when he speaks. Harry would be lying if he said he doesn’t appreciate it.

Edward stops asking questions in every free moment, but he takes to steering the lunch table conversations in rather odd directions in obvious attempts to get others to ask Harry the questions he wants to know the answers to. Harry actually begins to feel a bit guilty about it all.

He’s resigned to the fact he has to lie to everyone around him about who he really is, but he doesn’t feel that same need to lie to Edward about who he truly is—not what his name is, but who he is as a person—the things he likes and dislikes, his opinions and thoughts. Edward and the Cullens already know that he’s a wizard. Surely there’s no need to lie about all these other things, too.

At least, that is what Harry thinks. As long as they continue to think he’s James Granger, can’t he be himself a bit more, if only with the vampires?

“They’re vampires, mate” Ron says, looking at Harry as if he’s insane. “Half-muggle or not, you sure you can trust ‘em?”

Ron has a smudge of flour on his cheek and a splattering of sauce on his frilly apron, designed in glaring red and gold, a gift from Molly to Hermione the first Christmas after the couple moved in together. Harry has never seen Hermione wear it, but Ron’s managed to use it enough he’s had to mend the straps with some questionable wand-work that turned them an odd purple hue. He mixes a pot of sauce bubbling on the counter while a knife chops an array of vegetables in haphazard slices on the bench in front of Harry, who does his part by peeling potatoes, sat on a leather stool that is too low for the bench top.

“I’m not going to tell them everything,” Harry replies, dropping a wonky potato into a bowl of equally massacred peeled potatoes.

“Obviously,” Ron cuts in, turning around, the spoon trailing an arc of sauce across the bench. “But it’s a bit of a danger, innit? What if you slip up?” He grabs the bowl and raises an eyebrow at the potatoes. “Merlin, somehow you’ve gotten worse.”

Harry shrugs, dumping the knife on the chopping board. His atrophying cooking skills are directly related to being forced to cook for the Dursley’s from a young age. Cooking has never been fun for Harry. It was a means of survival for him when he was younger, that’s it. Food is often the first thing he’ll forgo when stressed. After the war, he moved into Grimmauld and Kreacher has kept him well-fed since then. Harry generally dislikes cooking now, to the point his once above-average skills have regressed to the point home-maker Ron can complain about them. Harry’s not above admitting there’s some malicious incompetence hidden there in a silent rebellion against being asked to cook.

Harry knows Ron is right about the Cullens. He’s likely to stuff up at some point in his interactions with them. But part of him wonders why that’s even a big deal—the Cullens are half-muggle after all, and not involved in the Wizarding World in any way. Even if he does slip up, they won’t even be likely to notice.

“Don’t they have a seer too?” Ron continues, turning back to the stove and dumping Harry’s shoddy potatoes into a pot of boiling water. “I’m surprised you even want to be around them.”

“I don’t want to be. Around her, anyway. The others aren’t that bad,” Harry replies sulkily, feeling rather put-out by Ron’s reservations. “She’s not a true seer either, apparently. She doesn’t prophesise.”

By the others, Harry really only means Edward, since he’s not said more than two words to the other Cullen siblings since their meeting, and he’s avoided Alice rather spectacularly. Or rather she’s allowed him to avoid her, if he’s being honest.

Edward, however, is like Devil’s Snare—clingy, impossible to escape, and the more Harry struggles, the more Edward tightens his grip. Except, instead of strangling him, Edward just insists on walking him to every single class. He’s a stupid, annoying, clingy vampire who sparkles in the sunlight and now sits either beside Harry in nearly every class, or as close as he can get. He’s constantly nearby and often hovers at the borders of Harry’s property as if begging for entry to sacred grounds.

Harry should be livid—and in some ways, maybe he is—but somewhere in the last week, Harry’s come to expect Edward’s company, to appreciate it. To notice it when it’s gone. Edward sticks to Harry like a house-elf bound by oath, turning up at every moment and looking personally offended if Harry suggests he spends time with his abandoned family members instead of the muggles they sit with for lunch.

And as much as Harry finds Edward’s presence annoying, he isn’t that bad. Edward is interesting. Harry enjoys watching how Edward reacts and changes to the thoughts of those around them, how he adjusts his body and carefully speaks, as if editing himself real-time.

Seeing Edward interact with the muggles is funny too. Perhaps as funny as it is for Edward to watch him do so as well. Although dispiriting to admit, Edward seems more on top of the muggle stuff than Harry is. Edward has lived with them for long enough, so perhaps that’s simply expected. Though for a muggle-raised wizard, Harry is a little shocked at how out-of-touch he really is with the muggle lingo of high-schoolers.

All of his more recent forays into muggle life have been limited to seedy nightlife and, honestly, there wasn’t much talking involved. Besides, Harry was off his rocker most nights. He can’t even be positive that he truly did successfully interact like a normal muggle. Even the muggles around him likely wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t. Harry gasped himself awake more than once and often woke feeling a little too rested, a sure sign he’d visited Death overnight. Those were some of the nicer deaths he’d had—accidental, leaving on pure highs, coupled in the arms of less intoxicated muggles.

“Have you thought about asking Luna?” Ron asks, his face deep in the fridge shuffling for something on the magically extended shelves.

“Er, about what?” Harry asks, coming back to the conversation and trying to shake the dregs of memories where he felt so high he floated away.

“About that seer. I don’t know, maybe she could give some insight. Chat to her.”

“Chat to Alice? The half-muggle vampire I met in an American city no one knows I’m living in? That literally goes against everything we planned for.”

Ron heaves a sigh so large Harry thinks he should be a father to eight children, not one. He escapes the fridge with a jar of some unknown substance with Molly’s handwriting across the side.

“It’s Luna, Harry. Pretty sure she already knows.”

“I still don’t see how she would help,” Harry responds with a huff.

“I’m just saying, maybe she could chat to this seer, give her some advice from another seer-like person. Feed her some information on the Wizarding World’s aversion to prophecies.”

Harry scoffs and his eyes almost roll out of his head.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Ron groans. “You know things have changed. Prophecies haven’t been the same since, well, yours. Everyone’s much more particular about hearing any.”

“I don’t think choosing not to listen to a prophecy is the same as it not being prophetised.”

“Maybe not. But in your case, Voldy listening to it is what made it self-fulfulling.” Ron stops mixing his pot of concocted ingredients to glance back at Harry. “Look, all I’m saying is maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea. Have someone else—someone similar—give the run down to that seer of theirs, before you find yourself cracking it at her for something she says accidentally. Especially if you’re wanting to spend more time with them." The way Ron emphasises the word ‘them’ has Harry avoiding his eyes, for fear that Ron might see something there. Something Harry doesn’t want to think about.

“I wouldn’t crack at her,” Harry grumbles. There must be something written on his face, because Ron changes the subject.

“You wanna go pick up Rose and Teddy now? Pretty sure Hermione spilled the beans that you’re back in town, so the paps should be there to get a few shots.”

“Great,” Harry replies drily.

It is part of the grand plan though. To be seen sometimes, spotted in the wild with his ageing potions and glamours on. It’s part of Hermione’s timeline of his life—how often and how regularly he should be photographed, especially at the beginning, in the first couple of years away. It’s all an elaborate ruse to keep people from looking for him too deeply, to stop someone from wondering why he’s not been around visiting friends. To stop someone like Rita trying to track him down to prove he’s not hunting Dark Wizards.

“Can you pick up some cheese while you’re out? The block stuff, not shredded. ‘Mione hates the pre-shredded stuff,” Ron yells down the hall, not bothering to pop his head around the corner to see if Harry even agrees.

———

Harry drops Teddy off to Andromeda after dinner, who asks him to spend the night instead of travelling across floo’s for hours. She doesn’t know, of course, that Harry isn’t making some grand travel between countries via a convoluted twist of floo’s, nor via a Ministry-approved international portkey. He’s simply apparating, with very minimal effort and no sound. But he’s not apparating to Forks.

He finds himself instead in Seattle, not near the small underground pub near the port, instead in an alley way he used when first scouting out possible living locations with Hermione. It’s secluded and close to a main stretch of nightlife. It’s the weekend after all, and Harry’s all aged up for once. It’s the perfect time for him to meet someone and let loose a little.

Which has nothing to do with the fact the hole in his chest seems extra cavernous after visiting his friends and playing games with his godchildren. It has nothing at all to do with the fake crows feet at the edges of his eyes that match the very real ones on the faces of his best friends. It has nothing at all to do with the cool bones he feels rattling around his neck, tightening like a noose.

Harry slips into the club with practiced ease, finding his way around the edges of the dance floor to his main destination: the bar. They don’t ask for his ID, and no one gives him second glances because, for once, he doesn’t look like a teenager. He looks like he should—like a man closer to thirty than twenty.

Harry downs his glass of whiskey and quickly orders another before he’s bustled from the busy counter. He situates himself in a corner and watches the crowd, hoping for someone to catch his attention.

There’s a woman dancing sensually on her friend, her eyes darting over to Harry every few seconds. Her long red hair reminds him too much of Ginny though. A man brushes against Harry as he walks past, his hand caressing along Harry’s bicep and a small apology slipping from his lips. All Harry can think about is molten eyes.

He finishes his drink and decides to order himself another one with the hopes that more alcohol in his system will lower his unusually high standards. Harry normally isn’t afraid to accept the advances of those who approach him, and he’s not afraid to approach those who catch his eye either.

But, even an hour later with more drinks downed than he can truly remember, Harry can’t seem to relax. Three people have asked him to dance or offered to buy him a drink, and he’s turned them down each time with lame excuses. He doesn’t want to think too closely about why he doesn’t want to spend his time with anyone else, specifically after coming here to do just that. He doesn’t want to look too deeply into the errant thoughts battering in his head of golden eyes and furrowed brows.

No, Harry doesn’t want to think of anything at all, actually.

He leaves his drink, unfinished, on a random ledge nearby, the closest place he can find to ditch his glass, and pushes his way to the exit, slipping between sweaty bodies and wafts of miscellaneous smoke. Once outside, he hobbles over to the closest alleyway, stumbling on the uneven pavement.

After literally killing himself previously with drunk apparations, Harry should really have learnt his lesson and refrain from doing it again. However, it’s actually Harry’s intent to die, so to do so by accidental apparition would kill two birds with one stone. As luck has it, he manages the magic without ending impaled on a dark object or splinched in half, although he’s unsure if that means the trip was successful or unsuccessful.

He’s not splinched—or dead— but his foot is unfortunately in a rather soft and wet bag of rubbish, and an undefined, disgusting liquid leaks into his sock. He shakes his foot from the ripped rubbish bag, flicking some food scrap from the tip of his shoe and holding back a slight gag as it makes a wet slop sound on the concrete.

He walks as normally as he can, acting more sober than he feels, exiting the alley way and crossing the road to a seedy hotel. A ‘no vacancy’ sign flickers in beat to the loud thrum of a nearby nightclub’s music, making it hard to tell if it actually has vacancies or not. The front door is propped open with a heavy cedar block and a piece of paper duct-taped to the door explains their prices, ranging from one hour to overnight.

The reception is hidden behind a thick plastic panel and a woman sits there smoking, her hair rolled into curlers and a small TV playing some muggle show with canned laughter. Harry books himself a room overnight, paying extra for a corner room with only one neighbour and for a towel so he can shower. It costs him more than it should according to the sign on the door, which the receptionist says is outdated when Harry points that out. He’s sure he has received a foreign-accent tax, but can’t bring himself to care that much. Not when he’s so close to his goal. So close to reprieve.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He even sits on the edge of the likely-bed-bug-infested bed for twenty minutes, trying to follow the steps Hermione told him to work through back when his suicide rate was the highest.

Think of all the reasons not to—which, honestly, isn’t very effective when it’s not permanent.

Think of all the people who love him—and Harry does, but it comes with the burden of guilt that their existence and their happiness and seeing them is partly why he is here now.

Think of the person who has to find him—which he’s effectively made a nil point, by finding a hotel.

It’s not even the first time he’s come to kill himself in a hotel. It’s the best way to do it, because it ensures that Kreacher or Hermione or Ron won’t have to stumble upon his body, if they’re unlucky enough to come looking for him in the minutes he’s out. Or maybe he’s the unlucky one in that situation, because being found dead is a rather terrible ordeal for him with how overbearing everyone gets afterwards, especially considering it’s a rather short affair.

Harry thinks about what he’s going to do for a good twenty minutes, long enough for his ageing potion to wear off and leave behind Harry as he truly is, young, but with his scars still glamoured. He wonders why it is that he can go from being fine one minute, to suicidal the next. Why is it he can laugh and joke with his godchildren, and mere hours later be in a one-star hotel with death on his mind? Why is it he came to Seattle for company, but left alone?

He’s never really considered what being Master of Death has done to his brain—not beyond the slight acknowledgement from Hermione that perhaps being immortal has a fundamental difference on his brain chemistry. But, now, he does consider it.

He considers it when he fluffs the pillows and takes off his shoes. He considers it when he folds his jacket neatly and lays the towel down on the bed as a hopeful barrier between him and any bugs. He considers it when he lays back and looks at the ceiling, following the cracks around the room. He considers it as he turns the light off and listens to car horns beeping a few blocks away.

Harry waves his hand and the elder wand is there, like he’d always been holding it. Like it wasn’t just on his bookshelf at home, settled next to the other Deathly Hallows. He points it at his chest and lets out a deep sigh, one from the very depths of his lungs, that ends in a soft whisper of the killing curse.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The cruel—kind?—green magic curls between his ribcage and shocks his heart. He feels every moment of death. Every atom of magic, streaming into his chest, jolting his heart into an uneven rhythm and then sinking deeper still, drifting into its atriums until the magic finds the very depths of him.

“Welcome back, Master,” Death says, its constellation face gazing down at Harry curled in its palm.

Harry doesn’t respond, simply wraps himself tighter and breathes a sigh of relief at the loosening of his muscles and the weightlessness of his body as he is placed in Death’s sternum.

“Rest, Master,” Death hums, as though providing a service Harry should be grateful for.

Chapter Text

Edward waits outside of James’s house for most of the day. It’s the weekend, after all, so Edward (wrongfully) assumes James might leave his fortress-like home. But he doesn’t, so Edward eventually relents to join Emmett and Jasper’s impromptu hunting trip, one they make more for his benefit than theirs. 

Emmett and Jasper know they cannot hide that the hunting trip is merely a distraction, an intervention of sorts to get Edward away from his borderline-creepy obsession, according to Emmett’s thoughts. Edward doesn’t hate that they are trying. He accepts the distraction, because he is becoming rather fixated on James, and he has been for the entire two weeks James has been in town. It seems to be getting worse with each new moment they share, with each new fact Edward collects about him, with each small glance and skip of a heart beat that Edward doesn’t understand. 

Like the day in the meadow Edward and James shared. Like James not wanting to be called by his name. Like James freaking out about the Harry Potter’s Adventures novels Bella mentioned—a series Edward has been unsuccessful at finding even after scouring the internet. Each crumb of information is like a clue tacked onto the board of James in Edward’s mind, collected and collated, waiting to be compared to new evidence until, eventually, one day, maybe, Edward will have the mystery solved. 

In comparison to the tedium with which life was before, Edward can’t even truly say he regrets his hyper-fixation on James. Perhaps it is simply in his nature to do so. Each of his siblings have been obsessed previously too—although they might be less inclined to admit it, Edward knows who they truly are. What they truly think. How focused they each are on their respective partners, and they have each had decades together. 

Maybe it’s their long lives that tend to vampires becoming beings of obsession. Maybe it appeals to their hunter instincts to find a prey and study it. Edward doesn’t view James as prey, although he has to admit to there being some abstract overlap between hunting for blood and hunting for romance. It’s possible they’re one and the same for vampires. 

Distraction from James is slightly welcome and likely needed, Edward had concluded. Besides, hunting is always fun. Whether he’s thirsty or not, he’ll always relish in the chance to stretch his legs and feel the restrictive human mask fall to his feet, to allow that being inside him to break out completely. With his brothers alongside him, it’s even more enjoyable. 

At least it had been, with his fangs elongated and blood dripping down his chin from an old grizzly Emmett had wrestled to the ground. Until Alice called. 

“Alice,” Edward answers instantly. 

“You need to go to Seattle.”

“What?” Edward isn’t sure what he was expecting her call to be about, but it wasn’t an impromptu meeting in Seattle. 

“I’ll send you the location.”

She hangs up, and his phone beeps with the received text before he’s even lowered it from his ear. It shares an address for an old motel in a rather unsavoury part of town. Room 31. Along with a small message: James will be there. 

Edward knows Alice wouldn’t ask him to go there for no reason. She must have seen something. But why didn’t she explain? His phone beeps again. 

I don’t know either, it reads. I just know he’ll be there. It was all black, but then you were there. Be there by midnight. 

“What does it say?” Jasper asks from across the clearing they are in. 

“Just that I should go to Seattle. She doesn’t know why.”

“James?” Emmett asks. Edward nods, ignoring the slight sigh from his brother. 

Edward can feel the resurgence of his obsession bubbling in him. James is in Seattle? He hadn’t left home when Edward was there, merely an hour or so ago. But, Edward considers now, that he should have known James would be able to travel without actually leaving his house. Edward’s seen him disappear into thin air before and, presumably, appear elsewhere. It doesn’t seem too much of a stretch to assume James can teleport himself from inside his house to Seattle. Edward would never have seen him leave those impenetrable barriers around his house if James had. He checks the time on his phone. 10:03 pm. He’ll be cutting it close. 

“I have to go,” Edward says to his brothers, hearing their rather loud thoughts on the matter. 

Jasper understands, because he’s used to dropping it all for Alice’s visions. Because he, too, was listless and melancholic before Alice found him. Because he wishes the same love for Edward, even if it is with an unknown wizard who seems to have more secrets than the Cullens combined. 

Emmett doesn’t understand, because his love came to him at the time of his death. Because his love with Rosalie is born from passion and fire and heat; from instantaneous lust and perpetual desire, not from the slow effort of understanding, of learning, of knowing. Emmett lives as a vampire how he lived as a human: in the moment and with only the present on his mind. 

Jasper and Edward are beings stuck firmly in the past. It is likely why they’re both so dependent on Alice and her ability, so they can consider the future and to prepare for it, evolve around it. 

Edward doesn’t say goodbye to his brothers again, he simply runs as fast as he can for Seattle. 

—-

It takes Edward two hours to run to the motel. He arrives a few minutes past midnight. He can only hope he has been fast enough. For the entire run, he couldn’t stop himself from finding reasons to be annoyed with Alice for not providing more information. He knows that she cannot see past James’s magic; he knows that most visions of James are abstract and confusing—he’s experienced them first-hand alongside her. Still, he struggles to find empathy within for the way she continually throws him off with barely-developed visions. Although, he wouldn’t have it any other way. If it weren’t for her, Edward wouldn’t know to be here now.

Edward passes the receptionist with his vampire speed, but she is so fixated on the drama playing on her small box TV that she likely wouldn’t have noticed even a human ambling past. He stops outside room 31 and waits, listens for James inside. There is nothing. No heartbeat, no breathing. 

Edward must be early. He debates on where to wait and decides the room next door is as good as any, seeing as its occupants are not home. He twists the doorknob until the lock inside snaps and the electronic key card machine rattles with broken parts inside. He slips into the room and sits himself on the only arm chair in the room, waiting. For what, he doesn’t know. Alice said to be here by midnight, but it’s possible she said an earlier time than needed to ensure he was here. Because James isn’t here yet and there’s no—

Edward’s mind stutters, stops.

He can hear it now. A heartbeat, starting again. A gasp for breath, like a man drowning. Snippets of things—images, thoughts—broken and unclear flooding into his mind of green, constellations, names, faces, friends, family—magic, unadulterated magic, oozing through the walls, sparking along his skin and a mantra of death, death, death whispering from a mind he normally can’t hear. Edward runs from the room. He barely opens the door, his shoulder barging through the flimsy wood, half of it splintering beneath the pressure. He stands at the door to the room where James now exists, wherein moments before he hadn’t. Where minutes ago Edward had deemed it empty. 

He should knock. He should call out to James. Ask to be let in, like a normal human would. But Edward is not human, so he doesn’t. He follows his instincts that scream at him to enter, to help, to save James from whatever it is that leaves the room smelling of death. Edward breaks the door down and finds himself looking at James, who gasps for air on the bed, hand curled over his chest and eyes closed. James’s heart races and his mind is silent, closed off once more, the overflow of thoughts locked down carefully after whatever it is that let them escape passed. 

Edward only survives because of his vampire speed—the pure adrenaline and warning in his baser self, forcing him to move before the magic hits him. Even still, it grazes past his nose, tingles of it brushing him as he barely flattens his back to the side, only just out of the way. The wall and door shudder as several long slices appear in them, plaster shattering to the floor. One ominous cut lines up directly with where Edward’s neck would have been. 

James’s shaky hand lowers, an odd stick with unusual knots bulging on it lowering as well. Not a stick, a wand, Edward realises. A wand that fits perfectly in James’s practiced grip, lines up along those unusual callouses. One that disappears into thin air, as if Edward had imagined it pointing at him. 

“Oh, Edward,” James breathes in a soft voice that almost jolts Edward’s heart back into action. 

James seems half asleep even if he almost decapitated Edward just moments ago. Which is something Edward wants to think about more later, once James is home. How violent James can be. How violent magic can be. How quick it could murder or maim, and how easily that came to James. Why is James’s urge to protect himself so instinctual he could kill accidentally? 

The room itself reeks of death—of the stillness of life, the haunting erosion of a human. Edward wants to leave. He hates how it sticks to the back of his tongue and reminds him of all the times he stumbled on a dead human during his horrendously long existence. It’s a scent that transports him back to World War Two, one burrowed into his very subconscious and engraved on his soul. It’s the scent of death that weighs on him when his bloodlust is gone. When he isn’t distracted by the blood in the room, but instead by the horror of loss, the humanity in him rearing its head.

“What—why are you here?” James asks, shaking his head lightly, his voice less soft and airy. His hand doesn’t stop moving over his chest, rubbing harder with each passing second.

Edward feels overwhelmed. His brain is firing, each synapse asking him to move, to speak, to something. James stumbles from the bed, catching himself on the bedside table and shaking his head again as if he could rattle his mind back into place after, after, after—after what? Edward cannot bring himself to think it. The impossibility that seems laid bare before him. He cannot trust in his own senses any more, not with irrefutable proof of life before him.

James seems to collect himself as he notices Edward’s silence. It starts slow, with his foot landing on the stained carpet and his body straightening, his heart rate decreasing. Then it happens all at once—James grows rigid and his hands curl into fists and he glares at Edward with those haunting green eyes. He runs an angry hand through his mussed curls and drags it down his face, groaning in a mixture of what Edward can only assume is disbelief and anger. 

“Fuckin’ Alice,” James mutters under his breath, his accent thicker than usual. Maybe it’s always thicker when he wakes up. Wakes up? Wakes up from—Edward stops his thoughts again. Refuses to accept what he wants to believe, what he cannot believe. “Thanks for checking in, Ed,” James’s tone makes Edward know he really is not thankful for the check in. “But this is my room. Feel free to rent your own.”

James waves his hand and the plaster on the floor flies up, curls back into the wall and the damage that almost decapitated Edward disappears. The wand never appears in James’s hand. 

“I—” Edward stops, clears his throat. “I would like to stay.” That’s not what he wants to say. He wants to ask James what the hell happened here. He wants to ask why James almost murdered him, accidentally or not. He wants to know why death hovers in the air.

“For Godric’s sake,” James swears and Edward memorizes the name—Godric, perhaps a wizarding god. “Fine—you stay. I’m leaving.”

Edward has, again, only a millisecond to react. He feels the magic collecting in the room, feels it burning along his skin and knows James is about to leave, to teleport. To disappear into air again. So he does the only thing he can think of. He runs. He lunges for James and just barely manages to grip two of his fingers.

It’s like being compressed into a tube and squeezed through the other side, into a free-fall where Edward is distantly aware of James yelling at him, at hands gripping onto him tightly, of his own grip faltering under the strange onslaught to his immortal body. There is a part of him that is aware of James wrapping his arms around him, of the magic encasing them as Edward feels himself stretching and snapping, warping and bouncing before he is elongated into a noodle and then deposited harshly onto James’s chest, who slides on his back along a wooden floor and slams the back of his head on a dark wooden skirting board.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” James yells breathlessly, his arms yet to loosen, encased around Edward. He wishes he could enjoy it. Instead, he feels as if his brain is sludge and his body is limp, lethargic in a way he’s only felt when depriving himself of blood for weeks. “You could have killed yourself!” James yells, slapping his hand on Edward’s back with each word.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Edward mutters, turning his face until it’s buried in James’s chest. He fights the urge to take a deep breath through his nose. He can already scent James in the air, not death like at the motel, but of James and his unique something, the thing that calls to Edward.

“Merlin,” James sighs and the muscles in his body relax, his arms falling to the side. After a second, a small laugh escapes him.

Edward lifts his head and watches as James descends into a fit of giggles. It’s jarring, the difference a smile can make to his face. Edward has seen glimpses of this James, moments where a smile would crack along his face or a small chuckle would escape him. But he’s never seen James like this, descending into a fit of laughter with tears escaping his eyes and his body shaking. James begins to slap Edward’s shoulder, pushing him to move off his chest so he can sit up. Edward reluctantly moves.

“So, how was it?” James asks between chuckles. 

“It was…very uncomfortable,” Edward says slowly. “I image that’s how toothpaste feels.”

James nods his head enthusiastically and wipes away a few stray tears from his eyes. Edward finds himself mesmerised by his dark eyelashes, the way they frame his bright eyes. “No, but seriously. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I was,” Edward says.

“Merlin.” James shakes his head. “You’re lucky—that could have ended terribly.”

Edward wants to ask how terribly it could have ended, what death by teleportation looks like, and maybe even how James stopped it from happening—because Edward is positive he did, positive James had enveloped them in magic, and that without it Edward would have undoubtedly lost his grip under such unusual circumstances. Who knows where he would have ended up if James weren’t holding him so tight? But he doesn’t get to ask, because the unusual creature he’d seen in Sam’s mind shuffles into the room with a scowl.

“Master, Kreacher be unawares a guest was due tonight,” the creature grumbles in an oddly low voice for a being of his stature. 

“Sorry, Kreacher. He was uninvited.”

“Shall Kreacher dispose of the muggle-vampire, Master?”

Edward startles at the suddenly malicious eyes on the thing. James simply laughs. 

“Not just yet. Thank you, Kreacher.” 

James shuffles as if to stand and Edward finds himself standing upright, hand reaching down to help him up. James raises an eyebrow at him but accepts the help. Edward stuffs the odd giddiness in his chest down. 

“My apologies, Mister Kreacher,” Edward says, turning to the small creature. “I seem to have intruded somewhat unintentionally.”

Kreacher looks at him calculatingly, eyes dragging up and down his body. Eventually he nods and turns, muttering about bringing tea. 

“Oh you don’t—”

“Don’t bother,” James says from where he’s settled himself, lazing across a familiar chaise lounge. “He’ll bring it anyway.”

Edward realises with a start that he’s managed to find his way into James’s elusive home. The home he’s protected with magical borders so strongly since his arrival. The home he’s kept Edward locked out of for weeks. 

“I’m sorry for intruding. I can leave if—” 

James waves his hand dismissively. “You’re already here. May as well have the tea Kreacher’s making.”

Edward tries to stop the smile from showing on his face, but he must do it horribly because James rolls his eyes. He’s barely sat down before Kreacher returns, appearing with a shocking crack, so different to how James disappears silently. He rattles over with a tray of teacups and a pot. A tantalising smell fills the room, not of warm tea but of something different, something more. Something that has Edward feeling thirsty. 

“Kreacher be knowing these muggle-vampires coming,” he says to James. “Must be prepared for guests, Mistress always said.”

Kreacher pours a cup of tea for James and then turns to Edward, holding his hand out. Resting in his small, wrinkled palm is a pot with several lollipops in it. 

“Oh, no thank you,” Edward declines softly with a shake of his hand. 

“It’s blood,” James explains as he stirs sugar into his tea. “Try it.”

“Blood?” Edward asks, taking the candy and thanking Kreacher who disappears with a grunt of acknowledgement and a crack. Edward inspects the candy slowly, spinning the red ball in front of his eyes. It does make his mouth water, but he cannot help but hesitate. “What type of blood?” Surely anything that smells this delicious has to be human blood. 

“There’s all different ones,” James says, sipping his tea. “It’s not human, so don’t stress about your precious vegetarianism.” Edward can sense the eye roll in his words, even if James manages to speak with a straight face. “They’re from different creatures in my world. Read it.”

Edward looks closer at the candy, at the small writing stamped into one side of it. 

“Erumpent?”

James laughs. “Think of it like a rhino.”

Edward nods slowly and unwraps it, peeling off the bright red plastic wrap to reveal a dark almost brown lollipop, the exact colour of oxidised blood. Edward doesn’t have a habit of partaking in blood that’s oxidised, because it’s often colder and lacks the soothing sensation that fresh, oxygenated blood provides. When living on a ‘vegetarian’ diet, one needs all the relief from bloodlust they can get. Still, he pops it in his mouth just to see. 

It’s delicious—something Edward wasn’t expecting. He thought it might be like normal animal blood, perhaps like that of a mountain lion or a grizzly, because those are the most delicious. But somehow it manages to be more. It’s tangy along his tongue and soothing when he swallows, but then it blooms and explodes. 

It tastes like magic.

It tastes like how he feels when James laughs at his shocked face.

It is somehow warm and delicious and it slithers down his throat to pool in his stomach right next to the fluttering emotions he tries to keep hidden. 

Chapter Text

Edward sits in an armchair for the second time tonight, but this time he’s not locked in his own thoughts. This time, he’s eyeing the room and enjoying an ‘Erumpent blood pop’. It’s existence altering. He’s not sure how he ever survived without such a flavor. To be able to feed on something that is not liquid is so novel that Edward can’t help shoving his fangs deep into the lollipop until it cracks and shatters in his mouth.

The room is just like in Alice’s visions. Although more detailed, with numerous things he has never noticed before, because he’s always been so focused on James laying on the chaise, drunk or drinking. It’s larger than Edward expected it to be, with two large, almost floor-to-ceiling windows with diamond panelling across them. Dark wooden wainscoting borders the lower half of the room, matching the dark floorboards. The walls are a soft cream and dark red curtains fall in thick folds around the windows, with lace sheers beneath. 

A rug sprawls between the chaise James relaxes on and the arm chair Edward sits in. It looks similar to the one in Carlisle’s office from the 18th century, with tan and deep green designs looping through the tapestry. Somehow it’s different, too, with unusual sharp-winged, horse-like creatures stitched into the design.

Next to Edward is a fireplace, cracking with low embers of a fire that was lit hours earlier. On either side of it, carved into the marble mantle is a crest. Edward assumes it’s a family crest—much like the one he wears on the leather band on his wrist. It looks like two dogs on either side of a shield. There is no motto, only a place where one should have been that is now blank, as though it were erased from the marble without a trace. Above the fireplace is a rather creepy painting of a forest. Edward stares at, positive he can see something move between the trees. 

“You can go look at it, you know,” James says, arm slung casually behind his head. Edward wonders how long James has been watching him as he crunches on the few remains of the blood pop in his mouth. The act of chewing is oddly entertaining. 

He darts over to the painting and inspects it closer. Between the trees of the painting, a deer shuffles, wandering between the branches and poking its head up when Edward leans closer. 

“It’s magic?” He asks James, not bothering to turn around. 

“Yep.” 

Edward moves from the painting and flits over to the opposite side of the room where bookshelves line the wall. Some of the shelves have books with odd names like ‘The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection and Magical Hieroglyphics and Logograms’. Several of them on one bookshelf even have tabs and notes poking from their pages in handwriting Edward identifies as definitively not James’s, based on the curling loops of the few letters he can see, so different from the structured lines of James’s own handwriting in class. Those books all have even more odd titles, like ‘A Study Into the Possibility of Reversing the Actual and Metaphysical Effects of Natural Death with Particular Regard to the Reintegration of Essence and Matter’. 

Interspersed between books are odd artefacts that can only be magical in origin—a jar that is empty but echoes with the laughs of a child; an hourglass that flows backwards; a bowl terrarium that seems to phase through withering and growing in a matter of minutes; and an odd compass that doesn’t seem to point north, but directly at wherever Edward stands. There are more still, odd things he can’t quite wrap his head around, like small figurines of dragons that hiss at him and breathe fire and jump from their pedestals to hide behind books when he gets too close. 

And finally, there are photo frames. Moving pictures of James with people Edward wants to know more about. James with two young children, one with the same dark hair as James and the other with a flash of red. They’re smiling and laughing, the dark-haired child climbing over James’s head. James looks the same, as if the photo could have been taken yesterday. It’s the only more recent photo. There’s a photo of two people Edward can only assume are James’s parents. One of James with a red-haired boy and a curly-haired girl sitting before a fireplace, each wearing a bright red sweater. Christmas wrapping paper litters the floor around them. James looks younger in it, perhaps only by a few years. He’s different, too. He isn’t just younger, but he’s happier, less burdened.

“These are your friends?” Edward asks. It seems the least intrusive question he could ask, the most innocuous of the three photos. 

“Yes,” James replies, but there is something more in his tone, something Edward can’t decipher even when he looks back over his shoulder at James, who resolutely stares at the ceiling. 

Edward turns back to the shelves and spots another he’s yet to look at. He’s not sure how he missed it, right in the middle of the bookshelves and with only three items lined across it. One he recognises from earlier—the wand, perched on a holder of some sorts, resting there as if it hadn’t been in James’s hand less than thirty minutes earlier, casting a cruel slew of slices his direction. A shimmery object of what almost seems to be folded material sits on the left and a stone on the right, with indefinable colours shining from it. Edward reaches for the wand slowly, just wanting to graze it with the edge of his finger. Instead, he hits an invisible wall. 

“Sorry,” James says suddenly from beside him. “No touching.” He waves his hand and the shelf disappears, replacing itself with a range of rather boring, normal books Edward has read before. 

Edward has to swallow the urge to ask what the other two items are, hidden on the shelf with James’s rarely used wand. Why those items only are hidden by magic. James sends him a look that he interprets as ‘ask and you’ll have overstayed your welcome’. 

“Why don’t you want to be called James?” Edwards asks instead, turning to face him. 

They’re close enough for Edward to feel the heat radiating from James’s body, and he wonders if James can feel the chill from his. James’s heart picks up at the question. He looks away, avoiding Edward’s eyes, a finger playing with one of the books on the shelf. It’s one that’s worn down, the spine cracked from use and hundreds of tabs sticking from it, with the same curly writing that Edward knows isn’t James’s. ‘Whispers of the Veil: Death and The Hallows’, it reads. 

“Why not?” Edward presses. 

“I don’t like the name.” James pulls the book from the shelf and flips through the pages in an effort to seem absent-minded. 

“But it’s your name.”

“I don’t—” 

“Tell me the truth,” Edward says, cutting James off. “Please.” 

“It is the truth.” He shoves the book back roughly. “I. Don’t. Like. It.”

Edward lets out an uncharacteristic groan and turns away from James, running his hands through his hair. 

“You’re so frustrating!” He exclaims, spinning back. “I can tell that you’re lying!”

“It’s not a lie!” James yells back, throwing his arms up. 

“But it’s not the truth,” Edward seethes, stepping closer. “I can hear it, smell it, taste it—there’s something more that you won’t say.”

“And what gives you the right to know?” James laughs harshly, pushing back at Edward’s chest. He doesn’t move with the pressure. That seems to irritate James more, because he stomps away and throws himself onto the chaise in a huff, one leg splayed out over the back of it. “You don’t just get to know everything because you want to.”

“Contrary to what I want, I know nothing about you,” Edward hisses back with more than a little malice. He sits himself in his own chair and decides to reign in on his temper.

James is correct, even if it makes him mad. He doesn’t have a right to any information James decides to withhold. That doesn’t make it any less frustrating. James has been in Forks for over half a month, and Edward feels in many ways that he knows the teenager less than he did before James arrived. Vision-James seemed easier to understand. Real-life-James is too convoluted and mysterious, hiding too much and too scared to share. 

“Are you really in witness protection?” Edward asks.

“What?” James furrows his brows. 

 “I thought maybe that was a lie for the humans. Is there a wizard equivalent of witness protection?” He explains. 

James pauses for a couple of seconds then bursts out laughing. The previous anger leeches from his body and his muscles relax as he laughs into a cushion he pulls up to his face. 

“Oh god,” he says between chuckles. “You’re really too much.”

“What?” It’s Edward’s turn to be confused. “That’s what all the humans think at school.”

“Well, sure. Let’s go with that,” James agrees with a grin, his eyes shining over the edge of the cushion. “And do you believe that?”

Not any more, he doesn’t. He might have entertained the thought for a bit. It isn’t the most unreasonable idea for someone so evasive and cagey as James.

“Why do you care so much?” James asks suddenly. “About me?”

Edward can tell he needs to answer carefully here, even without Alice around to show him all the future possibilities. He shouldn’t outright talk about any visions of them together—because he’s rather certain that’ll just leave James pissed off and maybe get him kicked out. He opts for being honest instead, in the only way he can without mentioning Alice. 

“I find you interesting.” James frowns at that answer. “I’m interested in you, I should say,” Edward clarifies, feeling somewhat awkward. 

He’s never confessed his own interest in someone before. He’s always been confessed to, and he’s never accepted those advances. Now he realises how much bravery it costs to admit your interest in another, and he feels like an ass for the way he’s treated those interested in him before. Rosalie, Tanya, Kate, the innumerable human girls over his last century of existence. It’s a humbling experience.

“You’re…interested…in…me?” James asks slowly, scrunching the cushion in his hands and not looking in Edward’s direction. 

“Yes.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“What do you think it means?” Edward replies. James’s eyes flash to him and his heart rate picks up. Edward can taste James on his tongue, the shock of magic curling across it as a slight tinge of red burns across James’s cheeks. James looks away quickly. “It means that,” Edward says confidently. 

“Er, you. That is—so,” James stutters. “Right.” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Edward cocks his head to the side. 

“What were you expecting?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You seem like the old school type. Wasn’t sure you’d be, you know.” 

Edward waits. James sighs loudly. 

“Gay.”

“I considered whether I was gay or not after meeting you,” Edward says. “I’m unsure if I’m gay or if it’s simply you. I don’t think it matters.”

“It doesn’t matter?”

“I like you, so it doesn’t matter.”

The appealing blush on James’s face deepens and Edward closes his mouth. The longer he spends here, the more aware he is of James’s blood. Of his scent. Of the way it fills the room around them and blooms from James when his heart races. Even his magic is there, buzzing in the background, electrifying Edward’s taste buds. 

“Like you said, you don’t even know me,” James mutters into the cushion that he’s now using as a barrier between them, keeping his head and body turned away so he faces the back of the chaise, and not Edward. 

“That’s why I’m trying to. You make it difficult.”

“Occupational hazard,” James replies, sitting up and shoving the cushion on his lap, his hands patting it down and tapping out a rough pattern. Edward isn’t sure whether James is nervous or agitated. 

“What occupation is that?” Edward pries. James’s only answer is a sly smirk in Edward’s direction as if to acknowledge his poor attempt to glean any information. 

“I don’t like the name James because it’s not my real name,” James—or not James—responds. 

Edward thinks he could leap from his chair in excitement. Instead, he holds it together, and just slightly leans forward in interest. 

“Why are you using a fake name?” He doesn’t want to ask this. No, really he wants to know what James’s real name is. But he’s trying to not push James too much, trying to not freak him out if he can. 

“Because I’m trying to avoid being found.”

“By who?”

“By everyone.”

Edward doesn’t know why James is being so forthcoming, even if he’s still managing to make Edward have more questions than before. But he decides to use it to his advantage. To push a little more. To risk freaking James—not James—out. 

“What is your real name?”

James takes a long time to reply. Edward waits patiently. He doesn’t push again, but also doesn’t retreat. Eventually, James stands up and stalks to a corner of the room where a drink cart seems to magically appear. He pours himself a shot of what smells like extra-strong whiskey and downs it. Edward bites back a comment on his underage drinking habits. Maybe wizards are allowed to drink from a younger age. 

“My name is Harry,” he says softly, looking down into his empty glass, his back to Edward.

Edward clenches his hands over his knees so tightly that they crack beneath his trousers, and he tries to hide the goofy smile on his face. Persistence really is the key to life. Harry, he thinks to himself. Harry, Harry, Harry. 

God, how he adores that name. 

“Harry,” Edward says and he knows the smile can be heard in his tone as Harry turns around and looks at him with a complicated expression. He pours himself another shot and downs it. 

Edward has another question he wants to ask. In fact, he’s been dying to ask it since he first arrived in Harry’s sitting room. But he won’t ask it. Can’t. Partly because he’s afraid of the answer he might get, and partly because he is afraid of what Harry might do instead of answer. 

But he knows he didn’t imagine that scent. The weight of death in the air. The stagnancy of a life snuffed out. Edward knows that smell intimately, understands the feeling deep in his soul. But he cannot ask—and he doesn’t want to ruin such a nice moment, either. 

“Harry,” he says again. He stands up and appears next to Harry, holding out his hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Harry.” Edward wants to say his name forever. 

Harry puts his glass down and looks at Edward’s hand. He takes it gently and they shake hands. Edward takes the moment to memorise those calloused fingers, to etch them into his mind until he is sure he can pick Harry’s hand out from a line up blindfolded. Edward’s hand feels as if it’s defrosting, slowly warming up in the furnace-like grip of Harry’s. 

“This is weird,” Harry says after a second, pulling his hand from Edward’s grip. 

He pours himself another whiskey, the bottle clattering on the glass rim. Edward wants to reach out and steady his hand, to stop the shakiness. Instead, he simply watches, wonders if Harry’s shakes are from stress or anxiety. If he regrets telling Edward his name. 

Harry. Harry. Harry. 

His name settles in Edward’s chest comfortably with a feeling of complete right. This is how he wants to be with Harry—honest and open, to share things they keep hidden. To explore what it is that makes them, both inside and out, to know who each other is behind their secrets. And his name—Harry—is the start. 

“Thank you,” Edward says. 

“For what?” Harry asks, his nose scrunched up and eyes wary, as though the answer could hurt him. 

“For coming to Forks.” Edward loves the way Harry’s face heats up and his eyes become shifty. 

“Don’t thank me for that,” Harry snaps, the moment gone and his face scowling. 

He slams his glass on the drink cart and pushes Edward’s chest again. This time, Edward steps back with the pressure, even though Harry’s fingers on his chest make him want to step forward, to feel them trace along his abdomen and burn his skin with their fiery touch. 

“I think it’s time you leave.”

Edward nods his consent. Of course, he doesn’t want to leave. He’s only seen one room in this formidable mansion disguised as a cabin. If it were up to Edward, he’d stay here all night and pick his way through the rooms, collecting information on Harry and his secrets until Edward can solve him. He would explore the house in the way he wishes he could explore Harry’s mind. 

“Alright, Harry. Thank you for having me.”

Harry laughs sarcastically. “You rather invited yourself, mate,” Harry scoffs, stomping from the room with a glare over his shoulder that Edward interprets as an order to follow. 

Edward smiles behind his back at the pure Britishness of Harry. He walks slowly, taking the chance to eye off whatever he can see in the hallway from the sitting room to the front door. There isn’t much he can see—a flight of stairs with a long run of ancient carpet; a doorway that leads off into a dining and kitchen area with similar colouring to the sitting room they had been in; and a long hallway beside the stairs that lead off to a number of odd doors, each different in design. Edward’s desire to know more consumes him. 

Harry opens the front door and kicks Edward out with a very brusque goodbye, leaving him to ruminate over all that he learned tonight while he walks home slowly, enjoying his chance to be within the detestable magical border around Harry’s home. There are a number of things he learned tonight that are important—like the fact James is actually called Harry, and that he uses a wand only on special occasions, and that he can teleport himself and someone else, even if it’s unpleasant. But the most important thing that Edward learned is that Harry doesn’t just consider killing himself, but he does. Edward isn’t sure how, only that he knows with every fibre of his being that Harry was dead in that room. 

And that he came back. 

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Bella says softly, sidling up to Harry as he leans against his motorcycle outside of the local town diner, smoking. “You’re a hard guy to catch.” 

That has been on purpose. Harry hasn’t wanted to be found by Bella and he has been avoiding her as much as possible since his return to school. He shouldn’t avoid her for something out of her control. He knows that. But he cannot help the dark sludge that crawls up his throat when he remembers that she knows. In some abstract way, still. But she does. Hermione would probably think he’s being daft—or maybe old her would have, but now she’d ask him to talk about this overreaction to a mind-healer. Even Harry thinks he’s being a bit daft if he’s honest. 

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve had a lot going on.” He takes another drag from his cigarette, avoiding her eyes by focussing on it. A lot going on including killing himself and stupidly telling that half-muggle vampire his name. 

“That’s okay. Everything alright?” She hesitates slowly. “I didn’t…upset you or anything?”

“No, Bella, seriously,” Harry lies quickly, eyes darting away from the cursed words etched on his hand, hidden beneath his scar-removal glamour. He even imagines it twinges as he speaks. “You’re fine. It’s me, sorry. I’ve been out of it.”

She nods and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes darting over to the other teenagers in the carpark who are playing around with a football and leaning against their cars. “Thanks for meeting me.”

He shrugs in response. 

He hadn’t wanted to come. However, Harry is making an effort to blend in, to settle down. He wants to stay in Forks for as long as his young appearance will allow him. He likes Forks. The weather is nice—since rain and gloom are apparently his thing—and he enjoys hiking the mountains and pretending the activity reduces his suicidal tendencies. He likes the trees, too. Merlin, Harry apparently even has a soft spot for the new half-muggle creatures he’s met. In particular, a certain furrowed-browed individual with golden eyes and annoyingly stalker-like behaviour. 

So when Bella left Harry a note in his locker—seeing as she couldn’t track him down any other way and Harry has become disastrously good at joining conversations at their lunch table and keeping them off him—asking to have dinner together after school on Thursday, Harry suffered a terrible bout of guilt and promptly decided that they could have dinner, and that he was truly becoming a rather terrible person. 

Bella has been nothing but sweet to Harry, and he’s only repaid her with distance and gruffness. Why she’s even still bothering to hang out, or attempting to do so, is beyond him. Even Jessica must surely be a better choice than Harry. 

Although, he can think of one person who would disagree with that statement vehemently. If that person can even be considered a person. 

Edward has made himself rather clear in the last few days how he feels about Harry. Clearer, he should say. Because Edward was not particularly subtle even before he confessed his interest in Harry. And Salazar, isn’t that just a thought? Here Harry is in some obscure muggle town in America and he still manages to get himself wrapped up in some idiotic shit. Merlin forbid he have a simple life for once. 

No, now he’s stuck here with a half-muggle vampire with a crush. Harry’s not above admitting that he also has some interest in Edward, but it’s more of a passing fancy. Just a slight interest in the man since he’s adamant on sticking around all the time. Literally. He sits beside Harry in four different classes and as close as he can get in the rest of the ones they have together. They hadn’t even shared a class when Harry first started at Forks High School, not until Edward went all creeper-6000 and decided to transfer classes. He’s not great at acting human, Harry’s decided. 

He doesn’t want to keep Bella waiting for him, and he’s sick of his thoughts constantly straying to Edward every time he has a free brain cell, so he scuffs out his cigarette and gestures to the diner. 

“You wanna go in?”

Bella agrees and they head inside, finding themselves seated in the “best seat in the house” thanks to the waitress recognising Bella and adamantly forcing them to take it “for Charlie”. Harry is used to people forcing him to take their upgrades and their best seats and free products when he goes out, but Bella seems rather put out by the whole thing even though it’s just a corner seat by the window of a small diner. Bella would likely lose her mind if she was ever offered some of the freebies Harry has been. 

“I didn’t realise you were so famous here,” Harry teases her as they sit down. “Forks’ first A-lister.”

“Shut up, please,” Bella groans. Her voice drops to a whisper as she continues, leaning across the table to share her most sordid opinion. “It’s horrible. I swear all these people know me from childhood and I can’t remember anyone. The first time Charlie took me here, there was even some guy telling me he’d played Santa and I’d sat on his lap!” She finishes with a horrified glance around her as if making sure no one heard. 

Harry busts out laughing, taking a whole minute to pull himself together and wiping at the tears escaping. Bella tries to keep a poker face at his laughter, but ends up cracking a smile. 

“Isn’t that nice?” Harry manages between a few rogue chuckles. “They obviously really care about Charlie.”

“Either that or they’re just bored. Nothing ever happens in this town,” Bella says with a frown down at the menu. 

“Don’t be so sure about that, missy,” an older man says from the booth behind Bella, startling her. 

She flushes a deep red and drops her head, letting her brown hair cascade around her face in a protective barrier. 

“What? Something’s happened?” Harry asks, shuffling to the side slightly so he can see the back of the old man’s head. 

His table is packed with four older men, each looking as if they’ve just come in from a long day out fishing. They have some ugly muggle fishing caps Harry has seen Arthur Weasley sporting before, and vests with fishing lures dangling off the pockets that he decides will make a perfect Christmas gift for Arthur. As long as he can remember it by then. Maybe he’ll pick one up and have Kreacher store it somewhere just to make sure. 

“Been a few killed in Seattle,” one of them explains. “Some kind of animal.”

“Whatever it is, they said it was moving east,” the original man says, not even bothering to turn his head. “But they just found Waylon dead down at the port tonight.”

“Alright guys, that’s enough,” the waitress says as she pulls up, tapping one of the men on the shoulder. “No need to get the youngin’s all scared.” She shuffles over to Harry and Bella’s table, pulling out her notepad. “What’ll it be?” 

Harry copies Bella’s order—a veggie burger with a chocolate milkshake, which he wouldn’t have copied if he was in the right state of mind, but he was a little preoccupied thinking over what the men had said. He had been aware of the killings in Seattle, at least he had read about them in the muggle newspaper he buys at the supermarket and he had seen a couple of news reports on them during his more recent trip to Seattle. However he’d also assumed they were rather standard in the sense that a couple of random deaths-by-animal seemed really not that big of a deal to a city as large as Seattle. Especially one with such dangerous animals nearby in their numerous woodlands and parks. 

It seems, though, that these deaths aren’t normal and the locals are not considering them so. Even worse, someone from Forks has now been killed. Forks. Where Harry is meant to be hiding out, being inconspicuous and whatnot. Which he can hardly do if there’s suddenly people dying mysteriously. Plus, the ex-auror in him is very aware that he’s the most recent newcomer in Forks who has been to Seattle numerous times, and he’s likely been captured on some form of CCTV in his brief jaunts to the big city. 

“So, what’s going on with you and Edward?” Bella asks, disrupting Harry’s ruminating. 

He drags his thoughts back from mauled bodies, and his eyes away from the Spartan players passing a football between each other in the carpark.

“Nothing.” 

Harry flinches. He already knows that’s the wrong response—a guilty response, of someone who definitely has something to hide. Bella raises an eyebrow at him. 

“He sits next to you in every class.”

“Not every class—” Harry begins to argue. 

“You left school with him the other day. Didn’t even take your bike.” 

“It was out of fuel—”

“Please!” Bella groans. “At least come up with a better reason than that.”

Harry crosses his arms and sits back, huffing a little. “I’m allowed to be truant with others.”

“Still doesn’t explain why he’s suddenly in every class with you.”

“You’d have to ask him why.”

Bella narrows her eyes at him. “Are you guys…dating?”

“What?!” Harry splutters, feeling his face heat up. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “It seems like you could be. I mean, he’s always around now and—”

“No! We are not dating.” Harry flops back in the bench seat and feels his body quiver with the desire to turn into goop and crawl away from this conversation. 

“I mean, it’s fine if you are, I was just won—”

“We’re not!” Harry insists just as the waitress returns with their food. 

She plops the two plates down in front of them and hurries off for the milkshakes. When she’s back, she hesitates slightly before leaving. 

“You should probably check up on your dad,” she says to Bella softly. “Waylon was a good friend of his. They worked at the department together.”

Bella nods her head slowly and thanks the waitress. They fall into silence as she leaves and Harry awkwardly squirts some tomato sauce on his plate. The veggie burger looks rather dry, so he squirts some on that too, hoping the extra lubricant will help him choke down the sad-looking patty. 

The bell above the door dings as a group of young teenagers walk in, their hair long down their backs and skin dark even though the sun never shines. Harry’s magic flares within him and stretches out, feeling over the young members of the Quiluete tribe. None of them are half-muggle wolves. Not yet, anyway. Harry can feel the nature magic brimming under their skin waiting for its moment to burst forth in a flurry of fur and claws and canines. 

Bella slowly stirs her milkshake as she thinks, lips pursed just like Hermione does and her eyes glaring at her untouched burger. Harry takes a big bite of his own and realises that it actually tastes pretty good, even if it looks like dried goo from a Bubotuber. 

“Bella, hey! Oh, you must be James,” One of the young teens says, stopping next to their table. 

Harry looks up, chewing his burger and eyes the kid with a blinding smile. He’s flanked either side by two other teenagers, reminding him of Draco with his goons Goyle and Crabbe, if Draco were cuter, less pointy, and more tanned, and if Crabbe and Goyle were skinnier and wore muggle skater clothes. 

“Unfortunately, you’ve got the wrong bloke,” Harry drawls in response, putting his burger down and dipping a chip in some sauce. 

“Jake?” Bella asks.  

The teenager just laughs at Harry, shaking his head, and turns to Bella. 

“What’s up Bells? How you been?” 

“Yeah, I’m good. What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t come to town often.”

One of his friends snort. “Yeah, we don’t.”

“Oh, shut up, Quil. I came in with Dad to pick up some parts for the truck. These two idiots just decided to tag along.”

Harry munches on his chips as he listens. He doesn’t know who this Jake is, but he has his suspicions simply based on the cut of his nose and his friendship with Bella. 

“How do you know James?” Bella asks, shuffling down the bench seat so Jake can sit. 

Harry shuffles over too with perhaps a slight sigh. He might’ve preferred if the teenagers didn’t sit with them, but he doesn’t have much of a reason to kick them away apart from the fact that he’s already at his socialising limit just with Bella. The other two squeeze in beside Harry and he grumbles internally that Bella gets to share her seat with only one person, not two others. 

“Dad mentioned him!” Jake says happily, flashing Harry a big smile. “They met recently when James came to the reservation.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Bella looks to Harry. “Did you get your lost item from Sam?” 

Harry nods and glances slightly at Jacob, his suspicions now confirmed that he is, in fact, Billy Black’s son. A Black. 

“Yes, and I met a few people too. Billy was really nice. I haven’t met Jacob yet though.” Harry nods in his direction. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, holding eye contact with Jacob in a way he hopes screams ‘don’t say anything you shouldn’t’. 

“You too man! Dad talked about you so much. He’s glad you moved to Forks.”

Bella and the other two teenagers frown slightly, each looking confused. Harry fights the urge to kick Jacob from under the table for being a dunderhead, a complete and utter bumbling buffoon with less brain cells than a flubberworm. 

“Why?” One of Jacob’s friends asks and Harry decides this is Jacob’s problem to solve, not his, and focusses on taking a long drink of his milkshake, sucking hard on the straw with narrowed eyes glaring at Jacob. 

“Uh…” Jacob trails off. “Cause we’re related?”

Harry coughs, smacking his chest as he darts a glare to Jacob and wonders if he should just obliviate the table. He was under the impression Billy was going to tell Jacob about him and, well, perhaps also about the fact that such information should be private. Not announced to random muggles. 

“Whoa,” one of the teens says, glancing at Harry with a new-found look of appreciation on his face. “Sick. What’re you guys, cousins?”

“Dude, you’re related to the British guy?” The other asks Jacob. 

Bella just looks on with a confused face, her mouth slightly open. 

“While I wasn’t going to be sharing this to the whole world,” Harry says with a pointed look at Jacob, who flinches slightly and slinks down in his chair with a wounded-dog (wounded-wolf?) expression. “My godfather was distantly related to the Blacks. I suppose that’s why I chose to move here.”

“That’s cool,” Bella says, pulling herself together. “So you moved here for family.”

“I guess so.” Harry shrugs. “I wasn’t expecting much of a relationship, but it was enough reason to choose Forks.”

“Oh dude, you don’t have to worry about that! Dad’s so happy to have you in town. He already talks about inviting you over for the tribe Sunday barbeques.”

Harry smiles softly at his plate of food, thinking back to all the Sunday roast dinners he slipped out on at the Burrow. Sometimes because he was drunk, sometimes because he was dead. Sometimes simply because he couldn’t work himself up to lying to his family again, to turn up glamoured and aged, to pretend he isn’t hyper-aware of everyone around him moving forward in life. 

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to come visit,” Jacob continues, snatching a chip from Bella’s plate, poking his tongue out at her when her hand was too slow to block him. “Dad said I should come introduce myself, so it’s good I ran into you here.”

Harry had given the Blacks free range of their ancestral home, so he supposes it is a little odd Jacob hasn’t visited yet. Especially after learning about werewolves and wizards alongside his random new British semi-related family member. 

“Well, you’re more than welcome to come and visit me with your dad at any time,” Harry says, watching the energetic teen try to steal more chips from Bella’s plate and realising he’s got a dangerous soft spot for talkative kids with high energy. Jacob reminds him of Ron, that first time they met on the trains. He too was all smiles and shiny eyes and long-winded stories. 

“Thanks, man! You should come visit us on the Rez some time. Dad’ll love it.”

“Oh, we’re going tomorrow actually,” Bella says. “To La Push.”

“We are?” Harry asks, chip halfway to his mouth and an eyebrow raised. 

Bella side eyes him slightly. “Yes. We are. You agreed to go yesterday when Jessica asked you!” Bella’s eyes bore into him with an unspoken accusation, likely that if Harry were more present at their lunches recently he would remember agreeing to some horrendous weekend plan. 

“What the fuck is La Push?”

“It’s a beach, man,” Jacob’s friend says, stealing a chip from Harry’s plate like they, too, are close friends. 

Harry grimaces at the thought of going to the beach. First of all, Forks is not exactly beach-weather ideal. It feels ridiculous to consider going to a beach when it’s overcast and gloomy outside. Surely the beach itself wouldn’t even have nice surf. The water would probably look as dark and uninviting as the Black Lake at Hogwarts—which he doesn’t want to swim in ever again, thank you very much. 

“You should ask Edward to come,” Bella says, between bites of her burger. “He told Jessica it was too crowded there, so he wouldn’t go. He’d probably say yes if you asked him though.”

Too crowded sounds like the perfect excuse to Harry. Why wasn’t he paying more attention at lunch yesterday? He should have used Edward’s excuse to get out of it as well. 

“Edward Cullen?” One of the Quiluete boys snorts and shakes his head when Bella nods. “The Cullens don’t come to the Rez.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, cocking her head. 

Harry kicks Jacob’s shin and raises his eyebrows at the teenager, mentally asking him what the hell his friend’s problem is. Jacob jumps at the kick and bumps Bella’s elbow, apologising to her and asking her how the plant burger tastes in a rather smooth attempt at a diversion. Harry was under the impression that most kids at the reservation didn’t believe in the stories of the Quiluete tribe—though Jacob’s friend certaintly sounds like he does. Jacob’s attempt at diversion is unsuccessful on Bella, who repeats her question to Jacob instead, her eyes slightly narrowed. 

“Oh, Jacob! Look. I think I see Billy waving for you guys,” Harry says, gesturing blandly out the window. 

“Oh yeah! He is. Sorry, Bella, we gotta go!” Jacob says, cutting off Bella’s third attempt at asking what he meant.  

“What? Where is he?” Bella asks, squinting out the window and trying to see between the cars to across the street. 

“He’s gone back in the store now,” Harry lies smoothly, shoving Jacob’s two friends off his bench seat. He glares at them slightly as they grumble to each other about not even getting to order. 

“See you guys later!” Jacob calls, pushing his two friends for the door hastily. 

Once they’ve left, Bella picks her burger back up and looks at Harry over it with a confused face. 

“That was weird.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “So, out of ten, rate the burger?” He hedges, hoping she’ll allow the conversation change.

She narrows her eyes at him but gracefully accepts, starting in to her rather in-depth burger review. 

Chapter Text

Edward sits at the piano, his fingers flying across the keys, creating a discordant echo through the house. Jasper burrows himself into Edward’s emotions, into the confusion and despair and wonder, deep into the unnameable anxieties and worries pulsing through him. He doesn’t know how to help his brother, but there is someone he thinks might understand. 

“Esme?” Jasper asks, knocking on her bedroom door. 

She opens it instantly, face lighting up at the sight of him. Her desk is littered with embroidery goods and several handkerchiefs she’s no doubt embroidered a complex design onto. 

“Jasper! Is everything okay?” 

He feels her worry, and is sad that such a small thing as a visit from him is cause for concern. He makes a mental note to visit her more. To perhaps engage in some conversations together more often. They might not be as close as she is with their other coven members, but he knows that she wishes they were. It’s his fault they’re not. He’s too aloof—not prepared to open his heart to the love she holds deep inside. Not prepared to feel that love directed at him, received by him. The love of a mother, so very different to the love he holds for Alice and the love he receives from her. Esme’s love reminds him of what he lost in his human life. His family, who he went to war to protect, and who he ultimately lost because of that decision. 

“I’m worried,” he whispers softly, keeping his voice low enough to be hidden by the ringing of the piano. 

“Edward?” She breathes back. 

And, of course, she already knows. She is also worried. Edward’s songs are always so obvious, so clearly telling the listener how he feels. With such an erratic song playing, it’s no wonder she already knows. 

“He feels like you do, in March.” He doesn’t need to specify the date. Esme understands. 

She nods her head and takes Jasper’s hand, giving it a squeeze in an action so human it makes him uncomfortable. 

“Thank you, Jasper. I will check on him.” 

She hurries off, leaving Jasper to shuffle his way back downstairs. On the way, he decides instead to go to Alice, who waits for him on the couch in their room. She pats the cushion and he joins her, curling around her and clutching her tightly. She brushes his hair back and whispers in his ear soft words of adoration that match the emotions radiating from her. 

—-

I wonder what has him feeling this way, Esme thinks from behind Edward, where she stands to listen to him play. Probably because of the wizard, James. 

She is correct. Edward is feeling how he does because of the wizard, Harry. Because everything he thought he understood about the world has once again been flipped on its axis and he has no way to ground himself any more. First, magic. Now, death. More specifically, Harry’s death. One Edward is adamant transpired. Yet, he cannot prove definitively that it did—because Harry lives. There may have been death and destruction scented in that shabby motel room, but Harry was there, heart beating, lungs inflating, magic attacking. Alive. 

“Edward,” Esme says softly, sitting on the bench beside him. “What is it?” 

His hands freeze on the keys, locked into place as the piano drones through the house. Her small hands reach out and gently brush his fingers from the keys and he releases the sustain pedal, cutting the sound. He takes a moment to collect himself. 

“Why did you attempt suicide?” He asks her, looking down at his fingers. 

Please, not my Edward. He has been so alive lately, so blessed. Surely he’s not—

“I’m not,” he cuts her thoughts off. “He is.”

“Oh,” she says. “James?”

Edward nods. “I think…” he shakes his head. “I’m not sure, any more.”

Edward has considered suicide before, of course. He’s lived for too long in this wretched body to have not. He has attempted it, too, although only in rather cowardly ways that were unlikely to succeed. If he truly wanted to kill himself, he would simply reveal himself to humans. The Volturi would make quick work of him then. Perhaps. 

But Edward never considered suicide whilst human. Even now, the thought of killing himself as a human is a rather unfathomable concept. He supposes Harry might not be considered a human, since he’s a wizard. Maybe it’s commonplace for wizards to kill themselves and come back. To die, yet to live. He doesn’t truly think so, but it’s a possibility, in a world he no longer understands. 

Human lives are so short-lived that he cannot understand simply ending it, rather than living it in full. Ones perception of time does warp after living for so long, and Edward himself has only just begun to feel those effects in full during the last couple of decades. He understands the passing of time differently to humans now and his appreciation for days, weeks, months has lessened with each passing year. Humans, however, count their lives in the passings of hours, in the completion of a day. They schedule their lives to the minute and some even consider the wastage of a day as unforgivable. To snuff out a life so short, Edward cannot understand. 

But Harry did—or at least Edward thinks he did. And Esme has, too. She has decided as a human to end her life and thrown herself from a cliff, only being changed by Carlisle due to pure luck—because her heart kept beating, long after it should have stopped. Long after she was dragged to the morgue and declared dead, unable to be healed.  

“Humans attempt suicide for many reasons,” Esme says softly, looking over the piano and out the windows at the trees shuffling in the breeze. At the light fog rolling between their mossy branches in the darkness. “Not all of them make sense.”

Edward doesn’t even know why he feels so rattled by the idea—especially not if it’s not permanent for Harry. But that thought is almost more upsetting. Edward knows what it’s like to want to die and to be unable to do so. How suffocating such a life is, to find yourself alive even after an attempt. What Edward can’t understand is the desire to die when your life is already so short, so fleeting. Impermanent or not. 

“You cannot truly know why until he tells you,” Esme says, putting her own hands on the piano keys and beginning to play a soft song. 

One Edward wrote for her many, many years before, when she had been in her own depressive state. It had been the first year they’d lived together. Edward, Carlisle, and herself. And Edward didn’t know how to react when she’d suddenly retreated into herself, into the human memories of her son and the short two days she’d had with him before she jumped. He hadn’t known what to do, so he’d wrote her this song. Played it softly through the house that day, multiple times, and again every year since. 

He joins her playing, rounding out the notes with the other half of the piano keys. He’s much better at playing than her. He’s spent many more hours practicing, years accumulated of practice. But when they play together, specifically Esme’s song, Edward feels a calmness overtake him. 

“So I should just leave him be?” Edward asks her. 

“No. Don’t leave him be,” she replies, the song still playing between them. “Support him. Show him that there is much more worth living for than dying for.”

Edward is unsure if he’s the person best suited to share the benefits of living. He’s spent the last few decades of his existence in a rather apathetic mood, feeling each day is a monotonous slog he must wade through. How can he then hypocritically try to convince Harry that he should live? Edward can’t even be sure that’s what he should be doing—considering Harry somehow is still alive. 

Maybe there is a spell that emulates death. Like drugs that slow someone’s heart rate down until they are almost perceived as dead, perhaps wizards have something similar too, and Harry simply used the spell. Why, he cannot begin to understand. But there’s a possibility. In fact, there are many possibilities, past the fact that Harry died and lived. 

Still, no matter what truly happened in that motel room, Edward knows two things for sure. One, is that Harry genuinely does consider suicide more than a healthy amount, as demonstrated by the numerous visions Alice has had of his array of possible suicides. And the second—

“He doesn’t really like coffee,” Edward says to Esme as they finish out her song. “He prefers tea.”

“Oh!” Esme beams at him and claps her hands together. “Of course! I’ll have to make sure we have some for when he visits.”

When he visits. Edward enjoys how positive Esme is that Harry would ever like to step foot in their house again, treaty or no treaty. He may have agreed to spend time with the Cullens because of Carlisle’s request, but Edward isn’t convinced Harry actually will. Not until Alice has a vision of him doing so, anyway 

“Do you know what kind of tea?” She asks. 

“Strong black tea, with honey and milk. I don’t know what kind.”

Esme stands up and pats his shoulder as she leaves. I’ll just buy every kind I can, she thinks as she heads to Carlisle’s office to use his computer to research and order some tea. Edward sighs and leaves too, deciding to retire in his room. He is just dropping the needle on a record when his phone buzzes. 

“Carlisle,” he answers, stopping the record before it begins to sound. “What is it?” 

Edward is instantly on high-alert when Carlisle calls. He rarely calls for no reason, especially not when he’s due to be home from the hospital shortly. Most of the time he would wait until he’s driven home to tell them something—unless it’s important. Unless it’s something that could impact the coven. 

“There’s been a murder. Waylon Forge down at the port. I need you and Jasper to come down to the port and try to trace the scent.”

“One of us, then?” Edward asks, running from his room to the living room, where the family has already congregated because of Alice and their ability to hear the phone call through the entire house. 

“More than. At least two, possibly three,” Carlisle replies. 

“The rogues from Seattle?” Emmett asks as Edward puts the phone on loudspeaker. “We did say it was likely a couple or a group behind all those killings.”

“I can’t tell for sure. Emmett, Rosalie, why don’t you two head to Seattle tonight. Track down the last few locations and see if you can spot anything,” Carlisle adds. “Whatever you do—all of you—do not engage if you find them. We want to talk with them first. Try for a peaceful resolution.”

“What about us?” Esme asks, gesturing to Alice and herself. 

“Esme, I need you to collect all the articles of the recent killings and find the locations to share with Rosalie and Emmett. Alice, I need you to check if there’s any unusual futures for us—perhaps you’ll be able to see us crossing paths.”

They all agree and Carlisle says a rushed goodbye, hanging up just as emergency sirens can be heard in the background. 

“It’s unlikely they’ll be willing to talk,” Rosalie says. “They’re obviously not worried about being noticed.”

“But why Forks?” Jasper questions. “If they’ve left Seattle, they should’ve headed inland. There’s nothing else out here.”

“They could be detouring,” Edward suggests. “Feeding before they journey north to Vancouver.”

“Why not go straight north though? They could’ve stopped at Everett or Bellingham, why go west?” Jasper continues.

“Too much heat?” Emmett says, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “They got a lot of attention in Seattle. They could have headed east and looped around to lose the trail.”

“Let’s figure that out later,” Rosalie cuts in. “We have to leave soon if we want to get enough time in Seattle. There’s only eight hours until daybreak.”

They split up—Esme heads back to Carlisle’s office, not to research tea, but to begin wading through the articles they’ve been collecting over the last couple of months of all the unusual deaths in Seattle and it’s surrounds. All those odd killings by wild animals that the humans have been reporting on. Alice joins her, but she sits on the couch and closes her eyes with paper and graphite in front of her, ready to scratch out any images she might see. 

The rest head to the garage. Rosalie and Emmett hop in their most inconspicuous car, a family sedan with tinted windows and Seattle plates. They don’t bother waiting, Rosalie peeling the car out of the garage and speeding down the driveway with her lead foot. 

 “We’ll have to start doing patrols again,” Jasper says, looking at Edward as they run from the garage. “Make sure they’re not getting too close.”

“We need to tell the wolves. They might find them first,” Edward replies.

They should even tell Harry. Edward can visit him and explain what’s happening. It’s an excuse to visit Harry, yes, but it is something that they’ll need to do anyway. He’s lucky that tomorrow is Friday, because with all the events tonight, he’s unlikely to attend school tomorrow, and he can use the absence as a reason to visit Harry’s house again. 

They arrive at the port within minutes, sticking to the darkness of the forest to scout out the area. It’s still bustling with police. Detectives and forensics from Seattle shuffle through the area taking photos and marking spots of interest. Chief Swan is debriefing with them, explaining why Waylon was at the port and other details the detectives ask for. 

“Not good,” Jasper whispers, even though the humans couldn’t hear them from so far. “They’ve already connected it to Seattle.”

“They’re already up to ten—if they keep going, the Volturi will step in.” 

The last thing Edward wants is for the Volturi to visit. Just being close to Aro disgusts him, because this thoughts are like slime crawling along Edward’s body each time Aro thinks about him or Alice. But he has another reason to never want Aro in Forks. Harry. There’s no guarantee that the Volturi would notice Harry if they came to Forks, but there is also no guarantee that they wouldn’t. It’s a risk Edward doesn’t want to take. Secret society of wizards and their laws on secrets notwithstanding, Edward doesn’t believe that the Volturi would be able to leave wizards be should they learn of their existence. Not just Harry, perhaps his whole kind would be endangered by Aro and his collection of abilities, the army of vampires he controls. 

Jasper and Edward wait out the police, eavesdropping for whatever information the humans find before they disperse for the night, taping the area off with flimsy crime scene tape that wouldn’t hold back an interested human, let alone two vampires. They duck beneath the tape and begin searching. It doesn’t help that there have been dozens of humans in the area since Waylon’s death, so the scent of the vampires is thin and barely traceable. Still, they manage to find it, mostly due to Jasper’s experience in hunting their own kind. 

They scent three, but they split off about four miles into the forest. Two heading towards town and the other heading out of town, in a direction that leaves Edward’s heart plummeting. He veers off to follow the lone scent, Jasper trailing behind him without a word. He doesn’t need to say anything because Jasper already knows. He can feel it in Edward. And he can read it in Jasper’s mind—the fear and worry pulsing through him for Harry. 

His worries seem founded, when he finds himself at the edge of the border to Harry’s house, more to the back of the property where Edward hasn’t explored much. The scent of the vampire congregates there and then trails off again, before coming back to the border. He’s obviously found himself trapped in Harry’s magic—yet also figured out enough to return to the border. Multiple times. 

“I’ll go explain what we found to the others,” Jasper says, patting Edward’s should softly. “You should meet with Carlisle and explain the situation to James.”

Edward nods numbly, sprinting away from Harry’s house with a fire across his skin and rage boiling in his guts. Whoever they are, he won’t let them touch Harry. Not when he’s just managed to get close to him, just found his way into Harry’s life in more ways than only being the annoying vampire at his high school. Edward means something to Harry now, he knows he does. Harry told him his name. A name he’s changed to hide from everyone, in his words, and he’s even shown Edward glimpses into his life with the photos on his bookshelf and the magical items beside them. Edward refuses to believe he doesn’t mean anything to Harry, because to do so would be crushing his own heart. 

 Instead, he resolves to protect Harry, even if it means he has to kill for him. Edward has been prepared to kill for his family before. He even considered killing Harry originally, since he thought it was what needed to be done to ensure his family’s survival. Hell, Edward has killed to protect his family before. 

And he will do it again. 

He will find this rogue vampire and kill them. He will rip them apart and burn the pieces before he would let Harry get hurt. Because as much as Edward once tried to deny it, Harry has already become a part of him, a part of his family. Harry has burrowed himself into Edward’s heart and mind. Edward would have to be dust before he would let Harry be hurt, especially hurt by one of his kind. 

Chapter Text

The Cullens aren’t at school on Friday. It shouldn’t bother Harry as much as it does, especially when it means he gets a whole day without his stalker Edward following him through the hallways. But it does bother him.   

It reminds him of the itch he used to get when Draco wasn’t where he should be. When Draco would be doing something suspicious and no one else but Harry seemed to notice it. That same itch bothers him now as he sits in his last class of the day, pen tapping on paper and eyes glued to the second-hand ticking around the clock.   

It’s not that he’s worried about them, of course. Or about Edward. It’s just unusual, is all. Today is a gloomy and rainy day, overcast completely without even the threat of a hint of sunshine managing to cut through the cloud bank. So, why are the Cullens absent? It seems almost counterintuitive for Harry to be worrying about the vampire he had only weeks ago wished would leave him alone.   

It doesn’t help that he’s been on edge the entire day. His skin crawling with the undeniable feeling of eyes locked onto him, watching. More than once, he’s looked out the windows and been positive he’s locked eyes with the person watching him, only he can’t see them through the trees line. He just knows they’re there, waiting. Harry isn’t dumb. He’s been wanted too many times in his life to not notice when someone is tracking his movements. Perhaps that’s why he’s so worried—no, not worried, just slightly concerned—about the Cullens being absent.   

The bell finally rings and Harry rushes from the classroom, leaving behind Mike and Angela, who calls out asking if he’s okay as Harry darts into the hall. He feels a little bad for leaving Angela in the dust. He doesn’t feel bad about Mike, though. He’s been annoying Harry all week with his snide comments when Edward sits with them at lunch, and his glares at Harry whenever Bella sits next to him. Merlin, Mike has annoyed him all month really.   

Harry is one of the first students to the carpark. His plan is to travel home and ditch the bike then begin tracking down whoever it is watching him. It could be someone wanting to test out their magic on him—there has been more than a few budding Dark Lord wannabes in the time since Voldemort's death, each wanting to prove their worth against the Man-Who-Vanquished. It could be an avid fan who has tried to track him down. Hermione will be devastated someone has already managed to find him. She worked so hard on the Timeline after all, not to mention the charms and wards she created to hide him. Maybe it was simply a wizard from nearby, Seattle perhaps, and they’d visited Forks and picked up on his magical signature.   

In the carpark, however, Edward waits for him, leaning against Harry’s motorbike in a casual, human way that Harry knows to be posed. He’s wearing an expensive and soft navy quarter zip sweater that fits tightly on his chest and arms. It’s much nicer than anything Harry would ever buy for himself. Even Edward's dark wash jeans look horribly good, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Harry scowls at him as he stomps up.   

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, brushing Edward aside and looping his leg over the bike.   

“Hello to you too,” Edward says, bending down slightly and leaning closer, one hand braced on the handlebars of his motorbike. “ Harry ,” he whispers, so low Harry barely picks it up over the sound of the students filling he carpark.   

If he could, Harry would be scowling harder. As it is, his face already feels halfway to the ground with the amount he’s frowning. He fights the urge to slap Edward’s arm away. Luckily, Edward removes it himself and leans back, eyes darting to the trees behind Harry where a thin strip of grass blends into the forest.   

Oh.  

So, not a wizard.   

Harry feels a bit of the stress on his shoulders shift away and the ball on his chest, the feeling of possibly letting his friends down and stuffing up their whole plan within just weeks, slowly lifts. Harry shoves his backpack at Edward’s chest, who grabs it instinctually, long, pale fingers latching around the black canvas. He looks down at it and back up, face questioning.   

“Get on,” Harry says, jerking his head over his shoulder a bit. Edward’s eyes light up and he shifts the bag onto his own back and swings his leg over the motorbike, shuffling into place awkwardly behind Harry.   

He considers telling the vampire to hold on but decides that if Edward lets himself fall off even with his vampire abilities, then he deserves all damage he might endure. Harry pulls his helmet on, slamming the visor down and starting his bike, revving the engine slightly. They take off at a reasonable speed, winding through the carpark and past all the interested eyes of their school mates. It’s only when Harry turns onto the main road and floors it that Edward’s chilled hands curl around his waist and hold on lightly, fingers curled into the thin and worn-out material of Harry’s black shirt. He should have zipped his leather jacket up, so then he wouldn’t have to feel it.   

Part of Harry feels as though Edward’s only holding on for the chance to touch him, and not because he needs to do so. Still, he allows it, and leans himself further forward, flattening down against the bike as they pick up speed. Edward copies him and Harry’s mind wanders a little at the feel of the vampire pressed up against him, of his cold chest and rock-like arms. It shouldn’t be comforting. It should be rather chilly. Instead, Harry feels safe and warm and protected.   

He hates it.   

He speeds up, but he can’t escape that feeling. Nor can he escape the being that follows them. He thinks he spots them at times in his peripheral vision, a someone darting in the trees. But he can never be too sure with the speed they’re travelling and his inability to look away from the road. He might not be able to die, but he doesn’t want to risk accidentally doing so and having to explain to Edward why he’s come back.   

Edward is stiff the entire drive. Harry can’t even be sure the vampire is breathing. When he turns down the small road leading to his home, Edward’s grip loosens and he relaxes, leaning back. They cross through the wards and ride for another couple of minutes until they make it to the clearing where the cabin sits. Edward slides from the motorbike as soon as it parks and looks around, eyes narrowed and nose flaring.   

“You know they can’t enter,” Harry says as he pulls the helmet off, his hair popping out and fuzzing in different directions. Edward snaps his head back to Harry quickly.   

“You know?”  

Harry shrugs. “I mean, I knew someone was watching me today. It wasn’t until you were there that I realised they weren’t a wizard.” He slides from the bike and dangles the helmet from the handlebars. “So? Who are they?”  

“We don’t know yet.” Edward follows Harry up the steps to his house, slipping the backpack off but not offering it to Harry. “We’ve been tracking them. I came to warn you,” Edward says, placing a hand on the door just as Harry goes to open it. He waits until Harry looks up at him before continuing. “One of them has been here. To your property wall. A few times.”  

Harry uses all his willpower to pull himself from the depths of Edward’s eyes.   

“I see.” He nods. “They can’t enter, though.”  

“Are you sure?” Edward questions, lifting his hand off the door and letting Harry finally open it. “There’s really no way they can break in?”  

“I’m sure. Even those with magic would struggle.”  

Maybe only Dumbledore would have been able to enter, and even for him it would be a task. He’d likely only be unable to do so because of his aversion to dark magic. If he even knew the correct dark spells to use, it would still take him days or weeks to break the wards down enough to breach, and with Harry’s meticulous maintenance of the wards each morning, there’s no way he wouldn’t notice the casual depletion of their efficacy.   

“Master,” Kreacher says, popping into existence at the base of the stairs. “Welcome home.”   

“Hey, Kreacher.”  

Kreacher eyes off Edward and gives a slight bow, holding eye contact, not once uttering a hello. It’s the biggest slight Harry has ever seen Kreacher give another—he was even more hospitable to Sirius back in the day than he is with Edward now. Edward seems to know that he’s being disrespected, too, because amusement flickers in his eyes and he nods his head.   

“Hello, Kreacher. Sorry for intruding.”  

“Kreacher shall make tea?” Kreacher asks Harry, refusing to acknowledge Edward’s greeting.   

“No, thank you,” Harry says. “I don’t want any.”  

Kreacher nods and disappears with a crack. Harry looks to Edward and sees him peeking through the window next to the door, his eyes narrowed in the distance.   

“You don’t have to worry so much,” Harry says, gently taking the bag from Edward’s hands and dumping it on the small bench in the entry way before leading him through to the kitchen.   

Edward’s expression tells Harry exactly what he thinks of that statement. It doesn’t last long, because Edward is distracted by looking around the house, eyes greedily landing on everything in sight. Grimmauld Place looks a lot different to how it was when it was home to the Order. Sometimes it still shocks Harry when he remembers how dark and gloomy it used to be, how the dark magic curled in its very foundations. It still does. Generations of dark magic can’t just be undone in a few months of renovations and, in an odd way, the magic calls to Harry now, feels like home and of Death itself. At least it’s not gloomy anymore. It doesn’t creak with emptiness and abandonment.   

The kitchen is bright with large windows and white panelled cupboards, contrasted with the dark floorboards consistent though the house and matching benchtops. Signs of Kreacher spatter the kitchen. A bowl of dough rising on the counter, covered in a red and gold tea towel. Freshly washed dishes dripping dry on the rack next to the large sinks. And a duster, flying around of its own accord cleaning the tops of the cupboards. Edward stares at it from the entryway to the kitchen, standing beneath the curved beams of the rounded archway that joins the kitchen and the hallway. Harry pulls out a mug and dumps a teabag in it, before turning to the stove and lighting it with a wave of his hand, placing a kettle on top of the flame.   

“I thought you didn’t want tea?” Edward questions, suddenly standing right beside Harry and not around the other side of the counter.   

“Merlin.” Harry jumps, clutching his chest. “Do you have to do that?”  

“Sorry.” At least he looks a little sheepish.   

“And I just say that, so Kreacher doesn’t make it. He acts like I’m incapable of doing anything for myself.”  

“Is he not here to serve you?” Edward asks curiously, moving away slightly when Harry bumps him with his elbow gently. “He calls you master.”  

“Ew, no.” Harry scrunches his nose. “Well, yes. And no. He’s a house elf. They’re usually bonded to magical properties, to wizarding bloodlines,” Harry explains, scooping up the sugar jar and spooning some into his mug as the water begins to slowly boil. “Kreacher served the Blacks, and this was their ancestral home.”  

“So, you inherited him?”   

“He’s not a thing ,” Harry snaps, glaring at Edward.   

“Obviously not. But you said—”  

“Yes, I inherited him.” Harry cuts him off and pulls the boiling kettle from the stove. “But I freed him. He chose to stay. House elves maintain their magic by drawing it from the house they serve. Plus, some other shite I forgot, but he’s paid rather handsomely now.”  

Edward plants himself in the stool across from Harry, who stirs his darkening tea with a frown on his face that deepens with every stir. Talking about Kreacher makes Harry think about Dobby, which makes him think about Dobby’s death, which makes him think about Dobby’s rather sad life and how he risked it all for just a couple of years of freedom.  

Without those years of freedom, Dobby would be alive. Without them, Harry and many others would not.   

“So—”  

“No more questions on Kreacher, please,” Harry says. “I’ve had enough.”  

Edward nods. He taps his fingers on the counter, as if the action could knock the questions back in his brain. Harry decides to distract him instead, pulling out a jar of blood pops and offering them. Edward’s face lights up and he inspects each one carefully, until finally deciding on one from a manticore. It must be delicious, because his eyes glow brighter than usual as he looks up at Harry, the stick poking from his teeth as he flashes a big smile, fangs and all. Harry only allows himself a small smile back   

“So, tell me about this vampire,” Harry says, sipping his own tea and walking around to settle next to Edward.   

“We don’t know much yet,” Edward replies around the blood pop rolling around his mouth. He hooks it into his cheek before speaking again. “They’ve been causing a few disturbances in Seattle and have since come to Forks.”  

“They killed that guy down at the port?”  

“Yes,” Edward says with a nod. “There are three of them—and one has been to the borders of your house several times.”  

Harry hums thoughtfully as he takes a sip of his tea. “So, they're aware of me then.”  

“Harry,” Edward whispers, his hand reaching out as if to touch him. “I want us to leave town.”  

“What?” Harry splutters, clattering his cup down on the counter. “Whatever for?”  

“It’s dangerous,” Edward pleads. “This vampire…he’s been here so many times and he’s following you at school. I could hear his thoughts, back at the school. He’s...obsessed. He’s trying to figure you out and I can’t protect you if—”  

Harry held up his hand. “I’ll stop you right there. I don’t need protecting.” And, frankly, Harry has had enough of being protected by others, shuttled away from danger and locked up until he decides to take matters into his own hands.   

“I know that you have magic, and you can protect yourself in some ways, but we are fast. Faster than you think.”  

Harry snorts. “I’ve fought vampires before, Edward.”  

“You have?”   

Edward looks a bit rattled at the prospect. Harry has even killed a few when it came down to it—to protect someone on his team, to stop the slaughter of innocent muggles. They are fast. But Harry doesn’t need to be faster than them, he just needs to be the first to act . Besides, spill a little blood and all vampires lose their ability to focus. Harry has more than enough blood to spare and spells, too, rather dark ones that can use that blood to cast magic.   

“Yes. Moreover, I don’t appreciate you thinking I need to be protected. I’ll be fine on my own.”  

“But our strength—”  

“Is nothing compared to a giant, or a troll.”  

Edward shakes his head disbelievingly. “But with speed and strength—”   

Harry leans forward, elder wand pressed into the soft underside of Edward’s chin, elbow resting on the counter.   

“With two words you could be dead. Hell, none, if I really wanted it,” Harry whispers. His magic oozes out, ready to strike. But it’s not his magic, not really. It’s Death. It’s the dark, cloying thickness buried in the hole in his chest. It’s the shadows that shroud Death, the constellations that form its many faces. “More than death, I could simply control you. Turn you into a puppet for my bidding, make you attack for me. Speed and strength won’t matter in a fight against your own now, would they?”  

Edward’s eyes are wide, locked onto Harry’s, his chest unmoving. Harry feels him at the edge of his mind pushing at the barriers of his occlumency.   

“Or I could make you feel pain. Leave you wallowing in it until your fingers shake from nerve damage and your brain shatters under the stress,” Harry continues, dragging his wand slightly, watching as the tip doesn’t indent Edward’s ice skin. “I could burn you alive or drown you in blood. It would take very little effort at all.”  

Harry leans back, letting the wand disappear and picking his tea back up.   

“I won’t be going anywhere.” He takes a sip, watching as Edward’s shaky hand comes up to his chin, drags along the skin where his wand touched. “If you’d like some help with your vampire problem, you may ask.” He puts his cup down and stands up. “Kreacher.”  

He appears with a crack and the sound startles Edward from his frozen reverie.   

“Master,” Kreacher says softly, not bothering to look at Edward.   

“Please escort Edward to the edge of the wards.”  

“Certainly.”  

Edward opens his mouth to speak but Kreacher grabs his arm and disapparates them. Within seconds, Kreacher is back, his large eyes watching Harry carefully as he rinses his cup.   

“Master be fighting the vampires?”  

“No,” He replies softly. “Be careful though, Kreacher. It seems there’s been a rogue at our wards.”  

Kreacher nods, his ears flopping down as he thinks.   

“I shall ask the mistress—she has many wards to curse detestable magical creatures.”  

“They’re not magic, Kreacher.”  

“Alls are magic, Master,” Kreacher says conspiratorially as he slinks from the room, no doubt heading for the dungeons.   

Harry lets out a sigh and decides to go to the training room. If there is a vampire after him, it wouldn’t hurt to keep his senses alive with some training. It helps that he has a healthy simmering rage under his skin, all for the nonce Edward’s gall to ask Harry to run from town with him. Like a damsel in distress. Someone weak to be protected. As if Harry hasn’t protected himself for the last 26 years. Which, with hindsight, perhaps he didn’t do a very good job considering the number of times he’s died—those that weren’t on purpose, at least. But his point still stands. That Edward is crazy if he thinks Harry would ever agree to running from danger to hide out together. Maybe this just comes down to the fact Edward doesn’t know Harry very well. He did complain about that, after all.  

Harry can’t help if he’s a secretive person. He’s got a lot of secrets he can’t risk getting out. It’s nice, too, to not be known by everyone. To finally be more in the loop about himself than the people around him. He’s always been the last to know about everything that impacted him, about his entire life and existence really. Now his information is purely his own. Just because Edward wants it doesn’t mean Harry has to share it.   

So, Harry resolves to train more to keep his senses active, and to track this vampire down next time he visits the wards. He may as well. Even if he ends up being killed, he can use it as a learning moment and then freak the vampire out when he comes back.   

If he comes back.   

He’s never died to a vampire bite before. He imagines it would be like bleeding out, which he has done many times. But there’s the possibility there at least however miniscule, that Death might be fair for once. Harry’s always imagined that Death has left one way for him to die, if only he can find it. Death by vampire could be it.   

Harry practises his casting with a smile on his face, thinking that it might be worth his time letting this unknown vampire end him. Worst case scenario, he gets to rest. Best case scenario, he stays dead. It’s really a no-brainer. Even his anger at Edward leeches away with each spell and the thought of his perhaps imminent death.   

Chapter Text

La Push beach is somehow more depressing than Harry thought it could be.  

It feels like the Black Lake with its dark sandy shores and bottomless water. La Push churns foamy waves to the shore in overwhelming curls of dark grey that Harry steers clear from. It’s cold and windy and Harry wonders what cursed object convinced Jessica that today was a “good beach day”. He’s bundled up under a thick jacket and scarf.  

Harry’s not a fan of the cold. He never has been, really, since his clothes were always threadbare and his cupboard uninsulated. Hogwarts was always toasty—perhaps that’s why it felt like home from the first moment he stepped inside. Because in Harry’s mind, a home should be warm and comforting, something eleven-year-old Harry had rarely experienced. Hogwarts was just that. And more. It was warm because of the countless fires smouldering in the hearths, because of the thick tapestries lining the walls, and the plush carpet in their dorms. But it was also warm because of the magic that lives and breathes in its halls. Harry doesn’t mind the rain. He doesn’t mind the gloom. Both of those remind him of winters spent at Hogwarts, of sitting high in the quidditch stands, of looking out the windows during divination. But the cold, that Harry hates. 

And here he is, willingly subjecting himself to it, barely suppressing his shivers with surreptitiously placed, quarter-strength warming charms to keep his extremities from freezing off, and Angela’s pastel hand-knit beanie.  

“Thanks,” he says as she pulls it over his unruly curls. 

“You look like you need it more than me,” she replies with a laugh, flipping the blanket off her shoulders, revealing a blue and grey bodysuit. 

“I can’t believe you’re going in there. You’re insane.” He’d been insane once, too. Not by his own volition though. If it had been up to Harry, he’d never have dipped even a toe into that forsaken lake. Angela just laughs his comment off as she ties her hair up. 

“Will you zip me up?” Jessica asks, sidling up to Harry with a smile. She spins around, pulling her hair to the side to reveal a long stretch of her pale back.  

Harry gestures with his mitten-bound hands and raises an eyebrow at her. 

“Here, I can.” Bella slides Harry aside and zips up Jessica’s suit, tapping her on the shoulder when it’s done. Harry has to bite back a laugh at Jessica’s disappointed face as she trudges back to the other side of the car, where she grabs her towel and begins the trek down to the beach with Angela and Eric.  

Bella elbows Harry in the ribs. “Be nice,” she whispers. 

Harry shrugs and clambers back into the van owned by Tyler, a regular recruit at their lunch table whose name Harry has only remembered this week. Bella slides in next to him and they wait together for the group to finish getting ready, chatting idly about their disbelief that Forks people would surf in such conditions. 

“You’re telling me you London folk don’t swim?” Mike asks, poking his head over the backseat from the open boot of the van.  

“London doesn’t have beaches. Not really,” Harry says. He remembers how far they had to drive when Dudley decided he wanted to go to the beach for his birthday. The beach wasn’t worth the four-hour round trip mushed in the backseat next to Dudley. “Besides, my school was in Scotland.” 

“Scotland?” Mike asks in a half-whisper, turning his wide eyes to Tyler who simply shrugs. 

“Rich kids,” Tyler replies around a chunk of red liquorice. He steps onto the van and uses it to leverage himself up high enough to grab one of the boards strapped on top, sliding it off and passing it down to Mike. 

“Doesn’t Scotland have nice beaches?” Bella asks, chewing on her own piece of liquorice and offering some to Harry.  

Harry shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. We couldn’t leave school grounds during the term, and I just went home when it was the holidays.” He takes a piece and inspects it before taking a bite. He expected it to taste like the awful black stuff Petunia used to like, but it tastes rather alright. A little like raspberry.  

“So, a fancy boarding school in Scotland?” Bella’s eyes shine with the news and Harry realises that perhaps she’s more like Hermione than it may seem. She will pull on any thread until the entire jumper is unravelled.  

Harry decides not replying is the smartest option available to him. He could say something that makes her more suspicious or, worse, more interested. Harry rather likes Bella and doesn’t want to have to obliviate information from her mind because he said a little too much. It would be nice if they could maintain this status quo where Harry avoids most things, and Bella doesn’t push too much. 

“You two girls ready?” Mike calls, smirking as he slams the van boot closed. “The beach is a callin’!” He continues in an odd accent.  

Harry grumbles as he leaves the warmth of the van, bracing himself as he steps into the strong wind behind Bella. Tyler is already walking down the steps but Mike waits, board looped under his arm and a goofy smile on his face as he looks at her. Bella turns to Harry with a tight smile. 

“Let’s go!” She says half-heartedly, looping her arm with his and dragging him to the sheer steps leading down the dune to the beach. 

Mike’s face drops imperceptibly so Harry elbows Bella in the ribs and whispers “Be nice” to her. She rolls her eyes and drags him along, muttering at him to shut up. Harry almost feels bad for Mike watching them.  

“Bella!” Someone yells from the beach, their arms waving in the air. “James!” 

Harry squints, pushing his glasses up a bit. “Is that Jacob?” 

“Who?” Mike asks, stepping up to walk alongside them. “You know that guy?” 

“Family friend,” Bella says. She waves her arm. “Jake!” She calls, a big smile stretching across her face.  

She un-loops their arms and picks up her pace. Not exactly running—Harry’s not sure Bella could even run without her limbs spontaneously tying themselves together—but a fast walk. Jacob does the hard work for her and runs to meet her. Harry’s positive Jacob wanted to loop his arms around Bella and spin her into a hug just based on the awkward posturing of his arms when they meet, but Bella puts her hand up and they high-five instead. 

“She’s never greeted me like that,” Mike mutters under his breath. 

“Me neither,” Harry agrees, even though he’s not sure a slightly increased walking pace and a high-five are things to be jealous of. Teenagers , he thinks with a roll of his eyes. Oh, how he doesn’t miss those years. Even if he’s reliving them. And looks like one. Harry kicks a pebble, reminding himself that at least his brain is developed.  

Probably. 

Jacob talks animatedly about something, and Bella cracks up, slapping his arm as Mike and Harry stop beside them. Mike clears his throat awkwardly.  

“Oh, hey, man,” Jacob says, holding his hand out. “I’m Jacob.” 

“Mike,” he says warily, nose raised and looking down it in an objectively great impression of Snape. He shakes Jacob’s hand. “You two know each other?” 

Bella nods and pulls Harry to her side. “He’s a family friend! James knows him too.” 

Harry’s grateful Bella doesn’t mention how he knows Jacob. He never told her not to tell anyone. It might have been obvious from the way he derailed the conversation after Jacob’s blabber-mouth moment in the diner, but he never explicitly addressed it either. Bella withholding that information just shows, again, that she’s too perceptive and he needs to be more careful around her. As Bella drags him to where everyone has dumped their stuff, Harry resolves again to be more careful with her around. 

The afternoon at the beach ends up being more fun than Harry first thought it would be. Only Angela, Jessica, Tyler and Mike are crazy enough to brave the water. Harry spends his time collecting driftwood for a fire with Bella, Eric, and Jacob. Eventually more people join them. Some teenagers Harry doesn’t know from his classes. Jacob’s friends, Quil and Embry, and a younger kid called Seth. Someone starts a game of pickup football that Harry tries to learn the rules for, but he gives up when he realises everyone is cheating and the rules are out the window if you can get away with it. Those who had been swimming and surfing eventually plant around the fire, wrapped in towels and blankets and using the heat from the flames to dry off and warm up.  

Everyone splits off into little groups, dipping their feet in the swell, digging around in the sand, gossiping by the fire. Bella and Jacob go for a walk, twisting their way down the beach and returning just in time for Angela to whip out a giant bag of marshmallows for them to roast. It’s odd to Harry, the thought of roasting marshmallows on a fire at the beach. To him, the beach has always been associated with sunny blue skies and hot weather, fruits that drip sticky juices down arms and chins. Now he’s wrapped up in three layers and roasting a marshmallow until the outer edge crisps up, staring at the rhythmic waves crashing on the dark sand.  

Harry remembers the Gryffindor common room. From those early years, over a decade ago, before everything in his life turned to shit. The exploding snap tournaments; Fred and George trying out a new prank on an unsuspecting first year; Ron sharing the chocolates Molly sent him for Easter; and the entire dorm, congregating to celebrate winning the house cup over Slytherin. Like a lifetime ago already. Maybe it’s because everything was different then— Harry was different then. More innocent. More light. Less jaded. Less dead. Sitting here with a band of muggles and almost-muggles, in the case of the kids from the Reservation, Harry feels rather disjointed.  

“Hey, you okay?” Jacob whispers, plopping himself on the sand next to Harry’s feet, leaning his back on the log Harry sits on.  

Harry shakes his head and drops his stick into the fire, deciding he’s had enough marshmallows. “Yeah,” he says, standing up. “I’m just going to go for a walk.” 

“I’ll come!” Jacob says, moving to stand up but Harry holds out a hand and shakes his head.  

“No, I...I just want to clear my head.” 

“Oh, okay.” Jacob settles back down.  

Harry can feel Jacob’s eyes on him as he walks away. He kicks some of the sand out of his way and thinks about how he shouldn’t be so morose all the time. It’s been long enough. He’s spent more time at a mind healer than frankly he would have liked. Salazar, he’s even done what they recommended—sleep earlier, exercise more, drink less. Maybe he could drink less still. He’s let that one slip since moving to Forks. But isn’t that allowed? Shouldn’t he be able to mope a bit, considering his fucked-up life? Saviour of the Wizarding World, unable to die, unable to age, unable to live. Were those few years of happiness worth all the moments of shit in his life? 

Harry knows the answer is yes. The one thing he could never give up is his magic. Not with how it makes him feel . The power within him that curls outward, the blindingly bright magic of protection that fills him with happiness and love he’s not sure he’s ever truly experienced. The ability to protect his friends and family, however few of them there are. He cannot live without that. He couldn’t have continued his miserable existence with the Dursley’s if magic didn’t come to him when it did.  

Everyone else in his life has moved on, grown up. They are married with children and careers and then here’s Harry, with teenage muggles ten-years his junior who have those clear, happy eyes of a childhood unblemished. He’s not stupid enough to think none of them have their own issues with family. Surely, they do. But the point still stands: their eyes are, thankfully, not weathered with the horrors of a war that saw their friends tortured, their families murdered, their school decimated. They can sit and laugh and enjoy their youth, and Harry can, too. He can paste on a smile and toast a marshmallow and pretend that he belongs in a world where he clearly doesn’t fit. 

Harry lets out a sigh and closes his eyes, lifting his head to the sky. He takes a moment just to breathe. To let it out. To pack those memories back into their boxes and hide them under the floorboards of his mind. When he does, the world comes back to him with frightening clarity. 

He slowly lowers his head and turns to look at the forest bordering the beach, where he can feel eyes watching him from the tree line. There’s the faintest flash of white like a smile in the darkness. Harry’s magic sings on his skin. His sullen mood fizzles away into something darker. He’s sick of being watched. Sick of being hunted. This is meant to be a muggle town where he can hide from his kind, but somehow, he’s stumbled into a town full of creatures. Harry turns and stalks straight for the trees. Whoever it is inside, they dart away as he approaches, hiding themselves further in the woodlands. Harry stomps into the mossy undergrowth and looks around. 

“What?” He calls. “You’re just going to hide now?” 

A man appears behind Harry, the only warning the crack of a dead branch under his feet.  

“I can’t tell if you’re stupid or brave,” the man says, a cruel smile curling over his thin lips. 

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” Harry replies, turning to face the man and keeping his stance loose, neutral.  

The man is shirtless and in jeans, reminding Harry of that first awful meeting with Sam. Do they not own clothes here? Harry had half-decided that he’d let himself be killed just to see if vampires can actually end him, but the thought of letting a shirtless man with low-rise jeans do so is almost unbearable. The man flashes his long fangs, running his tongue along them like it were some fancy revelation on what he is. Harry wonders why it is that every creature with fangs has the urge to show them off before attacking. 

“Why do you keep following me?” Harry asks, turning his body to keep facing the vampire who begins to circle around him slowly. 

“You knew?” The vampire cocks his head to the side. “Ah, the golden-eyed coven alerted you.” They continue to spiral with each other, their steps in sync.  

“I just want to be left alone.”  

The vampire sprints forward until he’s face-to-face with Harry, his fingers reverently tracing Harry’s face. He breathes in deep and stops. Pauses at the feel of Harry’s wand pressed under his chin.  

“Go on,” Harry whispers. “Just give me a reason.” It almost feels like he’s begging, the way the words slide through his lips. 

The vampire laughs, a shocked and unnatural sound clawing from his throat as his eyes widen.  

“Or what? Your stick will poke me?” He replies. Harry doesn’t respond, simply digs the wand in further. 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” the vampire says. “Pun intended.” He steps back slowly, again, and again, until he’s at a suitable distance. Harry drops his hand but keeps the elder wand loose in his grip, ready by his thigh.  

“What are you?” The vampire asks. “Your scent—it’s different. Unique.”  

He looks almost giddy with the prospect and Harry’s reminded of all the other people in his life who looked at him that way, like a puzzle to be solved, a thing to be collected. All those people are dead now. Only Harry remains.  

“So that’s why you’re here? My scent?”  

“At first,” the vampire says, beginning to loop Harry again.  

His light hair is long, pulled back into a loose ponytail. He’s attractive in the way all vampires are supposed to be—tall, lithe, body muscled. He isn’t as pale as the Cullens. His skin is flushed, smoother, the bags under his eyes less pronounced. Eyes bright red like a stupefy.  

“I picked up your scent in town and tracked you to the high school. I needed to know...you smell so...different. Like you’ve already been bled dry. But there’s something else there, too...” 

Great, so he’s a storyteller. Harry has dealt with these before. Narcissistic. Perfectionists. Control-freaks. Those like Voldemort, who want everything to be just right before they achieve their goal. Those who can’t shut up, because they want the world to know of their brilliance before it happens.  

“But then I saw you with that idiot, the Cullen,” the vampire hisses the name like a curse. “Edward, you call him.” Harry can’t help it if he stiffens slightly at the name, at the implication that this vampire might want to harm Edward. “He’s rather persistent, isn’t he? Following you everywhere. Joining you with your human friends. Has he told you yet? What he is?” The vampire seems to shiver with excitement and Harry lifts his wand, points it at him. “I’m sure he has. Because you’re not normal either, are you, James ?”  

“It’s rude to use someone’s name without sharing your own.” 

“My apologies,” the vampire says with a glint in his eyes. “My name is James. It seems we have a lot in common.” 

And isn’t that just Harry’s luck? What are the odds of the vampire wanting to kill him having the same name? His father’s name. Merlin, this fake name business went from being funny to a pain in his ass. He should have picked something less common, like Fleamont.  

“Less than you’d think,” Harry replies.  

James seems content to ignore Harry’s comment, continuing his rant of perceived brilliance.  

“I couldn’t just leave you be after that. No, not when he adores you so,” James sneers. “Not when you smell like, like that . Unnatural. Unique.” He smiles. “I love the challenge of hunting something new and coveted.” 

Harry considers his options. He could just take James out, but he’d prefer not to. Killing is not his favourite past time. Harry can’t lie and say he’s still the same teenager that vanquished Voldemort with only an expelliarmus, because he’s not. He’s cast many more curses with the intent to maim or kill since then, and none of them would have been Hogwarts-approved curriculum. But he’s trying to start a new, muggle life, and that doesn’t include killing half-muggle vampires in his spare time. He could though. It’s not like MACUSA would check in on it if he did it quickly enough. One little spell wouldn’t be enough to trigger any warnings on their end, not when they already know he’s around hunting dark wizards. Supposedly. 

“You’re obviously special to him. Your scent is so interesting up close. I would have killed you already, if I were Edward.” Harry tries not to laugh. If only this James knew how Edward desperately wanted to. Until he didn’t. Until he confessed his interest in Harry—he decides to stop thinking about that. “Oh, but I’m glad he hasn’t. It’s so much more fun, you see. To watch them stumble over themselves to protect you. The patrols outside your home, his visit to the school,” James continues.  

Harry should just kill him. It would be easier. But there are others here—the wolves and the Cullens. They can kill him. Harry just has to not die, simply because the thought of letting this narcissist end him would injure his pride. Vampire death hypothesis be damned. Maybe he could just…tie him up. Leave him for someone else to find. He can’t let James leave because he’s already killed a muggle in town, and Harry doesn’t want anyone else to die needlessly. Besides, he doesn’t want his town to be overrun with muggle police. If it got too bad, maybe even MACUSA would be alerted to the unusual beings here.  

“I didn’t expect you to willingly come to me though. Not here, not now,” James continues, cutting through Harry’s idle thoughts. 

He forces himself not to roll his eyes. This James guy is such a tosser. Way to hint that he had some grand plan in place for Harry’s demise. Harry stops moving, narrowing his eyes at the vampire and cutting off their slow-loop dance.  

“Can we get on with it?” Harry asks, cocking his head to the side. “This has been less fun than I thought it would be.” 

James takes the comment as a personal insult and bares his fangs, a hiss escaping that lifts Harry’s nerves. Adrenaline begins pumping through his body. He hasn’t had any action in a while, especially not against vampires. Not since he tracked down a coven five years ago who had taken over a small town of muggles and were trying to resurrect Sanguini. It had been a challenge until Ron arrived with reinforcements, bursting with anger at Harry for being stupid and going alone.  

Now, James’s posturing doesn’t make Harry scared, it makes him energised. He leans onto the balls of his feet and loosens his joints, waiting for the tell of the vampire about to attack. Wordlessly, Harry softens the ground under James’s feet when he senses the vampire tensing. It’s such a small detail, but it causes the vampire to hesitate just a second. It can be hard to compensate for minute changes when moving at such speed. It’s like tripping on stairs you walk every day, one millimetre making a difference to the auto-processes in the brain. James retreats slightly, his eyebrows raising almost to his hairline.  

“What was that?”  

Harry laughs and lets sparks flash from his wand.  

“Magic,” he replies. “You didn’t know?” 

James clenches his fists and tries again, sprinting forward and gripping Harry’s jacket in a millisecond, fangs bared into a creepy smile.  

“Too slow,” James purrs, pulling Harry forward and opening his jaw wider, ready to bite. 

Harry reconsiders letting him, just to see what would happen. It almost seems like too good of an opportunity to pass up. It’s the perfect chance to test some more of his death-defying abilities. He doesn’t, though, because no death trial is worth letting this dunce inflate his ego anymore.  He waves his wand and feels the magic run through him. It’s not a spell he’s used before. It’s just a concept, an idea. Magic is him now. He doesn’t just need to follow the rules. He can make his own. James screams, letting go of Harry’s jacket and reeling back from the pain. He brushes his arms and legs, hands flurrying around him with vampire speed until he stops screaming, pauses. There is no fire. Only the thought of it. The heat of it, brushing against James’s skin in a way that’s innocuous, painless, but to James even the idea of death is frightening.  

“You—” James stutters, hands shaky, eyes wide.  

He looks so very human. Harry smiles, wonders belatedly what it says about him, that he can make James react like this with only the simplest magic. Harry can’t hold it against the vampire too much. If you’ve never seen magic, never experienced it, if you’ve existed convinced that magic is a fairytale, then it is shocking. Probably more so for a vampire who has lived possibly centuries without being exposed to it and thinking they’re the top predator in the world.  

Harry’s next spell is on the tip of his tongue, an incarcerous, to bind James. He’ll bring him to the Cullens and let them decide what to do with him. His actions have affected them the most, after all. He has brought attention to where the Cullens live alongside humans peacefully and killed multiple muggles in this region.  

But Harry doesn’t get to cast the spell because Jacob tramples into the forest, calling out his name.  

“James!” He yells again, clambering over a large root and face breaking out into a smile when he sees Harry. “There you are!” Jacob says, before furrowing his eyebrows. “What are—” 

“Jacob! Don’t—” he doesn’t get to finish, the words dying on his tongue as James moves. Harry casts but it’s too late, the red spell bursts on a tree just milliseconds after the vampire sprints past it.  

“There you are,” James whispers into Jacob’s ear, fingers curled around Jacob’s Adam’s apple and poised as if to rip it out. “What great timing.” 

Jacob clutches at the vampire’s hand at his throat, stubby fingers gripping into the frozen flesh as hard as he can. James doesn’t seem to care. It’s like Ron trying to interact with Hermione’s cat, Crookshank. Jacob’s eyes bug out of his head as he looks at Harry, almost pleading.  

“Let him go,” Harry says slowly.  

“I think not,” James taunts, tightening his hold on Jacob’s throat. “Why don’t you put that…wand down.” 

“Okay, I can do that.” Harry lowers his arm.  

“Down.”  

Jacob shakes his head but stops with a wince when the vampire hisses at him. Harry smiles slightly. 

“It’s okay Jacob. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says as he bends down and puts the elder wand on the floor. He can feel its discontent at being treated such a way but he’s glad it doesn’t disappear. He needs it to stay there in case James thinks he’s playing a trick.  

“A shame James over there doesn’t have a say in what happens to you,” the vampire says, letting his mouth move closer to Jacob’s neck, stretching his head away to reveal more of the long column.  

“C’mon, just let the kid go. This is between you and me, right?”  

“Everyone has that one thing—the one bait that’ll make them tick. Finding it is what makes hunting interesting. You, for Edward. This kid, for you.”  

Jacob is trembling now; his eyes closed tight like he’s concentrating. Harry can feel the magic swirling in the air. It hooks into Jacob, straight from nature itself. He’s shaking, fingers clenched so tight into the vampire’s arm he’s surprised it hasn’t begun to crack off. Nothing happens. The magic collects and collects and collects, never forming, never sinking into Jacob. Harry tries to distract James.  

“Let him go and you can have me,” Harry says, cocking his head to the side in a way he hopes is slightly inviting to feast on his blood. Not that he’d let him—but he just needs James to let go of Jacob. It’s a bad idea, anyway, since James doesn’t seem interested in drinking from Harry because of his appealing blood, he only wants to bite him to satisfy some weird egotistical crush he has on Edward. 

Jacob’s too young for this. He shouldn’t be here. Hell, Harry shouldn’t have put him in a position to even be anywhere near something dangerous like this. Not when he’s not even a wolf yet—not when the magic betrays him, curls along his skin and not inside, when it doesn’t help him bring his wolf side forward. And he’s a Black, one of the last. Sirius’s true family. And Harry’s standing here just watching it unfold.  

“As much as I do enjoy that offer, " James says with a smirk. “Why not have both?”  

And his fingers curl, sharp nails digging into Jacob’s throat and his fangs stretch out straight for the soft skin of Jacob’s jugular and Harry doesn’t think any more. He doesn’t worry about killing or not, about bringing the vampire to the Cullens for them to figure out what to do. He doesn’t worry about anything at all, except for the two shiny fangs and the drop of blood from Jacob’s neck from those claw-like nails and the inhuman whine that escapes Jacob’s mouth and the eyes that finally fall open in fear as he realises, he can’t turn into a wolf, even in such a moment.  

Harry flings his arm out and the hand loosens. Jacob gasps a breath, two, pulls himself away and falls over, scrambling backwards as James’s body falls to the ground in a sickening thump, his head rolling to the side until it lays a good few feet away. For a second, Harry is transported back to the motel room just earlier this week, when he’d sent those cutting curses at Edward without thinking. If Edward hadn’t been so fast, he would be just like James is now: decapitated, head severed off with the sound of concrete scraping.  

Jacob hyperventilates on the ground his chest racing up and down until he lets out a whine of pain, body seizing up. Harry rushes to his side, blocking the sight of the vampire with his own body. There’s no blood, simply dust from where his head and neck separated, crumbled like stone. Harry isn’t even sure if the vampire is truly dead or not—if they’re anything like vampires in the wizarding world, they’d need a lot more than simply a decapitation to keep dead. Maybe a stake to the heart, or fire.  

He’s not sure, but he knows that Jacob is freaking out. His body seizes and shivers, a dull groan of pain leaking from him.  

“Jacob, it’s alright, you’re okay,” Harry says, hands hovering and unsure what to do. He could push magic into him. Maybe that would make his transformation easier? The magic is still not sinking in, it’s simply building on him, like it’s not yet his time to truly change but the near-death or the proximity of the vampire is causing it, forcing it. 

“Oh, Jacob, you’ll be okay,” he whispers again, brushing his hair back. “It’s okay, just let it happen, don’t fight it.”  

He hopes it is good advice. He isn’t sure how someone is meant to embrace changing into a wolf suddenly. But if it’s anything like what Sirius described when he explained what it was like turning into Padfoot, then Harry knows that Jacob just needs to embrace it. To let his body take on its new shape with ease and serenity and, honestly, Harry’s just now realising Sirius was full of shit because he’s never been serene a day in his life. Harry wordlessly summons the elder wand back into his hand and concentrates, bringing forth his patronus. It snorts and stamps its hoof when it corporealises. 

“Sam, it’s James. Don’t question it. Follow the stag. Were at La Push. It’s urgent.”  

Jacob groans in the background and Harry knows that it was probably picked up by his patronus. He sends it anyway. Maybe the sound of someone in pain will make Sam hurry up. The patronus sprints off, disappearing through the trees. He wants to stay with Jacob. But he can hear the crackling of leaves behind him, the tell-tale sound of someone dragging themselves.  

“Jacob, just breathe. Let it in. Feel the magic,” Harry says, letting some of his magic seep into Jacob. “I’ll be right back.” 

Chapter Text

Sam enjoys his Saturday afternoons. He treasures them because he spends them with Emily. It’s one of the only days they both have completely free in a week and Sam needs to spend them with her to regain his energy. She’s the only person he can be with and truly let go. He always has to be something for everyone else—leader, alpha, messenger, son, friend. But with Emily, he can just be Sam. She doesn’t need him to be perfect or strong or infallible. She just wants Sam.

So that’s why, when a bright blue stag trots through the wall of their bedroom and spouts out in a snobby English accent to follow it, Sam feels he is allowed to be pissed off. The mood is ruined, too, because Emily is so shocked by the whole blue stag thing that she screams and clutches the bedsheet to her chest. The mood would have been ruined anyway, though, because there is the undeniable sound of someone groaning in pain at the end of the emergency message. And not just any type of pain. One that Sam knows all too well. He can already hear the echoes of the wolf emerging in the voice, the undeniable whine of a brother mid-change. The stag stomps its hoof and huffs at Sam, repeating its message impatiently.

“You should go,” Emily says softly, her hand shaking lightly as she reaches out to the magic.

God, magic. The thought alone makes him feel stupid and insane, even though he can turn into a wolf. It seems one thing for there to be vampires and werewolves, but a whole magical society? Hidden from the world? Sam supposes weirder things have happened, but the entire thing unsettles him somehow.

Or maybe it’s not the idea of magic and wizards and secret societies that unsettles him, but James himself.

“Goddammit,” he curses, rolling out of the bed and snatching up a pair of shorts from the floor. “Can you call Paul and Jared?”

Emily agrees and yells goodbye as he races from the house, jorts tied to his ankle. He leaps from the porch and transforms mid-air. Wolves are fast, but somehow James’s magical stag is faster, racing ahead of him in a blue streak and leading the way between trees, over branches, and across a small river. They near La Push but do not go to the beach where Sam can hear teenagers having fun. Instead, the stag veers to the left and continues in the forest, further down the coast.

Eventually, Sam can smell it. Acrid and pungent, heavy in the air. The scent of a vampire and the scent of James. The darkness that oozes from him, the scent Sam can only smell in wolf form, that he now knows is magic. And another scent, of a new wolf. Sam growls in his chest and runs faster.

___

Jacob can’t see much through the pain-filled haze he is in. He thought turning into a wolf was going be fun and, like, cool. A sudden transformation, just—BAM. A wolf. He wasn’t mentally prepared for the ache in his muscles, the pinpricks across his entire body, the unusual feeling of hair growing instantly, pushing through his skin and sliding out. He didn’t expect to feel his bones cracking and reforming in some new, weird way. It burns more than he thought it would. Or maybe that’s the fire.

He’s only half-aware of James in the distance, throwing things into the one he conjured from nothing. It’s blazing hot. Hotter than anything Jacob has ever felt—including that time he accidentally touched the exhaust manifold on the truck, not realising Harry Clearwater had just driven dad to town and back. Jacob has some hazy recollection of James speaking to him, of a cool hand wiping back the hair clinging to his forehead. Then there is nothing. A blankness of aches and groans. A flash, the sound of ceramic plates smashing and finally, burning heat, the brightness of a fire suddenly raging and James, using that wand of his to make more of that horrible noise. It grates on Jacob’s oversensitive ears for only a minute before his spine cracks and he loses focus, screaming with the pain echoing through him. He could swear James is there again, whispering something to him, brushing his hair back and sending something soft and lovely to curl around him, something that saps the pain away slightly. Then James is gone again and throwing things in the fire. There is an awful smell that only gets worse as the seconds tick by, and his body snaps back into place, but all wrong.

Then the pain stops.

It cuts off instantly. His blurry eyesight snaps into focus, right on the half of a leg James is throwing into the fire casually, face impassive, green eyes glowing from the flames. Jacob isn’t sure what it is he feels inside him, but the wolf knows. The wolf shivers in fear at the sight of the man in front of him. At the scent clinging to the air, heavy and oppressive. It’s wrong in so many ways. It feels both disjointed with the forest, and as if it exists perfectly in harmony with it. James turns to him, and the impassiveness melts away to a soft look, his eyes crinkle up with a small smile. There’s ash in his dark hair, clinging to the strands that fall loose around his face.

Jacob hears someone approaching and tries to stand up, only to realise he is the wolf, and his legs have doubled, and his balance is off. He stumbles left and right. A whine escapes him at the thought of this new unknown person finding him in such a state. Weak. Something blue struts up to James and disappears near the fire right as a giant wolf leaps before him with a snarling jaw and black fur. The wolf pauses for a minute, surveys the area as James says hello to it. Then, the wolf turns, descends onto Jacob with a growl. Jacob realises instantly who it is. Something thrums in him. The innate desire to challenge, to fight, to prove his dominance.

Jacob’s glad that James moved to Forks. Without him doing so, maybe his dad wouldn’t have explained what they were. Truly explained, not just through tribe stories, until it was too late. Without that conversation, he wouldn’t understand the feeling clawing at his chest right now to determine his place in the pack. He wouldn’t understand that to fight Sam, to declare himself Alpha, isn’t just a hierarchy for the pack itself. It comes with purpose and rules and the weight of responsibility for all the Reservation. Those are things he doesn’t want at sixteen. Or probably any age, ever. Jacob whines and drops his head, sinking down for the Alpha.

Jacob are you okay? a voice rings in his head the second he does so, a familiar voice.

Yes, he replies to Sam, I think so. Is he? Wasn’t he nearly killed? God, he really was nearly killed. By a bloodsucker at that!

Woohoo!, someone else chimes into the conversation. Is that Jacob Black I’m hearing?

Shut up, Paul, Sam replies. Hurry up and get here, you two. Jacob, explain. Sam snaps his maw at Jacob in a wolfy sign of impatience. James stops shaking the ash from his hair and steps closer, face curled into a frown.

“Do that to Jacob again, Sam,” he hisses. “I dare you.”

Sam snarls at James. He doesn’t even flinch. Jacob isn’t sure what the beef is between the two, but he doesn’t want them to fight. He whines and trots closer to James, bumping his giant head into the side of him to try and indicate he’s okay. Sam snuffs and starts pacing left and right, eyes darting to the fire every few seconds. James is pretty short, Jacob realises. Either that or his wolf is a giant. James was always short compared to Jacob anyway, but it wasn’t something he’d really noticed before. As a wolf it seems impossible to ignore considering he must look down slightly.

There was a bloodsucker. I—I came to check on James and they were already in some sort of…fight, Jacob explains, curling his head as James scratches behind his ear. It...it got me. Jacob can still feel those claw-like nails digging into the side of his neck. It doesn’t hurt any more, but the phantom pressure is there. The reminder that he was merely a finger twitch from death. James saved me. He killed it.

Sam’s wolf stops pacing and sits down, watching James with calculating eyes.

Oh my god, a different voice says. He killed one? Alone? I knew he was dangerous, the voice whispers.

Sam growls lowly, then turns around and trots behind a tree. After a minute, he returns as a human, jorts hanging low on his hips and a scowl on his face.

“James,” Sam acknowledges, stopping across from him.

Sam is tense, fists clenched at his side. James doesn’t look much better. He glares at Sam and continues scratching Jacob’s ear. Jacob feels a bit awkward. Like a child caught between arguing parents.

“Sam,” James replies coldly. “I asked you here because I thought you could help Jacob. I didn’t realise that meant you’d be such an ass to him.”

“I wasn’t being an ass. I was being a wolf. There’s a difference.” Sam crosses his arms.

“Is there?” James turns away and waves at the smouldering fire, extinguishing it. “I need to get back to my friends, or they’ll come looking for me. I’m going to trust you’ll look after Jacob.”

James pats Jacob’s head again and he feels conflicted at how much he enjoys the action. Maybe it’s because he’s only just turned, but it seems wrong to be so pleased by scratches and pats. He’s not a dog.

“Wait,” Sam steps forward, hand out, but he thinks better of grabbing James. “This vampire—”

James kicks the ash from the fire slightly, a puff of dust flinging into the air. “He’s gone.”

“Any clue who he is?” Sam asks, eyeing the dust pile slightly. “He the one that killed Waylon?”

Jacob understands Sam’s reservations about James and his abilities. He’d heard about magic and wizards from his dad, but he hadn’t seen any until twenty minutes ago, when James decapitated the vampire with only a wave of his hand. It’s a bit gnarly, really. How easy it was for him. And to know that James isn’t the only wizard out there. That anyone Jacob meets every day could be like James and wave their hand and end his life.

“You should talk to the Cullens. They’ve been tracking them.”

“So have we.”

James sighs. “Not that well, apparently.” Jacob can practically feel Sam raging at the comment, even if he agrees with what James is saying. “Talk to the Cullens. Now will you excuse me? I’ve been gone too long. People will start to get suspicious,” James says.

Jacob knows he means Bella will. She’s already a bit suspicious about James. She was not very subtle in her probing questions about James and how they are related when Jacob went for a walk with her earlier. He only managed to distract her by telling her about the tribe legends, because she wanted to know why the Cullens don’t come to La Push. Stupid Embry. She only asked because he had to go and be a blabbermouth in the diner. It’s not like she will ever figure out that the legends are real, anyway. And it was interesting enough for her to drop the whole ‘James is your family’ thing, which is a whole other discussion he needs to bring up with James and his dad. What the actual story is that he’s allowed to tell people. Pretending they’re not family is kinda out of the window now.

“See you, Jacob,” James says softly, patting his head again. “I’m sorry, for putting you in danger. I’ll tell your friends you had to go home.”

Jacob whines and head-butts him again, unsure how to verbalise that nothing was his fault. He doesn’t even understand why James would be apologising. Hell, he was the idiot who just came stomping into the forest and yelling out for James with no care in the world, even after his dad had warned him about what happened to Waylon. Besides, James saved his life. He shouldn’t be apologising.

James trudges off without a glance backwards, his whole demeanour casual and relaxed. Jacob wonders what someone has to experience in life to make decapitating and cremating a vampire something not even worth mulling over. He knows if it had been him who had killed the vampire, he would have needed at least half an hour to really chill out. He still feels like he could do with some time to really come to terms with how close he was to death-by-bloodsucker just minutes ago.

“I fucking hate that guy,” Sam mutters under his breath, walking over to inspect the pile of ashes.

Jacob isn’t sure whether to get mad for James or not. His wolf relishes the thought of fighting the Alpha, making a stand and proving who is boss. But the still-human part of Jacob’s mind says that is a bad idea and only wants to know why Sam is so against James. He seems super cool and, like, sure, maybe a bit scary, but overall, he seems nice. Plus, magic is pretty cool. He’s only seen a bit. He wonders what else James can do.

Sam eventually gives up on the powder and kicks it aside, spreading it out to make it less obvious of a pile. He then turns to Jacob and starts coaching him through changing back, with Paul and Jared arriving shortly after, adding their bits of advice via the pack mind connection. It’s a bit weird to have them in there, reading his thoughts, knowing what he’s thinking. But it is comforting, too. To know he is not alone as a wolf and that he can still communicate even when transformed.

Eventually, Jacob manages to turn back and finds himself naked, awkwardly holding his junk until Sam gives him a pair of jorts that were wrapped to Paul’s leg. He slips them on and then feels a bit weird about free-balling in someone else’s clothing. He figures it’s probably something you get used to after a while.

“Alright,” Sam says. “Explain it from the top. How did James kill the vampire?”

“It’s a bit confusing,” Jacob hedges, even though the first part is not confusing for him at all.

He wonders how much he should say, but realises it doesn’t matter, not really. They already know James killed the vampire. They already know about his magic. And if Sam truly does hate the guy, it’s probably good for him to know not to mess with James. Jacob wouldn’t be able to side with Sam if he decides to go after James. Not now, after he saved Jacob’s life, and probably not even before that. Because James is family. Dad said so, too.

“I came looking for James. He’d wandered off and I saw him head into the trees. But when I got here, he was already facing off to the vampire.” Jacob closes his eyes and sighs. “It took me hostage. Had its fingers wrapped on my neck and fangs right there.”

Jacob can still feel the fangs pressing into his skin, the hot flush of breath fanning across his jugular, and the press of sharp nails into the column of his throat. He runs a hand along it.

“James he—” Jacob pauses, trying to find the right words. Paul whines, stamping his paw impatiently. “He just...decapitated it.”

“Decapitated it, how?” Sam presses.

Jacob waves his hand in a poor imitation of whatever it was James did.

“That’s it?” Sam asks. “Just—” he waves his hand.

“Yep.” Jacob nods. “Just—” he waves his hand again. “And then it let go of me and I ran away and then I just see its head and body laying there. Then I started changing and it gets a bit blurry, but I think after helping me for a bit, James lit a fire and... like, chopped it up. Threw it in the fire.”

Sam looks over at the ashes now blowing in the wind. He’s silent for a long time and Jacob begins to worry that maybe Sam thinks James is dangerous, that he needs to be taken out before he could endanger the Rez. His heart beats harder until he remembers his dad’s words—that family is sacred, and James is theirs. No one can touch him. Not while they’ve claimed him. Something tells him that Sam is not happy about that decision.

“I think it’s time we go and see the Cullens,” Sam says. “Jared, take Jacob home and get Billy updated. He can tell the rest of the Elders. Paul, with me.”

“Wait!” Jacob says. “I want to come, too. I want to help.”

“And you will help. Once you have recovered. The first shift takes a lot out of you, Jacob. Go home, eat a lot, and sleep. Once you’ve recovered, then you can join us.” Sam pats him on the arm, and it doesn’t feel nearly as comforting as the pats from James had.

It does help him realise that he’s dead tired, wobbly on his legs and muscles aching. Maybe it would be a good idea to go home and sleep. Plus, his stomach is growling like he hadn’t just gorged himself on marshmallows and eaten all of yesterday’s leftovers before coming to the beach. Dad used to get mad about how much he ate, but not anymore. It’s probably because he knew it was going to happen eventually.

“Yeah,” Jacob says softly. “Alright, later.”

 The brown wolf with grey around its eyes steps forward and nudges him, a small whine leaking out. Jacob holds onto its shoulder and lets it guide him through the woods, suddenly realising how far away he feels from home. God, he isn’t even sure he will make it there. He doesn’t need to worry for long, because Jared eventually bumps him again and jerks his head, and Jacob realises Jared wants him to climb on his back. He does so hesitantly but doesn’t have the energy to argue, not when his knees feel like they’re about to give out and they’re still a thirty-minute walk away, at least.

He clambers on and awkwardly lays down, holding onto the coarse fur gently. Jared makes an odd purring noise in his chest and suddenly he’s running, not full speed but enough to get Jacob jostling around. He almost regrets hopping on. After a few minutes the jostling eases and they start to follow a path through the forest. Jacob closes his eyes, almost lulls to sleep, his mind creating funky dreams of wolves and magic and vampire heads rolling along the ground and a scent that reminds his wolf of death.

Chapter Text

Edward lays on the ground, curled onto his side as he looks out his bedroom window into the forest. The trees sway slightly in the calm breeze and the sun shines through the panels to illuminate his skin. The record he had playing earlier stopped long ago, leaving the room in near silence, if not for the sounds of his family echoing through the house. He barely notices them. He is too busy locked in his mind. He tries to dive into its depths like that one time Harry entered it. He closes his eyes and tries to meditate himself back through the choppy waters and into his bedroom, but the fake one in his mind, where his memories are records and he can play them on a loop. He knows there will be a new one on the shelf. He wants to know what it feels like if he were to touch it. He wants to rewatch it, but not just as a memory, as reality. To step back into the moment and experience it all again, not simply to recall what it was like—to relive it completely.

He's had no luck, and he has been lying here for hours attempting.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s tried to focus on the room in his mind or on specifics of the memory: the beat of Harry’s heart; the press of the wand against his neck; the scent of tea wafting from Harry’s breath; the venom pooled in his mouth. Nothing pulls him back into the memory. He is stuck with simply remembering it all in vivid clarity which still seems not enough. With two words, Harry had said. Is it truly possible to kill with only words? With only a thought, even? Edward wants to think it impossible but the unnatural side of him knows it to be true. He could see the intent flashing in Harry’s impossibly green eyes. Edward has come to the realisation that he knows little of what is possible for magic, for Harry.

Edward wonders what it would be like for Harry to control him. Would he be inside his mind, ordering him around? Or would Edward become more like a puppet, only moving when Harry does, too? Is it possible to break out of the control, or are you stuck there forever? It makes Edward think about the magical world, and all the ways someone could be injured, killed, manipulated. It seems a dangerous place to live. That might be why Harry is the way he is. Cautious and unforgiving; quick to anger and faster to attack. It is obvious even to someone who hasn’t existed for over a century that Harry is riddled with trauma. Hiding from everyone, he’d said. Harry is ready to abandon Forks, at the slightest hint that someone might know him.

It's just like when Bella mentioned those books—

Edward sits up quickly.

The books. Harry had freaked out when they were mentioned. Some unknown novel. But the title? Edward thinks back to that day and then runs to his desk, hastily scrawling the title down just in case he forgets. Even his own mind cannot be trusted. How had he so easily forgotten it? Especially after learning Harry’s true name.

Harry Potter’s Adventures loops along the scrap of paper in Edward’s flourished handwriting. He runs from the room and into Carlisle’s office, not bothering to knock because he already knows his father is in the lounge room with Esme. He turns the computer on and begins to pace as it slowly loads. How he loathes the time it takes the electronic to boot up. Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Harry Potter, he chants in his mind. Surely, it cannot be a coincidence. It would be idiotic to assume the name means nothing to Harry when he reacted so strongly to it.

Edward begins his search for the series but finds nothing. It should not be surprising, considering wizards have managed to hide from humans for so long. He assumes there must be some way that wizards manage and control information from their world escaping, beyond the wiping of memories Harry has mentioned previously. Still, it makes no sense for nothing to leak online. He considers even asking Jasper to reach out to his more…shady contacts. Perhaps they would be able to find something on the less legal sides of the internet. It’s a tempting thought.

If Harry is truly related to this Harry Potter character, or if the books are somehow relevant to him, Edward would be able to understand Harry by reading them. He would be able to understand everything about Harry without needing to wait for information to be doled out in miniscule segments. He could finish the lot in a day no doubt, and then he would know. He would understand, and Harry wouldn’t have to go through the pain-staking process of verbalising everything. If the books are related to him, it would be like reading Harry’s mind, without doing so.

The thought makes him pause.

Perhaps it isn’t the best idea he’s ever had. Harry seems rather against his mind being invaded. He’s a private person. He has been adamant he doesn’t want anyone to breach his walls. Yet, he has allowed Edward in. He has graced Edward with glimpses of who he truly is. He has allowed Edward into his home and shared something with him he has not shared with anyone else in Forks. Edward feels he might be the closest being to Harry in the entire city, Black family included. They don’t know his name is even Harry. If Edward truly did find these novels, which he’s positive exist somewhere in the magical world, then how would Harry react?

The idea makes him grimace. He deletes the computer search history and looks at the note in his hand. Harry Potter’s Adventures. Such a title was enough to make Harry run away. Maybe if Edward wasn’t there, Harry would have truly left. Not just the school, but Forks. He could have decided that was a moment too close for comfort and decided to simply cut his losses. If he had, Edward would have spent the rest of his existence trying to find Harry, travelling the entire globe if needed.

Edward empties a small glass bowl of its paper clips onto the worn wood of Carlisle’s desk. He tears the paper into four and places them in the bowl before grabbing the lighter placed next to Carlisle’s unlit candle. He lights the paper and watches it burn.

Is that a fire? Edward was just here. Carlisle’s thoughts reach Edward before he pushes the office door open. He stands there for a moment and analyses the room.

“Is everything okay?” Carlisle asks.

Edward nods. “I think I realised something I shouldn’t have.”

“I see.” Carlisle walks in and watches the paper curl and burn beside Edward. “A pity we cannot unlearn what we shouldn’t know.”

When the paper has turned to ash and the fire dwindles, Edward takes the bowl and dumps the ashes in the small wastebasket in the room. He scoops the paperclips back into the bowl and sets it down where it belongs.

“We will keep him safe, Edward,” Carlisle promises. “We know what he means to you.”

He places a hand on Edward’s shoulder and looks at him with those fatherly eyes, the ones Edward has run both from and to during his miserable existence. They were the last thing he saw as a human, and the first he saw as a vampire. Somehow, they haunt him and comfort him, all at once.

“Do you?” Edward asks. “Because I have yet to figure it out myself.”

“It is not hard to guess.”

“He’s so different from us.” Edward lets his eyes roam the room, at the dust filtering in the air and the small imperfections in the paint on the walls. Anything but looking at Carlisle. “From me.”

“In what ways?” Carlisle moves to the door and closes it, even though doing so only provides the illusion of privacy. He sits down on the small leather couch in the corner.

“He’s…” mortal, Edward wants to say, but he doesn’t, because he is not even sure if that’s true anymore. “Vibrant. Alive in so many ways he will not acknowledge. He is obviously troubled, too. Jasper said he’s traumatised—how could I possibly be what he needs?”

“We cannot know what it is another person needs.”

“We can! He needs…stability, comfort. Softness. Care.” Edward runs a hand through his hair and finds himself pacing the room again. “Things I do not know how to provide.”

“You can learn. Just as we have all learned. You know us all, perhaps better than we know ourselves at times,” Carlile says, gesturing for Edward to sit with him. He does so, petulantly. “Did Jasper know how to care for Alice correctly when they met? What about Emmett and Rosalie? How many arguments have you heard them have in the years? Even Esme and I. You have seen us from our first days. No relationship is instantly perfect. You are never one-hundred-percent compatible. It takes time, effort, and communication. You learn to be what your partner needs; you are not inherently already that.”

Edward stares at the dust in the carpet and thinks. He thinks so long that he doesn’t notice Carlisle depart the room and close the door. He thinks about what he knows about Harry already, which is admittedly more than he thought he knew. He knows Harry takes either two sugars or two spoons of honey in his tea and he knows Harry eats marmite, because he saw the jar in his kitchen. He knows Harry doesn’t like being taken care of, and that he can use both hands to cast spells, or his wand if he wants. He knows Harry likes the colours red and gold, even if he wears black. He knows Harry’s boots are not made from normal leather and that his motorbike belonged to his godfather. He knows Harry hates talking about himself, and not just because he has lots to hide, but because he likes being able to disappear into the background of a group. He knows Harry always chooses cake over chocolate and that he never leaves leftovers on his plate if he can help it. He knows Harry is horrible at math, but he dominates in P.E.

Edward knows more, still. Because he’s always watching Harry, listening to Harry, learning about him. Harry doesn’t have to tell Edward, and Edward doesn’t have to read his mind to figure these things out; he learned them by proximity and time. Slowly. Over time. You know, naturally, Harry had once said. He supposes this is what Harry meant. That to learn about someone, to know who they are, is something that occurs simply by existing alongside them. Edward had forgotten such a simple thing in all these years spent relying on his ability. He never needed to know someone naturally because it was much easier to know them unnaturally. Carlisle might be correct in his advice that Edward could become what Harry needs, the same way he can learn who Harry is.

 A howl echoes through the forest, long and alarming.

Edward collects himself and runs to the living room, where the rest of his family joins within seconds, each coming from their own corners of the house. It takes only seconds for Carlisle to decide who will head out to the forest to meet the wolves. Edward and Emmett follow him from the house, sprinting for the wolf howls that ring out periodically. In minutes they reach the wolves and the howls cut off, obviously sensing their arrival.

“You hear anything?” Emmett asks lowly, careful to not let his voice bounce through the forest.

God, these blood-suckers stink, Paul thinks, but Edward lets the thought slide off him in favour of the other voice in Paul’s head, Jared. Just dropped Jake at home. That first shift took it out of him. He fell asleep on the run home, he says. Paul tells Jared where they are and that he should come quickly, since he can hear they are outnumbered. I wonder what the Cullens will feel when they find out, Sam thinks, separate from the other two, in his human form.

The wolves do not know that Edward can read their thoughts. They wouldn’t need to change into their vulnerable human forms to converse if they did. The Cullens have always thought it best to keep their abilities hidden from the wolves, since Edward can read their minds when they’re close and would know of their tactics if it came to a fight. The wolves would be rather upset if they ever found out that the Cullens have been making them attend these meetings as humans when it was possible for them to remain as wolves.

“It seems Jacob Black has transformed,” Edward explains softly, ensuring his words do not carry to the wolves. “Nothing else yet. It’s only Sam and Paul; Jared is on his way.”

Carlisle nods an acknowledgement, not risking a reply, and they finally enter the small clearing of trees where the wolves wait. Sam stands with his arms crossed. Paul stands tall at his side in wolf form. They are tense, muscles poised to fight, and Edward realises it’s not from their arrival—they're tense from something else, the reason they’ve come to the border.

“Sam, it’s nice to see you,” Carlisle says, starting with pleasantries as usual. “What is the reason for this visit?”

Edward almost crumbles to his knees at the thoughts in Sam’s mind. He would have, if it weren’t for Emmett suddenly moving in front of him, letting Edward stumble into his back, and keeping him upright.

What the hell’s wrong with that one? Paul thinks, as Sam asks, “What’s wrong with him?”

“Oh, he’s a little drained. He hasn’t fed in a while.” Carlisle waves his hand. “We’ve been busy trying to track down our visitors.”

It is the truth, but that is not why he’s struggling to stand. Edward continues to read Sam’s thoughts as he wonders how to break the news, chance flashes of memories slipping into the thoughts as he replays the moment he saw Harry in the woods of La Push, as he smelled the burning ash of a vampire. Emmett elbows him slightly, trying to get Edward to pull himself together. The thought feels impossible. It should be impossible. It was only yesterday that Edward had declared his intent to protect Harry and kill this vampire. Now, he has come to learn that not only did he not protect Harry—which he should have, La Push lands or not—but Harry killed the vampire on his own, like he said he could. It is a reminder that Harry doesn’t need him, not in the same way he feels he needs Harry.

“I’m here about those visitors. One was on the Rez earlier.”

“Just one?” Emmett asks, crossing his arms. “We’re sure there’s at least two of them.”

“We didn’t know there were so many.” Sam hesitates.

Edward wishes he would hurry up and say it, because until he does, Edward cannot react. Restricted by his act. Forced to pretend he doesn’t already know what Sam wants to tell them.

“What is it, Sam?” Carlisle asks.

His father’s fingers twitch ever so slightly in his direction. A warning to stay calm and maintain normalcy. Edward shivers with the strength it takes him to withhold his desire to sprint away from here and straight to Harry’s magical wall, to bang on it repeatedly until the wizard lets him inside.

“He was killed. By the wizard.”

Carlisle’s eyes dart to Edward minutely, but Emmett turns his head around completely and smiles at Edward with a shit-eating grin.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Emmett says.

“Did you see James kill this vampire?” Carlisle asks.

Edward is not sure whether it is because he doubts Harry’s ability to kill them, or if he is more curious about how it was done.

“No. Apparently, he was approached by the vampire in the woods near La Push. Jacob Black stumbled onto them whilst they were...mid-confrontation and found himself taken hostage. James killed it quickly after that.” Sam shrugs, but the action is not as nonchalant and relaxed as he wants it to appear. His heart rate races, even higher than is usual for the elevated beat of the wolves. His fingers clench his biceps.

“Is Jacob okay?”

Sam looks almost surprised that Carlisle asked, as if he is not first-and-foremost a doctor before he is a vampire. He makes a much better doctor than he does vampire, if one considers the typical vampire stereotypes as a baseline.

“The event triggered his transformation. James called for us to help him, and that is how we found out what happened.”

Edward already knows this. He knows that Sam was summoned by something he calls ‘a big blue stag’ and he knows he was threatened by Harry for growling at Jacob. He knows Harry had already ripped up the vampire and burnt it to ash, much quicker than is possible for a normal fire. He can only imagine the burn of a magical fire if it was able to reduce one of their kind to dust in mere minutes. Edward knows that Sam wasn’t even aware of the vampire on their lands. That the vampire must have stalked the Reservation enough to know their patrol timings.

What Edward doesn’t know is why. Why was the vampire after Harry? Why was Harry alone in some random part of the woods when he had gone to La Push with several human classmates? Why was Jacob even there? Edward takes a step back, but Emmett moves suddenly, to behind him. Blocking his escape. Sam manages to not flinch at Emmett’s quick movement, but Paul growls lowly at them, pinning his ears back.

“Thank you for letting us know. It seems we need to meet with James to see if he learned anything from the vampire. It would be beneficial to know why these nomads have travelled so far west,” Carlisle continues diplomatically.

Sam nods and pushes himself off the tree, moving to edge back into the trees. “We would appreciate if you shared information with us earlier. We were not aware there were so many.”

“Of course,” Carlisle says. “My apologies. We will ensure to contact you if we come across any information, or if James has anything pertinent to share.”

At James’s name, Sam pauses. His face constricts in confliction and Edward listens to him wrestle within about giving a warning to his sworn enemies. Edward wishes Sam would refrain from niceties and simply leave. Until they are gone, Edward is doomed to stand here motionlessly, with Emmett his guard. He doesn’t need to hear the warning Sam is agonising over sharing. He’s already thought about it himself for days on end when he first met Harry. Before he even met him.

“About the wizard,” Sam starts, sweat pooling on his forehead as though the effort alone to share his words of advice is agonising. “You should be careful. He is...unpredictable. Dangerous. His abilities go beyond comprehension.”

Edward thinks Sam would die of a heart attack if he’d seen Harry do the things Edward has. He knows Sam has only seen the slightest demonstrations of Harry’s power. Sam hasn’t had a wand at his throat, with sweet nothings about murder and possession whispered into his ears. Sam hasn’t seen those green eyes flare with the unbridled desire to fulfill his threats.

“Thank you for the warning, Sam,” Carlisle says, nodding as Sam disappears into the darkness of the forest, Paul covering his back with a snapping maw.

This wizard of yours is a bad-ass, Emmet thinks deliberately for Edward. He’s got the wolves running scared. For good reason, Edward knows. Maybe Sam is the only sane one of them all. Carlisle turns to him. He knows how painful it has been to stay here for those agonising minutes, waiting to hear information be shared that he knew instantaneously.

“Go,” he says, jerking his head to the side.

Edward is gone before the syllable is finished.

Chapter Text

“Master!” Kreacher says, standing over Harry and tapping his cheek harder than is considered nicely. “Master, wake up!”

“Huh? Whaissit?” Harry mumbles, his words melding into one. He rolls over and Kreacher’s legs tangle in the blankets. He tumbles to the side, bony elbow digging into Harry’s ribcage and waking him up proper. “Ow, fuck,” Harry swears, rolling into a ball like a diricrawl and clutching his side. “What the hell, Kreacher!?”

“Is not Kreacher’s fault. Master sleep the afternoon away.” Kreacher clambers off the bed and narrows his bulbous eyes at Harry, still wrapped in the red and gold duvet of his bed. “That horrible bloodsucker is here. The wards have been ringing for an hour now! Kreacher tolds him to leave, but he refuses.”

Harry groans and just barely represses the urge to throw a tantrum and kick his legs around under the blankets. It was bad enough waking early this morning to make the group-agreed time to meet at the school and head to La Push together. And then he spent an entire day socialising. And then he went and dusted a vampire and helped Jacob through his transformation. And then he had to go back and pretend for all his muggle acquaintances that he wasn’t tired and still angry at Sam for being a thick-skulled idiot. And then he had to suffer through Tyler’s horrible rapping on the drive back to the school. So, when he finally made it home, Harry decided to go straight to bed—four PM be damned.

Harry almost asks Kreacher what time it is but realises he doesn’t have the energy to waste when it doesn’t matter. He just needs to get Edward to bugger off and then he can continue sleeping, preferably for the entire weekend. Harry considers his options as the ward alarm blares in his mind.

“Let him in,” Harry says finally, snuggling down deeper into his bed. Kreacher nods and turns to disapparate. “And for Salazar’s sake do not make tea!” Harry quickly adds, yelling at the elf just as he disappears.

Harry closes his eyes and thinks about sleeping a bit more, but he is riddled with the thought that his room might be messy. He lifts his head and checks. His jacket lays across the high wingback chair next to the fireplace, dumped as soon as he returned. His damp jeans are sprawled across the floor next to it. The fire crackles lowly and Harry thinks he can play off his jeans as purposefully placed there to dry faster. An empty glass sits on his bedside table, alongside a Firewhiskey bottle with only a finger left drizzled in the bottom. A bottle of muggle pain-relief and a glass of water sits beside it. He refuses to consider how those items scream ‘unstable’ and highlight his not-mind-healer-recommended self-medicating habits. His curtains are a mixture of open and closed, where Harry had gotten too lazy with even his wandless magic to finish drawing them before sleeping. The rest of the room is relatively tidy, at least according to him.

Hermione would rant about how he’s stacked books on the floor next to the end of his bed and tell him that he has a perfectly good bookshelf in his room to use—even though the bookshelf is already filled with the dark arts books he’s collected over the years and stuffed with knickknacks from his school years or things he swiped from the dungeons of aspiring dark lords. The walls are blank, though. Harry has never gotten around to replacing the Black family portraits he’d taken down. They were all disposed of. Apart from Walburga, that is, who still rots in the dungeons with only Kreacher to gossip with.

He’s not sure why he even bothers checking what his room looks like. It shouldn’t matter to him if his room is a bit of a mess. He flops back down onto the bed and closes his eyes, burying his head into one of his many pillows and dragging his duvet over his head. Why did he decide to stay in bed and invite Edward in anyway? It is not like him to put himself in such a vulnerable position. Tired or not. It’s too late to really consider the why’s and if he should change tactics, because Kreacher knocks on the door in his unique four-knock pattern, opening it only when Harry grunts out an acknowledgement, his eyes still closed, and head buried under the blanket.

“Master, the thing is here.” Kreacher announces and apparates away instantly, as if being near Edward is a worse social faux pas than being seen with a muggle-born when Walburga was still alive.

“Harry,” Edward says, voice soft and complicated.

Harry realises why he’s here. He flips the blanket down, exposing his face and chest, and glares at Edward.

“You don’t need to check up on me just because Sam dobbed me in. I am perfectly fine.”

Edward doesn’t speak. He seems unable to do so, frozen in place at the foot of the bed and mouth half-open. His eyes, darker than usual, flicker rapidly around both the room and Harry.

“What?” Harry asks, patting his hair down. “Is my bed hair crazy?”

It feels like it might be. It usually is after a mid-afternoon nap. Something about them gets his body really relaxed, but also hyperactive. He sleeps like the dead but apparently shuffles around a lot. He pats the curls down a bit even though he knows it won’t do much.

Edward seems to pull himself together, looking away and clearing his throat slightly.

“I was worried,” he says demurely, in a way Harry would swear meant he was embarrassed. He’s sure Edward would be blushing if he weren’t a vampire.

“Why?” Harry shuffles himself up a bit, resting his back against the puffed, grey material headboard. “I’m assuming Sam told you what happened.”

Edward nods and looks back at Harry, eyes roaming over him again to the point Harry gets self-conscious again and drags the blanket a little higher. Edward looks away quickly when he notices, but Harry doesn’t miss the way his fingers flex into a fist and relax again.

“Am I not allowed to simply be worried for you? Killing a vampire is no easy task.”

“It was easy,” Harry says, because it is the truth. The truth seems somewhat diluted when it comes from someone in bed, obviously post-nap. Edward’s raised eyebrow implies as such, too. “I’m just tired because I had to wake up early. And hang out with Mike all day.”

Edward’s eyes are unnerving when they are darker. He looks more dishevelled, instantly more like an actual vampire, deadly and dangerous. He supposes Edward is always deadly and always dangerous, he just chooses not to be. Harry feels they are a good match in that sense. Edward’s golden eyes really do make him more approachable. He seems softer with them. Now, his face is all dark shadows and sharp angles, carved from repressed desires and a fundamental thirst he has not filled.

“What happened?” Edward asks. He stands perfectly stationary at the end of the bed and Harry begins to feel like he is bedridden, being interviewed in the nurse’s office of Hogwarts.

“Can you stop standing like that? Sit down or something,” Harry snaps, waving his hand at the end of the bed. Edward perches himself on the edge of it. He looks like he’d prefer to run away than touch the bed. “And nothing happened. The vampire came, we met, and it ended up with his head on the floor. It’s fine.”

“I heard Jacob transformed.”

Harry can see the great pain it takes Edward to change the subject and not demand more details from him.

“Yes. He’s alright.” Edward nods, his eyes trailing to Harry and then darting away every few seconds. Harry pauses. "Why do you smell like garlic?"

Edward smiles to himself. "Esme has been practicing her cooking." He twirls a loose strand on the duvet in a repetitive movement Harry views as rather odd for a vampire. Too human, almost. “You burned the body,” Edward says.

It is not a question. Harry wonders how much Edward really knows, and what it is Sam shared willingly versus how much Edward stole from his mind.

“Yes.”

“Why? Did you already know? That we are weak to fire?”

“I assumed that you are not too different to magical vampires. When he kept moving after I’d already killed him, I figured fire would work.” Harry shrugs, the movement dragging Edward’s eyes to his bare shoulders.

“I suppose this is why you didn’t want to leave with me,” Edward says suddenly. “You are right. You do not need my protection.”

Harry curls his hands into his blanket at Edward’s downcast face. He doesn’t need protecting. He certainly doesn’t want to be shuttled away from danger in some misguided attempt to do so. But Edward looks so hurt at the idea, and Harry knows what it feels like to not be needed. Or wanted. It permeated his childhood and returned with a vengeance in his adulthood when he vanquished Voldemort and realised, he isn’t good for anything else. At least the Aurors had wanted him.

“There are other ways you can be of use,” Harry says. “As my friend, you are rather entertaining.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

Edward replies so quickly Harry feels he’s misheard him. There is no room for misinterpretation with the way Edward’s eyes bore into his and the intensity of the stare. Edward made himself clear last time on how he felt about Harry, even if it was in a more subdued manner than this outright declination of friendship.

“O-oh. Erm—” Harry stutters, blushes, and looks away.

He hasn’t been around someone with romantic feelings for him since Ginny. Well, no one he cared for anyway. There had been a few others in there who made it to a two- or three-night stand. Wizards and witches; those who knew who he was. Some of them had declared their love for Harry after one too many nights together, and that is when Harry decided to stick to muggle relationships, because they were easier to lose and less likely to fall in ‘love’ with him. They did not know who he was, after all. Few people seem to have an interest in loving Harry. Simply Harry, not Harry Potter.

“I apologise if I made you uncomfortable.”

“No!” Harry says, looking back and then deciding that was a bad idea. “You were simply more straightforward than I expected.”

Part of Harry wonders what it would be like to date Edward. He’s controlling and selfish in ways Harry detests, but he’s also a vampire who has the ability to mind-read and has likely never been called out on his over-the-top tendencies. Every time Harry has reprimanded him, Edward seems to have listened and learnt. He no longer tries to enter Harry’s mind, even if he can feel the slight pressure from Edward’s mind being so open, his feelers constantly on edge trying to enter every mind around. Harry has been living under the assumption that everyone he will ever love will die, and that he will be stuck alone, undying and unageing on his planet. But Edward is both of those things already and not connected to the magical world in any way. He is Harry’s ideal partner: muggle and immortal.

Harry has had an interest in Edward. He has found himself watching the vampire, even when he didn’t need to be. When Edward misses school, Harry worries. He finds Edward funny. When he is relaxed, Edward has a wicked sense of humour and dry sarcasm that Harry uses often himself. There are many things wrong with Edward, but there are also many things right. Harry cannot help but wonder about what life could be like, travelling and living alongside a vampire family. It wouldn’t just be Edward, after all. He would have a whole immortal family.

“Would it be too straightforward of me to ask you on a date?” Edward shuffles forward slightly, bringing himself closer on the bed.

A date.

Harry knows there are many reasons to say no. He can practically feel the word bubbling in his chest. An instant rejection would be the easiest. But, more than that, he thinks about his own interest for once. How his own heart beats faster when Edward looks at him or how his hands break out into a sweat when he thinks about dragging Edward to him. He thinks about the nerves that shoot through him when their thighs press together under the table at lunch. He thinks about Hermione, telling him to put himself out there more, even when she knows he can’t love for real because everyone is so fragile and short-lived. Edward is neither of those things.

“Alright,” Harry says softly, looking away like a coward. Maybe that’s one of his less Gryffindor traits. To be cowardly when it comes to romance. “A date,” he whispers, more to himself, even if Edward can hear it perfectly.

He hasn’t gone on a date date in years. An actual, romantic date. One with the hopes and possibilities of more in the future, from someone who isn’t after clout or popularity, or a hook-up. This is a date for the sake of future dating. Harry has to bite his tongue to stop the instant take-back from tumbling from his mouth.

Edward takes too long to reply, so Harry dares a glance back at him. The sight makes his heart stutter. Edward is smiling. With those dark, hungry eyes, softened at the edges. Eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. Pure, unadulterated happiness stretched across his lips. Harry feels himself smiling back instinctively. He tamps it down a bit and looks away, not missing the way Edward edges forward more, sliding his way up closer to Harry until he sits next to Harry’s thigh.

“Really?” Edward asks.

“I can take it back.”

“No! No, don’t. Please.”

Edward puts his hand out and grabs Harry’s, tugging it gently toward him. He rotates Harry’s hand in his. Edward’s fingers are cold against his tanned skin, the chilly tips of them run along his thumb and brush over his knuckles. That’s when Harry stiffens. When he realises why Edward was so flustered earlier. Harry had idly thought Edward was embarrassed finding him in bed, shirtless. That it was flustering to the vampire because he obviously holds some attraction for Harry. Maybe that is part of the reason, but Harry knows now it is because he’s forgotten his glamour.

“Will you tell me about them?” Edward asks carefully, twisting Harry’s hand over so the words I must not tell lies are hidden and his bare forearm faces them, the jagged scar from the basilisk’s fang shining between them. It’s cut in half more than once, with long, upwards slices, each of which Harry remembers vividly.

Harry can’t bring himself to respond. He considers obliviating Edward, though he isn’t sure why. Edward is one of the only beings who Harry could ever truly feel comfortable opening up to—he’s admitted this to himself. If their…whatever is to have any chance at working out between them, Edward would need to see these. Harry would have to show himself eventually. It’s unrealistic for him to think he could maintain his glamours forever in front of Edward, especially when he doesn’t need to sleep like Harry does. Still, the knowledge that Edward can see his scars has a pit of horror settling in his stomach.

His lightning scar is, firstly, his identity. It’s how he’s always been found. Judged. Celebrated. It’s a mark that holds significance beyond just himself. It is beyond him now. A legend and lore, a myth in his society. A thing, more than him. He instinctually lifts his left hand to touch it, brushing his fingers along the flaring edges. It doesn’t ache anymore. Not since Voldemort died, but sometimes he imagines it still does, like right now.

Edward watches him carefully, his dark eyes unreadable. Harry misses his light ones. They’re easier to understand. At least he likes to think so. He drops his hand from his forehead after messing his hair up a bit, dragging it down habitually to cover as much of it as he can. Not that it helps. Even if the scar didn’t lance across his nose and to the tips of his cheek, Harry’s still sitting here shirtless. Dozens of his scars are visible—the slice on his jugular, the dozens on his wrists, the lightning bolts crawling out from his heart and across his chest. The swirls of healed skin where he has splinched himself several times. The uneven scars from his impalement—in many ways, his first death. And dozens more, those he’s forgotten how they came to exist. Ones from himself, ones from dark wizards and odd creatures. Harry realises the glamour does more than just hide his scars for others; they hide them even from himself.

“You don’t have to,” Edward says, index finger tracing one of his self-inflicted, life-ending scars, straight through the middle of the basilisk fang scar. Harry shivers and then clears his throat.

“It’s from a basilisk.”

Harry wonders where the Gryffindor in him has gone. Edward isn’t asking about that scar. He knows that. But to talk about the others is to bring up something he’s not ready to share. Or might not ever be. Edward must know what those scars are. Harry just has to hope he considers them to be failed attempts and that he doesn’t think more closely about that night in the motel, where he’d found Harry directly after death.

“A snake? It’s a bit big, isn’t it?” Edward inspects it closer, tracing the circular outline and the jagged line sideways where Harry had ripped it out less than perfectly straight.

“A basilisk, not a snake. They’re rather large.”

“Why were you bit by a basilisk? Is this normal for wizards?”

“No,” Harry says, looking at the wall instead of Edward’s probing eyes. He decides not to say more.

“Venomous?” Edward asks.

“Very.”

Edward’s hand tightens around his own. “How did you survive?”

“A phoenix cried on the wound. Their tears have healing properties.”

Harry knows it’s a rather unbelievable and ridiculous story, but Edward seems to have grown used to the weirdness he constantly experiences around him, because he doesn’t even bat an eye. Instead, he turns Harry’s hand over and runs his fingers along the words etched into the back of his hand.

“And this?”

“School detention.” Harry gently pulls his hand from Edward’s and curls it into a fist, wrapping it with his left hand as if hiding it would pretend it doesn’t exist. “I was asked to write lines.”

“Onto your own hand?” Edward looks aghast.

“Basically. It was a blood quill. Every line I wrote was scratched into my own hand.” Harry rubs at it, willing the memory away.

“That’s horrible! What sort of school would allow that as a punishment?”

“There was a lot going on that year.”

Edward opens his mouth to speak but stops, eyes darting between Harry’s. Whatever he sees makes him close his mouth and nod. Harry is grateful. He doesn’t want to talk about Umbridge. Or about that entire year, really, and all the memories it holds. The middle of the end. Not the beginning, because the beginning of the end was really the moment Harry got his Hogwarts letter. Maybe even earlier, when Dumbledore decided to send him to the Dursley’s. When he didn’t help Sirius by fighting for his right to a trial. But fifth year? That was truly the middle of the end.

“You usually hide them with magic?” Edward asks, leaning back slightly, giving Harry breathing room he desperately wanted.

Harry nods and takes the opportunity to activate the glamour, casting the magic wordlessly. His skin tingles as the scars blur away. Edward watches it greedily, eyes darting across his chest and face and arms as each scar disappears. Harry feels like he can breathe a little easier once they are covered.

“About that date—” Harry starts after an awkward silence.

Edward’s face drops. “Please don’t take it back,” he whispers.

“No—no, I’m not. I just…when do you want to go?”

His change of subject wasn’t as good at smoothing the awkwardness as he thought it was going to be. Godric, Harry really should consider obliviating this entire meeting from both of their minds, so he won’t ever have to be reminded of it.

“Friday. If you are free,” he says softly. Harry nods and fights the urge to look away again. Edward smiles blindingly at him, fangs shining. “I should get back to my family. We are heading out to try and track down the remaining nomads.” Edward stands up and shakes his head when Harry moves to shuffle from the bed. “Stay. Rest.”

“I should help you guys track them,” Harry says.

“You’ve already done enough. You should rest now. Let us take care of it.” Edward’s fingers twitch with some restrained movement. “There’s a storm tomorrow. We’ll be going to play baseball. Would you like to join us?”

“Join you? For baseball? In a storm?” Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I think you’ll find it entertaining. Carlisle is dying to ask you more questions about wizards.”

Harry thinks about it for a moment. “I suppose Alice will be there?”

Edward nods, face carefully impassive.

“Fine,” Harry says with a sigh, because as much as he doesn’t want to be around Alice for too long, vampire baseball really does sound rather fun. “Where? And when?”

“I’ll come and get you, after lunch.”

“Alright.” Harry shuffles himself lower in bed and pulls the blanket up his chest, suddenly feeling a chill in the air even though Edward is now further away than before. “Kreacher!”

“Yes, Master?” Kreacher appears, side-eyeing Edward.

“Can you take Edward to the wards? Also, he’ll be here tomorrow, so please just let him in when he arrives.”

“If Master thinks that be smart,” Kreacher says in a rather back-handed agreement. He steps up to Edward and curls his hand on his trousers.

Edward holds Harry’s eyes until he’s spun away with a crack.

Chapter Text

Edward feels he must have been possessed.

He visited Harry with the best of intentions. He wanted to check on the wizard, ensure he truly was fine after his ordeal with the nomad. Part of Edward wanted to express his—admittedly unwarranted—anger at Harry for putting himself in such a position with a vampire. All Edward could think about were the possibilities. The outcomes where Harry didn’t succeed, and he wasn’t the stronger or faster one. Futures of Harry with his throat ripped out or his head snapped awkwardly to the side; of his body, crumbled at the foot of their house like a crude offering from the obviously obsessed nomad. He didn’t even need Alice to show him all the horrible possible futures, because his own imagination, his own fear, was more than enough.

He'd even argued with the elf, Kreacher, who had come to the border of Harry’s property with a spray bottle of suspiciously garlic-scented water and demanded Edward leave. The elf even spritzed him for good measure. Edward didn’t have the heart to tell him that garlic doesn’t impact him at all, apart from the annoyingly strong scent. He assumes vampires in the magical world must be weak to garlic. Perhaps magical vampires are the true catalyst for vampire lore. He’d made a mental note to ask Harry about it later whilst pleading his case with Kreacher that he simply wanted to check in on Harry—that he had heard about what happened at the Reservation.

“What did those dogs do to my Master?” Kreacher had asked, spray bottle lifted as if one wrong word would earn him another spritz. Edward had felt a kindred spirit connection at the protective nature of the elf and his obvious dislike for the wolves. Kreacher seems to dislike Edward too, but that seems a rather small detail he can rectify later.

“There was a vampire. Harry fought with it on the wolf lands. I just want to check he is okay,” Edward had explained, and a small, rather unsettling smile peeled across Kreacher’s rounded face.

“Master! Always working so hard.”

Kreacher stood for a moment and then giggled to himself, and Edward wished he could read the elf’s mind. He isn’t sure whether he cannot read his mind because of Harry, or if he can’t read the minds of all magical elves. It’s another thing added to his growing list of questions concerning the magical world. Kreacher’s smile dropped from his face, and he sprayed the garlic-mist at Edward again.

“Master be fine. You be gone now. Master is resting.”

Resting had sounded bad to Edward at the time—it made him think that Harry was exerted from his fight, that perhaps he had overdone it, or even been injured. Edward had refused to leave and stood his ground for another ten minutes before the elf stomped his foot and left, the barrier fuzzing back into place so Edward could no longer hear the elf’s heart beating or smell the garlic wafting in the air. Still, Edward had waited, positive Harry would let him in at some point.

Edward rolls to his side, pressing his hands to his eyeballs as if it could engrave the memories into his eyelids so that every time he blinked, he could see it playing all over again. He lets out a rather uncharacteristic groan of frustration. His body alight with nerves and energy. The type he could only release with a long, challenging hunt.

Yes, he must have been possessed.

Because there is no other explanation for how Edward went from murderous rage to all-consuming lust back to the same murderous rage, only to end on some warm, fuzzy feeling that made his fingers twitch and his knee shake. He’d been furious at Harry by the time Kreacher returned over an hour later with a begrudging acknowledgement that he was now allowed to enter. Whatever worry and concern he’d held for Harry on his run there had dissipated the longer he’d waited at that magical border, and when Kreacher had gripped his leg and transported them with that gross, toothpaste-like magic—which Edward was slowly starting to get used to—Edward had realised he held only anger for Harry. He wanted to reprimand the wizard for not valuing his life enough, for putting others in harm’s way, for putting himself in harm's way. For making Edward worry.

But then Edward had seen Harry in bed.

Edward groans and lets his hands fall from his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. It’s like a cinema screen, rolling back the tapes of the moment he spotted Harry, hair dishevelled, tanned shoulders curling the duvet down to reveal his toned chest. In a too-familiar four-poster bed, with a too-familiar fire crackling opposite it, with too-familiar dark furniture with golden accents. Harry, shirtless, wrapped in that forsaken duvet. If Edward were naked, and Harry more bruised, more debauched, then Edward would have assumed he’d been ensnared in some horrible magic that forces one to relive their worst—best—desires, dreams, nightmares.

Edward is a rather simple man who has never felt as though his baser instincts as a male have ever run truly rampant in his mind. He’s found it much more difficult to reign in his blood lust over his lifetime than he has to reign in his lust which, all things considered, seemed rather non-existent until the moment Alice had that embarrassing vision. Edward had never felt such pure sexual want before that vision. It’s been dethroned now, by Harry of reality, who looks much too similar to the ravaged Harry of his treasured vision. Edward had certainly never had to wrangle with lust the way he had when seeing Harry, hair mussed and shirtless in bed, looking up at him with those green eyes that haunt his mind.

In the midst of his sexual crisis, catching Edward’s eyes, was the scar. The one he’d wondered about since they’d met. The lightning-like scar across Harry’s face that Edward had seen in Alice’s visions before they had ever met. The one from the visions that predicted Harry’s arrival and their connection. Visions of Edward, arms curled around Harry possessively, and Harry’s bright, unnerving eyes hunting him from over vision-Edward’s shoulders. From the visions where Harry looked at them, before they’d even known him.

Edward had worked so hard to keep his composure. His anger had dwindled, puffed out of existence along with all memories of why he was there. It took great concentration to look away from Harry, and not just because that lighting scar was visible. All his scars were visible. Edward doesn’t know how much energy, how much magic Harry must spend every minute of every day to conceal his true body. It reminded Edward of Jasper’s scars from the wars. The bites buried into his diamond skin, barely concealed from weak human eyes. Layers of them, curled on top of each other, around each other. Harry is like that, but worse. Because where Jasper’s scars are light, almost blended into his pale skin, only visible under the correct light to those without their heightened eyesight, Harry’s were brutally visible.

Some were red and lumpy, scars that healed under obviously strenuous conditions. Others are faded and light. Perhaps from childhood—small burns on his wrists, cuts on his fingers. Above his heart was a deep crevice of a scar, one that seemed to have been injured many times in one spot, with the same lightning markings as his face pulsing out from the hollow in all directions. Some of the branches curled up his neck, others over his shoulders. When Harry moved to cover himself up, Edward had looked away, but those few milliseconds of watching still let him memorise the scars sliced down his arms, the top of a large scar on his abdomen. Of words, carved into his hand. I must not tell lies.

It was then that the budding heat curling in his stomach festered into something evil again. He’d tried his best to keep the conversation going and his expressions rather stoic, because he understands Harry now, and any negative reaction is more likely to freak him out than Edward simply pretending nothing is out of the ordinary. Now that he is back home, in the safety of his room, Edward can let himself feel the hatred and bloodlust for whatever evil being had forced Harry to scar himself with his own handwriting. It is a cruel and unusual punishment that has Edward wondering how archaic these wizarding types are, to consider something so disgusting for a school punishment. Even in his own time, such cruelties were not dealt to children.

Still, he’d withheld his rage and bottled the unruly emotions rattling in their cage for revenge. He’d swallowed the urge to rampage like the unholy creature of darkness he feels he is and focused instead on Harry’s soft-furrowed eyebrows and the eyes that watched him carefully, assessing his every movement with unnerving focus. Edward found himself uncomfortable under Harry’s gaze. So much so, he reverted to the rather human action of fiddling in an attempt to reign control over his own urges to rip the duvet from Harry and see what other scars were hidden beneath the red and gold cover.

And then, he’d been possessed.

Perhaps the garlic-spray affected his senses somehow. Maybe the overwhelming scent had slowly infused itself into his brain and then his synapses misfired, because he didn’t rage at Harry for his idiocy. He didn’t demand to know every scar and its cause. He didn’t rip the duvet from Harry and act on all the depraved thoughts flitting in his mind. Instead, he asked Harry on a date.

A date.

Yes, that garlic spray had truly done its job. Kreacher is perhaps a more formidable opponent than Edward had given him credit for. A weakness he never thought he had suddenly manifested in the most inopportune time. Edward groans and rolls over, curling himself up tightly as if it could erase the horrible sickness roiling in his stomach. He can hear Jasper in the hallway, steps hesitant to enter and mind loudly worrying about his unstable emotions.

“Just come in,” he mumbles, sitting up as Jasper pushes the door open.

He stands in the doorway rather awkwardly for a whole minute. Edward reads his mind, and Jasper reads his emotions. Neither of them needs to speak. They don’t even get the chance to because Rosalie stomps into the room, her nose upturned in disdain as she looks at Edward’s rather feeble form hunched on the couch in his room, dark bags under his pitch-black eyes and clothes dishevelled in a way she would usually scold him for.

“Get up,” she says, standing before Edward.

Alice sneaks up to the door and shuffles Jasper away, leaving Edward to Rosalie’s mercy. She grips his collar when he doesn’t move and jerks him to his feet. Her eyes are gold, her blonde hair waving around her like a righteous halo. Edward wants to close his eyes from the brightness.

“Let’s go,” Rosalie demands, pushing him to the door of his balcony, shoving him off the edge without warning. “Follow.” She runs away with a curt glare backward and Edward sighs, following her through the woods.

He’s such a fucking idiot, she thinks, and Edward tries not to get angry at the way she keeps cussing him out in her mind. She’ll just get more pissed off if he reacts to her thoughts. God, he needs to get his shit together. Such a child. Edward wants to point out that she is only one human-year older than him and that he’s almost fifteen vampire-years older. I don’t understand what his issue is. A hundred years and he still has commitment issues. News flash, you’re not going anywhere. Time to get off your high-fucking horse and make a move.

“You think I should court James?” Edward asks, pushing himself to run beside her.

Rosalie’s arm juts out and whacks him in the stomach.

“Stop reading my mind.”

“You know I can’t help it.”

A bit of guilt festers in his stomach at the comment. Can he really not help it? Isn’t that what Harry yelled at him for, all those weeks ago at the port in Seattle, drunk on whiskey? Edward isn’t sure if he’s ever truly tried not to read the minds of those around him. It seems stupid to put himself in such a vulnerable position with no access to information that he might need. Bullshit. I bet you’ve never even tried, Harry had slurred.

“I’ll try not to,” Edward mutters, looking away from Rosalie and to the cliff face in the distance—no doubt their destination.

What the fuck? Rosalie thinks and Edward tries very, very hard to reel his mind in and focus on anything other than her rampaging, confused thoughts.

“I suppose that wizard has been good for something,” Rosalie sneers, darting to the side to avoid a tree. “Who knew the proud Edward Cullen would ever attempt to not read someone’s mind.”

Edward decides not to bite on the low-hanging insult and skids to a stop at the base of the cliff, where he usually hunts. Partly because there are plenty of mountain lions in the vicinity and a herd of deer that frequent the patches of forbs at the base, and partly because he enjoys scaling the cliff for views after he has fed. It’s a ritual of sorts. A way to clear his mind after feeding and allow the blood lust to run its course.

“Of course, I think you should make a move,” Rosalie says, perching herself on a ledge of the cliff around six feet from the ground.

“But why? He could be a danger—”

“Oh, please. Don’t spout that bullshit to me.” She glares at him, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Haven’t you already used that excuse? Besides, the boat for that argument has long sailed since someone couldn’t stop himself from getting involved with him.”

“I didn’t get involved with him, he got involved with us,” Edward replies, trying to ignore all her thoughts of the times he did, in fact, engage with James.

“What are you really so scared of?” Rosalie asks.

It’s an uncharacteristic question, one ladened with more meaning that Edward knows what to do with.  She’s the first sibling he ever had. They’ve seen each other at their worst. They have existed alongside each other through their own terrible actions. They've both seen their eyes turn from gold to red and back. More times than he’d like to admit. There had been a time in the past when they were close. When they confided in each other in secret from Carlisle and Esme. Somewhere along the way, their relationship became twisted and convoluted, only protected by the thin veil of siblinghood they project. It became burdened with hurt feelings and broken promises and misunderstood actions. But here she is, still his sister, still the only sibling who has seen him at his most demonic and holds no contempt in her eyes because she, too, has been to the depths of power and clawed her way back.

“I’m scared of losing him.”

“Is it not better to lose than to never know?”

Edward shakes his head. “I don’t think I could survive such a loss.”

“Then leave.”

“What?”

Rosalie jumps from the cliff and stalks to him, poking his chest with a perfectly manicured nail.

“Leave,” she says lowly. “Ask the coven to move on. You know we would.” For you, she thinks, if you just ask, we would have left months ago. Before he ever turned up.

“I—” Edward trails off, brain pulling to a halt. He could ask them to leave. It has never crossed his mind as a viable option, nothing more than a simple thought he would brush off. He only ever truly considered leaving alone or killing Harry. Back before he knew Harry or knew that Harry was not a simple human. He never once seriously considered asking the coven to move with him. It seems ridiculous now that such an easy solution to his months of dreading Harry’s arrival will find him now.

“You can’t. Won’t,” Rosalie continues, her finger digging harder into his chest. “So why are you hesitating so much? You’ve already committed, Edward. You just won’t admit it.”

“I—I asked him on a date.” Rosalie steps back, gives Edward time to breathe and collect his jumbled thoughts.

“So that’s why you’re freaked out.” God, what is he? Twelve? It’s just a date.

“What if—what if it doesn’t work out? What if it does?” Edward groans, running a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to rip it from his skull.

“You’re a coward.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling me it’s too dangerous? That it puts the family at risk?” Edward demands. “That’s always what you say. It never mattered what any of us wanted before.”

“It’s different,” Rosalie says with a small sniff, turning and walking away from him. “This isn’t a human. It’s been rather fun seeing you lose composure. Besides, it’s time you find someone for yourself.” And stop moping about the house like a perpetual bachelor.

“But he’s—not like us.”

“And we’re not like him. Why don’t you just learn more about his kind before throwing in the towel?” She replies, already deep into the trees. “It’s just a date, Edward. It’s not like you’re getting married. Stop moping about it, or I’ll visit him myself.”

Edward can only imagine the horrible things Rosalie would say to Harry if she met him. Horrible for Edward, at least. The two seem like they would get along rather well, all things considered. He doesn’t want to experience such a thing. Not yet at least.

Rosalie leaves, her fast footsteps crackling out of hearing range within seconds, leaving Edward to wallow in his thoughts. The thing is, he wants to go on this date with Harry. He wants to see if they could work out, and to consider the possibilities of a future with him. But the thought also scares him—more than anything else ever has. Edward doesn’t feel in control when Harry is around. In fact, he’s often very out of control in all the ways that matter. Like a floundering fish gasping for air on the sand, rendered helpless on the line of those observant green eyes. He never knows what Harry is thinking or feeling, and he can never truly understand why Harry reacts to some things so violently and others so casually. He doesn’t even understand why Harry said yes to the date when his face and body screamed how much he wanted to say no. Perhaps a part of Edward even wanted him to do so. He wasn’t above begging Harry to say yes, but there was a part of him that wished he would say no and save them both from this unstable future.

Alice’s visions of their future together are so inconsistent. It could be Harry’s magic making them so vastly different, since she can’t always see visions involving it, but they are either rose-tinted dreams or death-filled nightmares. There are ones where they live happily with the Cullens, Harry slotting into the family like a puzzle piece they were missing, joining the family without reservation, sharing his life and love with Edward. Or there is death. Sometimes it is Edward’s death, other times, it is Harry’s. Usually, it’s Harry’s. It seems Edward follows soon after, destroyed by the Volturi. Sometimes, rarely, it’s Harry who kills Edward. Other times, Edward kills Harry, eyes blood-red. Sometimes, they are tangled in bedsheets and other times in fights.

There is never an in-between, and that might just be how Harry and Edward are destined to be. Extremes, constantly on either end of the spectrum of love and death, floating between them with uncertainty. Edward doesn’t want to kill Harry anymore. He’s sure that Harry doesn’t want to kill him either, but somehow, they manage to make their way there, again, constantly, possibly. And to go on this date—that he orchestrated—is to commit to those possible futures in their entirety, every good and bad one, and pray that they both might find the ending that makes them happy. It’s reckless and ridiculous and lacks any and all logic, yet Edward still did it.

All he can do now is accept the decision, and revel in the excitement he’d felt when Harry whispered his yes. Edward feels it’s rather too late for him, anyway. No amount of thinking or planning could stop what he feels for the wizard, and he’s willing to risk his own death if it means the slight possibility that they fall on the love end of the spectrum. He won’t risk Harry’s life though and will need to ensure that every future of Harry dead doesn’t come true, even if it means ensuring his own demise to do so.

With his unstable emotions partly controlled with the decision to protect Harry once again, even if it is from himself, Edward closes his eyes and sinks into a much-needed hunt. He needs his energy up for tonight’s tracking of the last two nomads and he won’t risk being hungry around Harry again tomorrow.

It was hard enough being around Harry this morning with his scent so deeply engraved into the room and his hunger at an all-time peak. If Harry’s scars hadn’t been visible and kept him distracted, Edward would have had trouble not pouncing on the man. Which is the absolute last thing he wants to happen at family baseball or on their decisive date. So, he hunts, and maybe as he drinks, a part of his brain remembers the vision of crawling to Harry, pressing kisses up his bruised neck and sinking his fangs deep into the junction of his shoulder, and maybe, just maybe, impossibly, the deer’s blood tastes extra sweet and tangs of lightning spark on his tongue.

Chapter Text

“Tell me it’s a terrible idea, Ron,” Harry says, tipping his head over the armrest of the worn plaid couch to look at Ron through the doorway.

Ron is in the kitchen wearing his awful apron again, chewing on a piece of bacon as he finishes scrambling eggs in a pan. Fresh toast pops from the toaster and flies to a plate on its own. It is instantly lathered in butter by a free-floating knife.

“I dunno, mate,” Ron replies with a shrug, not turning to look at Harry. “Seems like an alright idea to me.”

Rose runs across the lounge room with her teddy in hand and leaps onto Harry. Her knee digs into his stomach and knocks the wind from his lungs. Harry struggles to drag a breath in and groans, catching her as she flops backwards, almost toppling off him and onto the floor.

“C’mon Rosie, that hurt,” he grumbles.

“Look, look Unc’ Harry!” She holds the teddy up which seems to have changed colours since last time he visited. “Mum make her purple!”

“Oh, wow!” Harry grins and plucks the teddy from her hands, inspecting it closely. “She looks so cool!”

“I mean, he’s immortal, right?” Ron continues from the kitchen, spinning to plop a plate of fresh eggs on the island. “Isn’t that, like, perfect for you? Rose baby, come on, breakfast is ready!”

“Yay!” She scrambles off Harry, snatching her beloved teddy back as she runs to the kitchen. Harry rolls himself from the couch and follows her with a frown.

“Weren’t you the one telling me last time to be careful with these vampires? That I couldn’t trust them?”

“That was before,” Ron says, waving his spatula. “Mione has researched them now. You know they’re like those wolves? They got that nature magic in ‘em.”

“No, I don’t know. Hermione hasn’t told me anything.”

“Well, she will. She’s at the office picking up her notes. You know how she is.” Ron dishes up Rose’s plate and pours juice into her kiddie cup. “She worked late yesterday and then forgot all her notes, so she headed off to get them before you came. Anyways, I’m just saying it might not be the worst thing to get to know them a bit more. Especially this Edward bloke. He seems alright, from what you’ve said.”

Harry isn’t one to tell his friends about his romantic endeavours. Not normally, anyway. But he had two revelations whilst trying to sleep last night, when he was tossing and turning all night over his horrible decision to agree to a date with Edward. The first, is that this could impact The Timeline, so he should ask for advice. The second, is that his friends will be dead one day and he won’t be able to talk to them about his problems then. A depressing thought, but a motivating one. It makes him much less likely to keep information from them just because he has some aversion to discussing his romances. Although, no one really wants to discuss one-night stands with friends who have no experience participating in them. This is more up Ron and Hermione’s alley, what with it being an actual relationship type thing.

“You’re meant to be telling me it’s a bad idea.”

Ron dumps a plate in front of him and Harry thanks him sulkily.

“You’re right, Harry. It’s a terrible idea to give yourself the chance to date a muggle immortal whom you have an interest in,” Ron says, face straight and voice monotone.

“He’s a vampire!” Harry says, stabbing a fork roughly into some scrambled eggs. They crumble under the force.

“So what? Didn’t you date a werewolf like four years ago? What about that girl with the Veela inheritance you were with for, like, eight months? You can’t suddenly act like you’re against creatures.”

“I didn’t date them.” Harry pours himself a tea and spins honey into it angrily. “They were just fu—” Harry shuts his mouth and looks at Rose, whose eyes dart between Ron and him as she listens in. “Friends,” he finishes.

“Like Teddy!” Rose says around a mouthful of egg. “Teddy is wolf too!”

“Yes, like Teddy, baby.” Ron digs into his own meal and points his fork at Harry. “You’re acting like a dunce.”

“Who’s a dunce?” Hermione says, striding into the kitchen with her arms full of files. “Oh, Harry, you’re here already.” She kisses Rose on the head, whispering a good morning.

“Uncle Harry!” Rose says happily at the same time Ron says, “Harry is.”

Ron pushes a mug of tea under stasis charm over to Hermione. She dumps her files on the kitchen island and smiles at him gratefully, slipping into the seat next to Harry and stealing a slice of bacon from his plate. She sips her tea, eyeing Harry over the rim.

“Why? What’s he done now?”

“Unca’ Harry hates creatures,” Rose whispers conspiratorially.

“No, I don’t!” Harry cries.

“He wants to flake on a date. With his vampire,” Ron says.

“Oh, you have a date?” Hermione asks, her face lighting up. “You asked him out?”

“What? No, he asked m—that doesn’t matter!” Harry splutters, his face reddening.

“Harry wants us to tell him it’s a bad idea,” Ron continues, not even looking at Harry when he shoots a glare his way.

“That’s not exactly—” Harry says.

“It’s a great idea. You like him, right? Plus, he’s immortal. Sounds ideal to me.”

Hermione sips on her tea and Harry groans, thumping his head on the table next to his plate. He should have known he wasn’t going to get support from his friends when they’re such bulldozers. He can’t say either of them are wrong, but they aren’t saying what he hoped they would, and that means it feels wrong. Why can’t Ron be suspicious like he was last time he mentioned these vampires? Back then, Harry was the one saying the vampires were fine and it wasn’t a big deal to get to know them more. Now it’s the opposite and Harry doesn’t like feeling as though his avoidant tendencies are being blatantly called out to his face.

“You’re just scared,” Ron says, stabbing Harry where it hurts. “But it’s a good thing.”

“Yes, it is. Ron was the same when we started dating, you know. Don’t you remember? He was constantly coming to you for advice and whining about whether it was going to be a mistake or not for us to date.” Hermione sips her tea and takes a triangle of toast from Ron’s plate as he glares at her. “Gosh, it took him a whole year to even get the courage to ask me out on a date, even though we’d already kissed!”

“Ew,” Rose mutters and Harry nods with her, pulling a grossed-out face.

“It’s normal to be scared,” Ron says, pointedly ignoring Hermione’s comment. “Especially for you. You’re so used to pushing everyone away. Maybe you should just let this one in.”

“Ugh.”

The thought is terrifying, even if he already has let Edward in more than he is used to. Harry pushes his eggs around on his plate and frowns at the toast growing soggier with each minute.

“Ron’s right, Harry,” Hermione says. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Coming from Hermione, who has definitely thought about the worst things that could happen, the comment gives Harry little relief. He’s sure there is a lot that could go wrong. Even if it’s as simple as Edward realising he doesn’t like Harry as much as he thinks he does. Maybe Edward is attracted to the mystery. Harry’s not sure he could find it within himself to continue with this tiresome life if he learnt to love Edward, only for him to lose interest. Not that Harry can die permanently. Not yet anyway. Maybe he could fandangle a way to do it—weigh himself down to the bottom of the ocean and drown perpetually or find someone to chop him into pieces and see what happens.

“Seems like a lot,” Harry mutters.

“But you still agreed to go on a date,” Ron says around a mouthful of egg and toast. “That seems like a good first step. Just see what happens, you know? Maybe this vamp will be cool.”

“Cool,” Harry repeats, almost rolling his eyes at his plate.

“Technically, he is already rather cool,” Hermione says, and Harry pre-emptively cuts off the information dump he can feel brewing on the complexities of half-muggle vampire anatomy and their body temperature.

“Speaking of—Ron said they’re nature magic? What’s that about?”

Luckily, Hermione takes the bait. Harry’s glad because he wants to know how the vampires came to exist and if it involves some lost squib like the wolves. The only other thought he had was that maybe in the past some crazy muggle was on a rabid cannibalistic rampage, killed a wizard, and ingested enough of them to soak up some remnant magic, which then mutated in their body to make something half-magic and vampiric. It seems unlikely, and he hasn’t shared the theory with Hermione because he knows she will look at him like he’s a lunatic for even considering such a thing since there is absolutely no scientific basis to assume magic can be attained by digesting the meat of someone with magic.

“Oh! It’s so fascinating!” She jumps up and shuffles through one of her files, pulling some pages out and coming back to sit even closer to Harry than before, enthusiastically pushing his plate aside to make room for the papers. “As you know, the earliest recording of magic is in Egypt. That’s where wizarding society really began way back when.”

“I should know that?” Harry asks, sipping his tea.

“Oh, come on, Harry!” She cries. Harry is vividly transported back to third year, when Hermione said the same words in that same exasperated tone when he told her he’d signed up for divination as an elective. “We took History of Magic for five years!” Ron snorts and whispers something to Rose conspiratorially, and they both laugh.

Sure, Harry might have been enrolled in the class for five years and he probably even sat there and listened to Professor Binns every now and then, when he wasn’t on some long-winded tangent or being bullied by Draco and his goons. But he knows without a doubt that the information he deemed relevant and remembered from that class and what Hermione deemed important are vastly different. Hermione, for example, deemed the origin of magic important information. On the other hand, Harry vividly remembers a rather long lecture on the effectiveness of wearing socks inside-out to ward off evil spirits in the medieval period and how some protection ward spells still require clothing items to be turned inside-out to increase their effectiveness.

“Egypt, as you’d imagine, has a long and rich history with all types of magic, some that are even lost to us today. This includes nature magic.” Harry nods his head to show he’s keeping up. “Well, the first recording of these vampires is also from Egypt! Look!” She points to a haphazardly highlighted line on a shoddily photocopied, blurred sheet. He squints at the words a bit to try and read them.

“Oh, sorry,” Hermione says when he gives her a deadpan look. “I forgot the translation spell.”

She whips her wand out and taps it on the paper, forcing the curled words into the rigid letters of English. Harry reads it now—an entry from an early wizard describing an odd creature he met at a magical oasis in the desert, so far lost in the dunes that muggles don’t venture there.

“So, there was a vampire in the desert?” Harry asks, pushing the paper back to Hermione.

“Yes! Fascinating stuff, isn’t it? I’d really like to know where the oasis was, but I haven’t been able to track it down yet.” She steals another piece of bacon, this time from Ron’s plate. Her face lights up as she shows Harry a crude, hand-drawn map, which only the original creator would have any chance of understanding because the landmarks are rather odd descriptors like “pointed rock”, and magical ley lines that no longer exist in the modern world. “I can only imagine what type of magic existed there! And what if other creatures also evolved at—"

“Love,” Ron says, cutting her off. “Tell him the important part.”

Rose laughs as Hermione blushes slightly, turning back to Harry with a sheepish look.

“Right, well. Anyway. The important part is that—according to these unfinished journal notes—this vampire was a muggle! The wizard theorises that the muggle got lost during their travels and found themselves at the oasis, but the vampire’s memories of the ordeal were rather patchy so they couldn’t figure much else out. Which makes me wonder on the efficacy of legilimency back then. Our understanding on how the brain processes and stores memories has improved tenfold over the centuries, I can’t imagine it was as effective compared to now.”

“So, a muggle stumbles onto some magical oasis in the desert and then...turns into a vampire?” Harry asks.

Rose pushes her plate aside and clambers over an empty chair to make her way to Harry, plopping herself into his lap. He ruffles her hair and shuffles her over slightly so he can still see the papers in front of him. His breakfast is growing cold, forgotten to the side.

“Yes, well. I’m not sure how they came to be, but obviously something at the oasis changed him. I’ve theorised it’s the nature magic—he would have needed to eat and drink, after all. There’s no mention on what exactly the oasis had available, but it seems possible the magic built up within him and forced some change, like the wolves.”

“But why a vampire?” Harry asks and Hermione furrows her brows. “Why not a wolf?”

“I’m not sure...maybe it has to do with the human itself,” she says, looking back to her notes.

“Didn’t you say the wolves were descended from the Blacks?” Ron asks. “What if that muggle was descended from a vampire? A muggle born from a squib whose ancestors had mingled with a vampire?”

“That’s actually a strong possibility.” Hermione pats Ron’s hand on the table with a soft smile.

“Was that common? To mix with creatures?” Harry asks.

The purebloods he knows would never want to mix their bloodline with creatures. Well, they’re not as bad now. Pureblood rhetoric has lessened dramatically in the last decade in a direct response to Voldemort’s teachings, particularly by younger purebloods who saw the horrors of the war first-hand. Still, he’s unsure how many of them would want to mix their lineage with a creature rather than a muggle-born.

“Oh, it would have been common back then,” Hermione says. “Pureblood rhetoric didn’t start until many generations later and, even then, Egypt has rarely beholden to such strict rules on bloodlines. Wizarding families there were mostly all related. So, the wizarding population was much too small back then to not mingle with humans and creatures to lower the risk of inbreeding. It did happen, of course.”

“A muggle descendent of a squib with a vampire ancestor finds himself at a magical oasis, overloads on nature magic and awakens into a vampire,” Harry muses, waving his knee side to side so Rose feels like she’s on a ride, giggling to herself and flopping left and right. “I suppose when they bite another, or they don’t drain them to death, then they’re injecting their mutated nature magic into someone and thus forcing a transformation?”

“Do all muggles survive the transformation? Or only some?” Hermione questions.

“I’m not sure. I’d have to ask.”

“If all survive, then it’s likely that. If only some do, then it could be that whatever reaction occurs when they bite another reacts to dormant magic within a muggle, like that of a muggle with magical ancestors, and awakens the magic to begin a transformation.”

“I see.” Harry taps his fingers on the table a few times. “What about the vampires with abilities? Only some of them seem to awaken these secondary powers.”

“If all muggles turn when bitten, maybe those are the muggles with magical ancestors,” Ron shares. “The change could awaken something more in them, different to those without magical ancestors.”

“The truth is, we really can’t know. It’s all speculation—but I am trying to convince the Department to provide a budget for me to research unclassified magical creatures. I’ll have to work on a few others first, but I’ll eventually be able to research these muggle creatures by explaining I found these records by chance.”

“That would be good,” Harry says, nodding her head and looking at his friend’s excited eyes. He shuffles Rose to his opposite knee and digs into his now cold breakfast. It still tastes good. Everything Ron makes tastes great. Must be Molly’s genes.

At least it’s nice that Hermione has found something to reignite her research passion. He knows she was feeling a bit trapped these last few years in the DRCMC after she got the final bill from the “ten bills that must be passed for magical creatures rights” list she wrote in eighth year. He can’t imagine she will want to stay there much longer. It’s about time she moves up in the Department if she wants to stick to her plan on becoming Minister for Magic before she is thirty-five.

“I managed to get us an appointment with Griphook on Thursday,” she says, brushing her hair behind an ear and shuffling her papers back into their file. “He’s been dodging me for weeks! I think he knows we are onto him.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. He seems to know everything,” Harry grumbles. “What time?”

“Not until late. I forced him to accept a late appointment since I will be sitting in on a Wizengamot meeting that day and he refuses to meet on a weekend.”

Harry can’t stop the snort escaping as he imagines Griphook’s unimpressed face at being asked to stay for a late appointment. Every time they met, Harry was always forced to Gringott’s at the crack of dawn. He’ll enjoy turning up with an evil grin. He stands up, scooping Rose up under one arm and grabbing his plate with the other, zooming her around like she’s on a broom as he flies her to the kitchen. She squeals and giggles, kicking her legs as though she’s swimming, not flying.

“Thanks for breakfast, Ron. And for researching all that for me, Hermione,” he says, spinning back around, making sure to turn an extra couple of times for Rose.

“Anytime, mate,” Ron replies, scooping up the last of his eggs and drinking down his orange juice like Seamus is there to steal it from him

“You’re going to see Teddy?” Hermione asks, catching Rose when Harry flies her over and hovers her above Hermione’s head before gently dropping her into Hermione’s arms.

“Yeah, I promised Andy I’d watch him until eleven thirty. She’s going to the hospital.”

“Again?” Hermione curls Rose into her arms, eyes scrunched at the edges in worry. “Who’s going with her?”

“Narcissa, I think. They’re getting some test results.”

Harry tries not to ask too much about Andy’s sickness for a few reasons. The main one being that Andy is much too proud to let Harry know what’s truly going on and she likely won’t share until she’s on her death bed. The other reason he doesn’t ask is because he would rather not ask too much and risk thinking of how long she has left, because Death is more than happy to tell him who is expected to die and when. Which is information Harry’s adamant he shouldn’t be privy to, especially since he doesn’t have the ability to delay or change their fate. Imagine seeing a clock ticking down on someone you care for. Harry would rather not experience such a thing. Death is hard enough to cope with as is.

“Will you come for dinner Thursday?” Ron asks. “After your meeting.”

“Sure,” Harry agrees easily, ruffling Rose’s hair once more and kissing Hermione on the forehead as he walks past.

“You should bring your vampire too!” Ron yells after him. “I can get Charlie to send some dragon blood over!”

“Not gonna happen!” Harry yells back, scooping some floo powder from the old cookie jar on the mantle.

Based on Edward’s reaction to erumpent blood pops, Harry’s quite sure Edward would combust if he tried fresh dragon blood. Plus, he just doesn’t want his new life to overlap with this life—his real one, filled with his long-term friends and family, with those who know who he is and who have been beside him for the best and worst moments in his life. He can’t even imagine Edward sitting beside his best friends or next to Rose as they eat and he drinks down a fresh glass of blood. The thought alone sends a shiver of unease down Harry’s spine. No. These two lives are best left separate. Perhaps that’s an odd thought to have, when all he seems to be doing is letting Edward in each time they meet, closer and closer to this real life.

Harry steps inside the floo and calls out for Andromeda’s house, dashing the powder into the hearth and watching as green flames burst into life. 

“See, mummy? Unca’ Harry hates creatures,” he hears Rose say, loud enough he feels she did it on purpose.

Ron and Hermione’s laughter follows him as he spins away.

Chapter Text

Harry was not expecting to step from the green flames of the floo and straight into Edward, who grips his arms tightly with a crazed look in his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, twisting Harry left and right.

“Uh, no? What are you doing here?”

Kreacher pops into existence with a spray bottle brandished in his hand. “Master be telling Kreacher to let the vampire in when he arrives. Shall I kick him out?”

“It’s not even noon yet. You’re early,” Harry says to Edward. He pulls himself from Edward’s grip and brushes the remaining floo powder off his clothes. “Kreacher, what is that?” He asks, pointing to the bottle.

“It’s for exterminating the vampire.”

“Kreacher!” Harry runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “We’re not exterminating any vampires!”

“Master has done it before.”

“Yes, well,” Harry glances at Edward, who is dutifully listening to the conversation as he inspects the fireplace from a careful distance. “We’re not right now.” Harry waves his hand and Edward spins quickly to watch the bottle fly from Kreacher’s grip.

It looks like any old muggle-spray bottle. They’re not usually used in the wizarding world. Wizards use their magic to disperse products. They usually come in thicker substances that can be spread over counters and activated with the correct spells. For Kreacher to have a spray bottle means he has either purchased it from some muggle store (unlikely, since Kreacher doesn’t have access to muggle money); stolen it from some poor, unsuspecting muggle (more likely, since Kreacher is not opposed to stealing); or he has asked someone else to purchase it for him (even more unlikely, because the only muggle-born he knows is Hermione and she wouldn’t purchase it without mentioning it to Harry). Edward shuffles away slightly as Harry unscrews the top and sniffs the overwhelmingly garlic-scented concoction. He closes it quickly.

“Did he spray you with this?” Harry asks.

“Oh, only once or twice. It was rather entertaining.”

“Garlic doesn’t hurt you?” Harry cocks his head to the side in curiosity. He’d already concluded that it wouldn’t—since the sun can’t hurt Edward either, it is safe to assume half-muggle vampires are not like magical ones—but it is nice to have a definitive answer.

“It didn’t hurt. Thought it seems it might have had some rather unexpected effect,” Edward replies gravely.

Kreacher had looked rather dejected when the spray bottle was stolen from him, but he now looks rather smug. Harry really needs to have a conversation with him about not attempting to kill his household guests, magical creatures or not.

“Where’d you get this bottle anyway, Kreacher?” Harry asks, shaking it around so the liquid sloshes.

“Nowhere.” Kreacher looks away, curling his hands together. “Oh! Kreacher has been summoned.” He disappears, cracking away and no doubt hiding himself upstairs.

“Summoned?” Edward asks. “By whom?”

“He’s lying. He’s just running away.”

Harry places the bottle on the mantle. He could get rid of it, but part of him wants to test out what these side-effects Edward mentioned are. Besides, it seems a little funny to have a spray bottle for a vampire. It’s like when people spray water at their cats to deter bad behaviour. He’s curious to know if it would work on vampires too, like garlic conditioning.

“This fireplace is...magic?” Edward asks, stepping hesitantly closer to it.

“Sometimes. It can still just be a fireplace,” Harry explains.

“What does it do?” Edward runs a finger along the edge of the mantle, avoiding the garlic spray bottle but fiddling with the jar of floo powder.

“We can travel to other places with it.”

“Like the toothpaste magic?”

It takes Harry a second to understand what he’s referring to but when he does, he can’t stop the laughter escaping him. Toothpaste is rather how apparition feels.

“Yeah,” he says between chuckles. “Like that one.”

Edward stares at Harry unblinkingly as he laughs, eyes roaming across Harry’s face as if memorising the moment. It sobers Harry quickly.

“Ah,” Harry says, waving his hand and undoing the ageing charm that made him look twenty-six for visiting Andy.

“You make yourself look older? Or younger? Why?” Edward rapid-fires questions, eyes roaming his youthful face again.

“Older...” Harry replies reluctantly.

He decides not to answer the why. Edward takes a minute to compose himself, wrapping his hand over his mouth and looking away from Harry as though forcing the questions to remain inside. Harry is positive that Edward’s hand is shaking from the effort. It makes something warm bloom in the cavern usually present in his chest, to see Edward trying not to press too hard for an answer. Old Edward would have continued to poke at the wound until Harry snapped, or he’d be trying to force his way inside Harry’s head for an answer.

“You have exterminated many vampires?” Edward asks after a moment.

“Yes,” Harry finds himself saying as he leads Edward from the floo parlour and across the hall into the drawing room where they have sat previously. “It was my job for a period of time.”

“Your job?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re seventeen.”

“Right.” Harry plops himself across his chaise and looks at the ceiling. “Right,” he says once more, softly, under his breath.

Even at seventeen he wasn’t just a teenager. He wasn’t living a normal teenage life, with petty school drama, friend drama, romance drama. His biggest worry wasn’t—usually, at least—whether a cute girl or guy had a crush on him, it wasn’t even whether he could pass his final school year.

Harry was worried whether his friends were being tortured under the Carrow’s rule at Hogwarts. He was worried about whether Voldemort was going to invade his mind every night he slept. He was worried about being captured. About being killed. About failing his parents, his friends, his teachers, his world. He worried about not being good enough, both with his magical ability and in the truest sense of the word, the way Dumbledore meant it—Light.

Death’s cold hand curls around his neck and whispers in his ear, “You can take a break at any time, Master.”

“Harry?” Edward says softly, leaning over Harry, his upside-down face blocking Harry’s view of the ceiling. “What is it?”

Harry looks away and sits up, clenching his hands into fists on his knees as he fights the urge to flee to the drink cart in the corner. Or to the place he really wants to go. He feels as though he has to physically shake Death’s grip from his neck and the pressure on his chest slowly eases. He doesn’t run to the drink cart. Instead, he summons a pack of cigarettes from it and taps one out, lighting it with a flick of his finger. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a long moment. Once he releases it, he looks back at Edward, who steps back and allows space to bloom between them.

“How old are you, Edward?”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Right.” Harry rolls his eyes and takes another drag. “And so am I.”

“Are you not?” Edward asks.

“Are you?”

“I am,” he says slowly. “But I have been seventeen for over a hundred years.”

Harry can’t help the laugh bubbling from his chest.

“So, why say you’re seventeen?” He asks, letting smoke furl from his lungs and into the air. He sinks back into the chair and looks back at the ceiling as he waits for Edward to answer.

“Habit.” Edward stands eerily still as he watches Harry. It’s unnerving, so Harry gestures for him to sit in the high-backed chair next to the chaise, something he realises he does often when Edward drops his human pretence. “It is also true,” Edward continues as he sits. “Carlisle says our brains don’t develop past when we are turned. We are unchanging from the moment we turn. I am seventeen, perpetually.”

Just like Harry, then. Well, maybe. They haven’t exactly researched his brain in detail. Hermione did once mention, off-handedly, that his brain might be frozen at the age he became Master of Death, but she did retract that statement quickly and offered rather uncharacteristic assurances that it was unlikely. Which honestly just made him feel as though it was more likely, since she was trying so hard to convince him it was not.

“Are you not…seventeen?” Edward asks in the soft, gentle tone he uses when prying and probing.

Harry takes a drag of his cigarette and watches Edward carefully. He’s sitting in the chair, but he is not relaxed. Edward is stiff and unmoving without breathing or blinking. He is wearing a pair of dark wash jeans, and a baseball-theme shirt Harry has only ever seen on TV or in magazines. His eyes are gold. He must have fed since they last met. Harry was right in thinking Edward looks softer when his eyes are lighter.

“Is it time for baseball?” Harry asks, vanishing the butt of his cigarette and ignoring the slight furrow of disappointment on Edward’s face.

“Yes, if you would still like to join us.”

“Sure.” He stands up, looking down at his outfit. Jeans with a dark burgundy hoodie. Good enough. “Let me get my broom.”

That comment makes Edward’s face light up, and he follows Harry from the drawing room and down the hall into a magically expanded closet, where Harry stores his numerous brooms and Quidditch gear. Edward looks inside at the space then steps back out and looks at the wall. He looks inside again.

“What is this?” He asks, gesturing to the obviously too-large closet.

“Magic,” Harry replies with a grin, waving his fingers at Edward.

Brooms line one wall, sometimes stacked on top of each other, those of the newest releases and older styles. Some are for speed, others for turning, some for durability. Some are from his time as an auror and are warded with strong protections and anti-tracking spells. Others border legality and some might even have some Dark charms imbued to make them faster than legally allowed in Quidditch matches. Rose and Teddy’s brooms are hung separately on their own wall to the right and Edward looks at them carefully, finger trailing over the two names engraved on their handles along with the words Love, Harry. They are smaller and have safety handles and footrests installed. Obviously meant for children. Still, Edward doesn’t comment.

“What are these?” He asks instead, suddenly on the other side of the walk-in closet, pointing at a glass case with snitches strapped inside. Some are golden and others are silver or bronze. There is even a green one and a blue one, a gift from George for Harry’s birthday one year, meant to make the game more challenging since he became a bit too good at spotting the snitch.

“They are from a wizarding sport,” Harry explains as he pulls a broom from a shelf and plucks at a few loose twigs from its end.

“You have one on your bookshelf. With the wand.”

There is no question there, so Harry doesn’t answer. Instead, he shrinks the broom and shoves it into his pocket. Edward splutters from across the room and appears in front of him with vampire speed.

“Did you—did you just put that in your pocket?” Harry pulls it out and shows him. Edward picks up the broom between two of his fingers and inspects it. “Every time we meet, you manage to shock me more,” Edward breathes. “Magic is truly unfathomable.”

Harry smiles at him then. A real smile, from deep in his soul. Somehow, whatever dark thing had crawled from his memories and latched onto him seems to disappear. Edward smiles back, eyes soft and scrunched at the side. Harry remembers when magic felt like that to him, too. Unreal. Unimaginable. Life-changing.

“It is, isn’t it?” Harry replies, plucking the broom back and shoving it into his pocket. “Now, let’s go play some baseball.”

Edward’s smile widens enough that his fangs flash. Harry isn’t completely sure, but he thinks that Edward’s steps are bouncier than usual. He seems excited. His energy is infectious enough that Harry even begins to look forward to the game. It reminds him of the thrill he would feel before Quidditch matches, the flicker of energy under his skin, the tightening of his shoulders and the tang of magic curling along his palms. He hasn’t let loose in a while. Even if it is vampire baseball, surely, he can participate in some way. If not, maybe he’ll just tell Edward not to drive him home and instead do a detour on his broom to let off some steam.

 “Can we use the fireplace?” Edward asks.

Harry turns to look at him, standing in the doorway of the floo parlour. Edward is giving him puppy-dog eyes. There’s no other explanation for the droopy golden eyes and hopeful, dopey look on his face.

“We can’t. We’re going to the wards. The floo only sends us to other fireplaces.”

Edward looks away and holds his chin, a small smile on his face as he mutters something under his breath.

“What are these ‘wards’?”

“The wards.” Harry gestures to the air around him. “That don’t let you in.”

“Ah. I have been calling it the border.”

Harry snorts and walks over to Edward, gripping his forearm. “What am I? A country?”

He apparates them before Edward can respond. It’s frustrating, but Harry stumbles when they arrive and Edward lands perfectly, pulling Harry upright and saving him from an embarrassing stumble. How he can still fuck up his apparations when sober is honestly a mystery to Harry. He manages them when drunk and high—mostly manages, anyway, with a few splinches every now and then—so why is it that he can’t now? Edward’s smug smile doesn’t make him feel any better. Harry stalks off, cutting through the wards and stomping off in a random direction.

“The car is this way,” Edward calls, pointing in the opposite direction.

Harry turns on his heel and goes the correct way, ignoring the quiet laughter echoing from behind him. Edward’s usual silver car isn’t there when they finally make it to one of the four-wheel-driving tracks that line the forest near Harry’s house. It’s not the usual road Harry uses to enter his property. He side-eyes Edward slightly, because the only way he would know about this track being close to Harry’s house is for him to have travelled the entire perimeter of his wards and a few kilometres further out.

“Whose car is this?” Harry asks, looking up at the modded monstrosity. He’s positive those giant floodlights were not originally there—and neither was the massive bumper bar.

“It’s Emmett’s,” Edward says, opening the door for Harry and waiting with a smile. “It’ll help us get up the mountain.”

“We could have just ran there.”

Edward looks almost devastated. He slams the car door closed.

“We should. Let’s run.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry says with a laugh, brushing Edward aside and opening the door. “The car’s here now. You’d have to drive it home anyway. May as well.”

He jumps in, closing the door and buckling himself into the seatbelt, which consists of more straps than he’s used to. It seems a bit overkill on safety considering the owner is a vampire. When he’s buckled in, Harry looks up and finds Edward still standing next to his door, back turned to Harry. He knocks on the window and Edward turns around, face down-cast.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

“Fine,” Edward replies, suddenly beside Harry in the car, door slamming shut, and seatbelt buckled before Harry can even wrap his head around what just happened. “But next time we are running.”

Harry shrugs in acquiesce.

They are in the car for a grand total of twenty minutes before Harry, rather impulsively, belatedly answers Edward’s question. He blames it on the melancholic classical tunes playing in the car.

“I was born in 1980,” he says, finger tapping on the arm rest of the car door and eyes glued on the green wall of forest whizzing past the car.

Edward stutters out an awkward conjunction of half-started words before slamming the breaks and pulling the car onto the dirt margin on the side of the road.  There is a long silence where Harry can feel Edward staring at the side of his head. There is a slight pressure of Edward trying to mind-read, but Harry feels it’s rather weak and likely due more to Edward’s shock than his actual intent.

“Can you please repeat that? I think I maybe have misheard,” Edward says after a long minute, his hands clenched around the steering wheel. Harry looks up from his hands and into wide golden eyes.

“You didn’t hear wrong.”

“But—”

Edward stops. He closes his eyes and carefully removes his hands from the steering wheel, locking his fingers together and placing them in his lap. They fracture with the pressure of his grip, fissures spreading across the knuckles. Harry watches them spread, his own hand relentlessly rapping on the arm rest.

“That would make you twenty-six.”

“Yes.”

“You made yourself look older, because you look younger than you are.”

“Yes.”

“You’re pretending to be seventeen.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Edward asks, looking up from his hands and directly into Harry’s green eyes with pleading intent.

“Why do you pretend to be seventeen?” Harry asks in response.

“The younger we are, the longer we can stay in one place without others asking questions.”

Harry nods in agreement, shrugging his shoulders a little.

“It’s the same for me. I look young. People would ask questions if I wasn’t in school.”

Edward takes his time to formulate his next question, perhaps because he knows he’s already over the line of what Harry feels comfortable sharing. Harry isn’t one to question his impulsive actions often. He is even less likely to do so when to question them would mean he has to confront this thing he has with Edward.

“You more than look young, Harry. Is this normal for wizards?”

“Wizards do live longer than muggles,” Harry admits, turning to look out the window and into the forest beyond. He stops his hand from tapping, dropping the car into silence. “But no. We usually age the same as muggles, we simply live longer. I am an unusual case.”

“It seems everything about you is unusual,” Edward replies. “As soon as I begin to think that I understand you, you manage to surprise me again.”

 Edward laughs and Harry can see him shake his head in the reflection of the window.

“I thought you’d like to know,” Harry says softly, barely a whisper.

“I wish to know everything about you, Harry,” Edward replies.

His hand gently brushes against the knuckles of Harry’s hand resting on his thigh. It is a brief, barely-there brush of fingertips against skin, but the chill still shocks Harry, and something twists in his stomach. Edward changes the car into drive and takes off again. Harry’s heart races in his chest and he knows Edward can hear it, is listening to the way his body betrays him. Harry flexes his hand on his knee. His finger tapping starts again with double speed.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little,” Harry replies.

“About me?”

“About your family.”

“They won’t hurt you.”

Harry can’t help laughing a little. If only he were worried for his safety. Maybe he should be. Maybe it would be healthier if he were. But Harry can’t bring himself to worry. It wouldn’t matter even if he failed to protect himself. Not that he thinks the Cullens would plan to harm him anyway. 

“I’m not worried about that, Edward. I’m nervous to meet your family.”

“You have already met them,” Edward points out. 

“That was business. This is different.” What if they don’t like me?

“Business.” It’s Edward’s turn to laugh now. “Don’t worry. They’ll love you.”

Harry double-checks his occlumency walls. He isn’t sure if Edward actually read his mind, or if he simply figured out what Harry was feeling. Either way, it leaves him unsettled.

“Let me guess—Alice?” He asks eventually.

Edward shrugs, but a small, almost-apologetic smile stretches across his face. Harry sighs and shakes his head.

“I suppose that’s comforting in a sense,” he mutters, returning his eyes to the greenery speeding past.

It isn’t long later when the first crack of thunder echoes through the sky. Edward turns the car off onto a dirt road and speeds up.

“We’re a bit late,” he says, looking up at the rolling clouds above them as a flash of lighting cuts across the sky. “They might have started already.”

Harry isn’t completely sure, but he thinks he detects a hint of sadness in Edward’s voice.

Chapter Text

Harry has seen many, many things in his time. Fantastical, magical things that defy logic, physics, and reasoning. None of those experiences prepared him to witness vampires playing baseball to raging thunder and lightning. Quidditch is a fast paced, noisy, dangerous game, which is somehow overshadowed by what it is Harry is experiencing now.

“Merlin!” Harry exclaims, arching higher on Edward’s back to try and get a better view as Emmett smashes the ball, a loud crack like thunder echoing through the clearing.

Emmett takes off, sprinting around the bases with his vampire speed. Harry can only just make out the blue of his dark clothes. He slips off Edward’s back, dragon-hide boots landing in the squelchy grass below.

“Was Merlin real, then?” Edward asks him, poking his head in front of Harry’s view.

“Yeah, he was a Slytherin,” Harry responds, brushing him out of the way just in time to see Emmett get tagged out by a smug-looking Jasper. “What?! He was definitely safe!” Harry complains as Edward whispers the word ‘Slytherin’ next to him.

“Right!” Emmett yells from across the clearing. “Even the wizard agrees!” He turns to Esme and seems to be pleading his case, but she shakes her head.

“James, thank you for coming,” Carlisle says, appearing in front of Harry with no warning.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear you mentioning Merlin—was he truly not just legend?”

“Oh. Yeah. He was real,” Harry responds, following Carlisle as he gestures for them to walk to the others. “I can’t tell you much about him, though.”

“Ah. The Statute of Secrecy?” Carlisle asks.

“No.” Harry laughs awkwardly, glancing away from Carlisle and Edward’s matching curious faces. He knows all of them are listening in too, the game having paused and the vampires congregating near Esme at home base. “I barely passed History of Magic, so I wouldn’t know. I probably have a book in my library about him, if you’d like to read it.”

“That would be wonderful, James. Thank you. I’m sure your library is filled with many interesting books I would love to read.”

Harry almost invites Carlisle over instinctually. It takes a great deal of effort to bite his tongue and stop the words from leaving his mouth. The last thing he wants is a free-for-all on his only haven. It’s bad enough that Edward seems to be around every other day lately.

“I’ll be sure to bring you any books you might find interesting,” Harry says instead, thankful they’ve made it to where the rest of the Cullens are waiting.

“Hello, James,” Esme says, stepping forward to grab Carlisle’s hand.

“Hello,” Harry replies. “Hello, everyone,” he says to the rest of the group. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Alice and Jasper stand slightly further away and guilt festers in Harry’s stomach, because he knows they’re only over there because of his strong aversion to her abilities. She’s showing him a kindness, but at the cost of her own ability to interact with her family.

“It’s too bad you can’t join us!” Emmett says, slapping a hand down on Harry’s shoulder roughly. “Would have been fun to see what a wizard can do.” Harry barely grunts under the weight off Emmett’s touch, earning him an impressed raised eyebrow from the muscled vampire.

“I can’t play?” Harry asks, looking to Edward.

“Well, we’re rather fast...” Edward says, trailing off. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Alice’s soft laugh twinkles from a few metres away and she smiles at Harry. It’s a secretive, knowing smile. He finds himself smiling back. Edward chuckles from next to him and then shrugs.

“Sure, you can join then,” Edward says. “It will be fun.”

“I hate when they do that,” Emmett mutters to Harry before turning to Rosalie with his arms out. “Babe, I can’t. They’re being freaky again.”

Rosalie pushes him away with a hand on his face.

“Dibs the wizard,” she says, stepping up to Harry and shoving Edward aside too. “Who else do you want?” She asks Harry, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

Even in her baseball attire and cap, she still looks impeccable. Harry knows for a fact he doesn’t look as good in a hat as she does. He considers her question and decides to extend an olive branch in good faith.

“I want Alice.”

Alice skips over to them with a big smile on her face, blowing a kiss to Jasper as she leaves him behind.

“Perfect choice,” she says.

“I figured we should put that ability of yours to good use.”

She laughs again, and the guilt gnawing at Harry lessens slightly. She’s not that bad. He’s always known this. But his rejection of divination runs deep, psychologically deep, and it’s hard to reverse that reaction of pure panic and hatred when he thinks someone is spouting off a prophecy or telling his future.

“I’ll be catcher then.” Carlisle hands the ball over to Edward and steps back.

“Why don’t I get to be on his team?” Edward asks with a frown. “I’m the one who invited him.”

“You snooze, you lose, Eddie,” Rosalie responds, ignoring the puppy eyes of betrayal Emmett is sending her. “So? What’s your plan for dealing with our speed?” Rosalie looks at Harry expectantly, hands on her hips. “I bet on you to win with that magic of yours.”

Harry grins.

“Oh, we will. I’m rather good at ball sports.”

Usually, the ball is smaller, golden and flying though. Or it is magically attacking him to knock him off his broom or break his bones, but he’s sure the concept is rather the same. If anything, what will let him down is his throwing arm. There’s no way he can throw a ball as fast as these vampires—not unless he adds a bit of magic to boost it. Which can’t be against the rules when their senses are so superior to his own. Even with that help, he’s still not sure how far he will be able to throw the ball.

 Harry pulls the broom from his pocket and lets it pop back to full-size, shocking the vampires, even Edward, who should have known what was coming.

“You’re going to beat our speed with…a broom?” Emmett asks before bursting out into laughter. “Yeah, good luck.”

“So, it’s true that wizards ride brooms?” Carlisle mutters, looking at the straw bottom intently. “How intriguing.”

Edward gapes at Alice before shoving Emmett and telling him to shut up.

“It’s your fault we lose,” Edward says.

“Hey! No fair!” Emmet yells. “You don’t know that for sure!”

“Now, now,” Jasper says, stepping between his brothers and tapping them both on the shoulder. They calm down instantly, turning away from each other. “Let’s give it our best.”

“The future can always change,” Alice sings, skipping to the mound. “I’m pitching!”

“I guess we’re fielding then,” Harry says to Rosalie.

She darts off to stand in the distance between second and third base, so Harry flings his leg over his broom and lets it hover in the air slightly as he settles on. The vampires all look on excitedly, even though he’s only a metre above the ground. He wonders how they’d react if he pulled off a Wronski Feint. Edward would probably combust.

“Oh my gosh,” Esme says, coming forward to stand next to him, eyeing the broom warily. “Is this safe for you?”

Harry laughs. “Sure. I’ve only broken a few bones. Nothing too bad.”

If possible, Esme looks like she pales more than usual.

“Good thing we have a doctor here, then,” Jasper says eerily as he floats past with the bat in hand.

Harry casts a quick Impervious charm on his glasses to stop any stray raindrops impeding his vision before kicking off the ground and flying straight up at almost full speed, flying higher and higher as he spins in a circle. A smile bursts across his face as the adrenaline hits, and the freedom sings deep inside his chest. He lets out a small gasp as he pulls to a stop, high above near the clouds, the Cullen family dotting the ground below. He points the nose of the broom down, but at a rather modest diagonal so he won’t give Esme—or Edward—too big of a shock if they saw him heading straight for the ground. He pulls up and stops in his designated spot between second and first base.

“Jesus, that thing’s fast,” Emmett calls out. “Maybe you can keep up!”

Harry knows for a fact this broom is one of the fastest in all of Wizarding England, thanks to the probably illegal charms imbued on it by an imprisoned Dark wizard. Harry liberated the broom over four years ago with none the wiser. He’s quite positive that he could beat their vampire speed if he truly pushed it.

“Alright, batter up!” Esme yells.

Jasper steps up to the base, flicking the baseball bat around like some professional league player. The competitive streak in Harry’s soul lights up at the sight. Jasper bounces the bat off the ground and catches it, swinging it stylishly into place and raising an eyebrow at Alice. She smiles and kicks her leg high in the air before swinging her arm down faster than Harry can see. He doesn’t see Jasper hitting the ball, but he does hear it, and he spots Jasper sprinting towards first base only a millisecond later.

Luckily, the ball swings towards Rosalie, who chases after the white streak, only just missing an out catch as it lands on the ground a metre before her. She ditches the ball back as Jasper rounds third base and pushes to the home plate. He seems to run alongside the ball for a moment, their speed matching in their race to Carlisle. Jasper steps onto the mound at almost the same time Carlisle catches the ball and taps him. They both turn to Esme, and she waves her arms.

“Safe!”

Emmett cheers and pushes Edward over in his excitement. Alice turns and sends Rosalie and Harry a secretive smile and holds up one finger. Harry doesn’t know what she’s implying, but the smile must mean she can still see a future where they’re winners and, as much as Harry despises divination, he thinks that at a time like this, perhaps divination is nice.

“Alright, I understand it now,” Harry says, flying his broom toward Rosalie a bit. “But you guys don’t stop on the bases?”

“No, we always try for a home run. It’s no fun otherwise,” she replies with a shrug.

This is perfect for Harry. It gives him a much higher chance of getting someone out, since they can’t just stop at any old base. It gives him the one thing he really needs against such speedy beings—time.

Next is Edward at the plate, who sends Harry a rather cocky smirk as he twirls the bat. Harry already knows Edward will hit the ball his way, so he flies further back and settles down on the broom, ready to take off. Alice kicks her leg high and the ball cracks off Edward’s bat. Harry can’t see the ball for a second, but he can hear it whizzing past him. He follows it quickly, finally able to spot the white ball as he catches up to its speed. He hears a commotion from the vampires in the distance behind him. He wonders if it’s because they’re shocked at he speed he can fly.

Harry grabs the ball, tightening his grip as much as possible, unused to catching something so large. He pivots the broom and darts off again, straight for the bases. He can see Edward passing second base on his way to third. Edward is fast—much faster than Emmett or Jasper. Harry pushes a bit harder, flattening his chest to the broom. Just as Edward reaches third base, Harry is close enough to throw the ball to Rosalie, using all the strength he can muster and a touch of magic to pelt it at her from the tree line.

She catches the ball and throws it straight to Carlisle. It speeds through the air like a bullet and Carlisle catches it, tapping the ball on Edward just as he slides to the home plate.

“Out!” Esme calls, a giddy laugh escaping her. “Out!”

Harry whoops in happiness, throwing a thumbs up to Rosalie and Alice as they cheer. Emmett grumbles to the side with Jasper, shaking their heads at Edward who is sprawled on the home plate with a smile on his face and laughter bubbling from his mouth. Harry flies himself over to his spot again, watching as Carlisle helps Edward up and says something to him, patting him on the arm.

The happiness in Harry warps a little, turns into something sour on the edges. Baseball is fun. The Cullens are fun. But something about Carlisle and Edward reminds him of Sirius, and all the games they could have had in life together. Of what it was like to be tapped reassuringly on the shoulder by a father figure. Life could have been so different for them both.

The sad thoughts fester in his stomach as Emmett takes the base. Harry knows Jasper can feel his worsening mood because the vampire won’t stop looking at him, which in turn makes Edward watch him too, with a frown on his face. Edward looks as though he is about to run out to check on him, so Harry shakes his head at Edward minutely. These aren’t dark emotions. They’re not the type of emotions that make him want to visit Death—not yet anyway. They’re just the ones that remind Harry of his reality. Of being alone. But he won’t let them win. Not right now. Not here. Not when he is in a place having fun with genuinely kind people. Harry swallows the emotions down and tries to remember the high he had getting Edward out.

Emmett stands ready at the plate, bat sitting on his shoulder and knees wide, ready to hit the ball far with his bulk body. Harry ignores the worried gaze of Edward and the intense look of Jasper, settling into place and releasing a breath, preparing himself for another high-speed race for the ball. Emmett points the bat in Rosalie’s direction and yells out.

“It’s coming to you, babe!” He yells.

“Get ready, James,” Rosalie calls out to him. “He’s definitely bluffing.”

Harry lets out a small laugh and nods his head. He was already prepared for it anyway. Emmett loves competition and Harry just got Edward out, so there’s no way he’s not aiming the ball in Harry’s direction. The Cullens don’t know this, of course, but Harry’s had a lot of experience profiling others, and Emmett is what Aurors call a ‘Kneazle-mark’. Someone as easy to read as the Prophet. Someone so predictable, even a Kneazle can figure them out. Harry has no doubts that ball will come flying to him.

And it does. Just like Edward’s, the ball crashes against the bat to the clap of thunder and it’s impossible for Harry to see. He hears it whizzing past again and takes off after it at maximum speed. He needn’t have bothered. The ball slams against a tree only a hundred metres in front of him, cracking it down the middle and continuing until it bounces off another tree with its slower velocity. It’s right there, but Harry slows down, dropping to a cruising speed as he weaves over the broken tree and towards the ball sitting on the dew-damp grass beneath it. He stops, the ball still in the distance, his skin itching and the hairs on his neck standing up. Suddenly, Edward is beside him, hand touching Harry’s lightly as though he’s scared he will knock him from the broom.

“Let’s go,” Edward says, jerking his head towards the field behind them.

“What is it?” Harry looks around. He can feel it now. The stillness of the forest. The silence in the trees.

“I’ll explain later, let’s just—”

“Is this your ball?” A man asks, holding the baseball up, stopping in front of them, only fifty metres away.

He’s a tall, dark-skinned man, with long dreadlocks tied into a ponytail. He wears a red suit jacket, open to show off his chest. It makes his equally red eyes stand out. Harry has only seconds to decide whether he stays on the broom or gets off to stand next to Edward. When another vampire steps out, this one with angry red eyes on a murderous face barely hidden in the shade of a tree, Harry decides to prepare himself for a fight. He lowers the broom and slides off slowly, already aware of how tight Edward’s grip is on his hand, the way his body is coiled and prepared to attack.

“Yes,” Edward replies cooly. “My coven and I were just having a friendly match.”

“I see.” The dark-skinned man’s eyes roam over Harry and the broom in his hand before Edward steps in front of him.

It rankles at Harry, the way Edward is still trying to protect him even though he’s already killed one of these vampires, but he won’t bring this up now. He doesn’t need to. Neither of them will need to fight, because the nomadic vampires are so outnumbered. He can already hear the Cullens speeding through the trees towards them, which means the nomads can, too. If Edward and Harry looked like easy pickings before, they certainly wouldn’t now. Besides, there are only two of them. Harry’s sure he could take them on with Edward there to pick up on anything he might miss with his slower speed.

“Welcome,” Carlisle says democratically as he stops besides Edward. Emmett and Jasper stand in the distance slightly with the girls, yet their presence is still no less imposing. “My name is Carlisle. This is my coven.” Carlisle gestures broadly to the congregation behind him.

“Hello. I am Laurent, and this is Victoria. We did not realise there was such a large coven in this area,” the man speaks, looking back at the red-headed female in the trees behind him.

“We maintain a permanent residence nearby. Your recent exploits in Seattle have caused us some trouble.”

“I am sorry about that. We will be moving on soon. We simply heard the game and came to see if you were in need of some extra players.”

The vampire throws the ball at Carlisle and raises his eyebrow, waiting. Carlisle looks aside at Edward and there’s a moment of silent communication between them, like a decision being made. Harry hasn’t given the Cullen coven hierarchy much thought before. He knows Carlisle is their leader, if only because he seems the most mature and is called father by them all. But he had assumed Esme was the second-in-charge. Perhaps, though, it is actually Edward, or maybe he simply looks to Edward since he is the only one who can have silent understanding of Carlisle’s thoughts and actions.

Edward shakes his head softly and the furrow in his brows as Carlisle turns back to the nomads, who both look on curiously. Harry begins to wonder how many vampires have abilities, and if they all know about them. Do these two have abilities, too? Can they tell Edward was communicating with Carlisle by reading his mind?

“A few of us were just leaving, actually, so we have room for two more.”

Edward takes Harry’s arm and pulls him back a step.

“The human is leaving? He smells…different.” Laurent edges forward.

Instantly, Edward drops into a crouch and hisses at the vampire and Emmett and Jasper dart forward to join him. It’s a rather funny sight to Harry. He has to fight back the urge to giggle at the way they hiss like cats with their hackles raised. He’s seen magical vampires hiss before, but that always sounded much scarier. Maybe it’s because their magic is so dark and corruptive. Their hisses were deep and grating on the ears. These hisses are rather tame, all things considered, but the way they flash their fangs and the inhumanly sharp point to their fingernails says otherwise.

Carlisle steps forward calmly, waving his sons down. “The human is with us.”

“I see.” Laurent look behind him at Victoria, whose eyes are only locked on Harry. “It seems that we should postpone our game. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Laurent steps back and nods his head goodbye, before spinning on his heels and taking off. Harry wonders how hard it must have been for him to show his back to seven other vampires. The red-headed vampire hesitates a moment before flashing her fangs, hissing, and taking off after Laurent.

“We’re going,” Edward says, scooping Harry into his arms and running across the field at full speed.

Harry’s broom knocks against his arms as they run, and he whacks Edward on the head with it.

“Put me down!” He yells, whacking Edward with each word.

“We have to go!”

“Edward,” Harry says slowly, anger leeching into his voice. “Put. Me. Down. Now.”

Edward stops, his golden eyes gazing down at Harry with a complicated expression. He slowly releases the death grip he has on Harry’s thighs and lets his feet touch on the ground, now back near the home plate of the baseball game. Harry brushes his clothes off and flicks hair from his eye, glaring over the rim of his glasses at Edward. He shrinks his broom and shoves it in his pocket.

“What’s got you so freaked out?”

The Cullens appear one-by-one, stopping beside the arguing pair.

“Victoria. I read her mind—she was mates with that vampire you killed. She could smell it. You. She knows you were there. They both saw you on the broom and they know you’re not human, but they don’t know what you are. She’s convinced you killed her mate.”

“Well, I did.”

Carlisle pats Harry’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should stay with us for a while, James.”

“Why? My house is much safer than yours.”

“James—” Carlisle starts, but he’s cut off by Edward.

“You don’t understand, she’s obsessed!” Edward cries, gripping his hair. “I should never have brought you here. It was stupid. We knew the nomads hadn’t left yet! Alice—”

“Alice, nothing,” Jasper growls, only stopping when Alice puts a hand on his chest.

“I was watching them. You know this. They were leaving Forks until they heard us,” she says softly. “You saw it.”

“Look, Edward,” Harry runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’ll be fine. Stop freaking out. It’s not really a big deal.”

“Right.” Edward scoffs. “Killing a vampire is different to being hunted by one.”

“I’m used to being hunted,” Harry mutters under his breath.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Edward retorts angrily.

“Nothing!” Harry is hyper-aware of the Cullen family watching their argument bounce back and forth, like they are beaters knocking bludgers for practice. “Just stop. Stop trying to protect me!”

“You need it! Magic or not, you’re human! Breakable! Killable!” Edward is losing it now, his voice rising.

“Edward—” Rosalie starts, stepping forward, but she’s pulled back by Emmett when Edward hisses at her.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Harry snaps. “What is your issue? You’re insane!”

“No, you’re insane! I’m just trying to keep you safe.” Carlisle touches Edward’s arm but he shakes it off, continuing forward to Harry.

“I don’t need you to keep me safe! When will you get that through your thick skull?” Harry yells.

“Yes, you do, Harry!”

Alice gasps, and silence descends on the group.

“W-wait, I didn’t mean—” Edward starts, his eyes wide, a shaky hand reaching out to Harry. “Please don’t—”

Harry scowls at him, chest aching as pain lances through him. Harry. Harry. Godric, how stupid can you get? How many times does Harry need to get betrayed in his life to learn his lesson? He considers obliviating Edward. He knows too much about Harry now. Even his age. Even the way he glamours to look older when he visits others. Salazar, Harry had even agreed to a date with this control freak. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. He must have been out of his bloody mind.

Harry flashes his hand out and points it at Edward’s forehead, letting the magic jerk from him angrily. Edward’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and he slumps down, caught by Carlisle who looks up at Harry distraught.

“He’s not dead,” Harry grinds out between his teeth. “He’s just knocked out. Rightfully so. Sorry for ruining your game.”

Before the vampires can process what happened, Harry has already disappeared into thin air.

Chapter Text

Edward sinks through the ground and falls into nothingness before he jerks upright, holding a hand to his forehead and feeling as though he just lived something he can no longer remember. It flitters on the edge of his mind, like a life once lived, a moment once experienced, but he cannot grasp its wispy edges.

“Take it slowly,” Carlisle says.

“Yeah, like that will help,” Rosalie grumbles. “He’s fucked it up.”

Edward can’t seem to place where he is, or why he’s on the ground, or why he had been resting his head in Esme’s lap. He feels sick. Like, honest to God, nauseous, which is something he has only experienced in the presence of the wolves and, even then, not to this extent. He wonders if it is possible for vampires to vomit. If they do, would it be only blood? When did he last eat, anyway? Edward feels as though every thought in his brain has been knocked loose, every memory rattled from their bookshelf, every record in the wrong slip.

“What happened?” Edward groans.

“You’re a dumb bitch, that’s what.”

“Rosalie,” Carlisle snaps. “Enough.”

“What? It’s true?” She defends herself, kicking the ground in front of her. He’s the one who went all crazy on the wizard, she thinks.

“What?” Edward looks at her. “What do you mean?”

Fucking idiot, she thinks, not bothering to reply. Instead, she grips Emmett’s hand and turns away. “I’m going home. Thanks for ruining it, Edward.”

Edward rubs his forehead and looks to Carlisle pleadingly.

“What happened? Why can I not remember?”

“I’m not sure, son. But you fought with…” Harry. “James. You said something you shouldn’t have, and he knocked you out, somehow.”

“No, no, no,” Edward whispers, dropping his head in his hands as the memories flood back.

Esme wraps her arms around his shoulders but doesn’t offer false platitudes. He remembers now—the nomads, Victoria’s obsessive desire to kill Harry, and how he had freaked out, man-handling Harry and trying to steamroll the situation again. Something he thought he had learned not to do. And then he’d called him Harry, in front of everyone. He’d taken that first seed of trust, that budding connection between them, the one secret shared to him first and no one else, and then he had destroyed it. Threw it out in a moment of anger. And for what? To appease his idiotic desire to protect a man who doesn’t need nor want protection?

It’s okay, Edward, Alice thinks, sending her thoughts to him. Look.

So, Edward does. He watches as she flicks through numerous visions, showing Edward ones where he still has a future with Harry, where they sit together on the couch at home, laughing with the coven. Ones where Edward is at Harry’s home, watching him in the kitchen with Kreacher by his side, spray bottle conveniently on the counter. One of Edward and Harry in the mountains, in the clearing, flowers blooming around them. One of Harry flying his broom high in the air and calling down to Edward as he races below him, almost unable to keep up.

But those are not the ones Edward focuses on. No, what Edward sees, because he is a depressive, self-inflicting, depreciating individual, are the visions of blackness. The ones where Harry exists and then he doesn’t. One of Edward standing at the empty clearing where Harry’s house used to be. One of Edward frantically searching all of England for a sign of this elusive wizarding society in an attempt to find Harry again. One of Edward, with a lifeless Harry curled in his arms.

“Stop,” Edward whispers, throat croaky from emotions he cannot express. “Stop, please.”

Alice jerks back, her face sad. Jasper curls her into his arms and tugs her away with whispers that it’s okay. But it’s not. Even Jasper’s meddling can’t stop this pain in Edward’s chest at the thought that he’s ruined everything over such a small moment. Yes, he is worried for Harry’s life. Yes, the redheaded vampire is obsessed. But Harry has already proved himself, no? Why did Edward have to react like he’s some emotionally repressed—

Oh.

 Somehow, the realisation makes him feel worse. He is an emotionally repressed seventeen-year-old and Harry, no matter what trauma Jasper says he’s hiding, Harry is not. Harry is mid-twenties. A man, mentally. Edward, a child, an immature, egotistical child. He wishes he could cry like a human does. Instead, his eyes remain painfully, normally lubricated with his own venom. No tears drip from his eyes. But his body does shake. It wracks with sobs that won’t escape and shakes with the force of such volatile emotions. In a moment of worldly irony, the thunderclouds above them crack open and large, heavy droplets of rain begin to fall as if to mock him. Esme curls him into her grip tighter and Carlisle sits there sadly, watching his first son fall apart before them.

If I’d never turned him—

Edward only reads the first half of the thought before Carlisle manages to cut it off and distract his mind by counting raindrops. It was still enough. Enough for Edward to consider what his own life could have been like. He could have died peacefully. His soul could have rested. He wouldn’t have to be feeling such pain. But to not feel this pain would mean he would never have known Harry; to never have existed in this form would mean he would never have experienced this new, all-consuming feeling.

“It will be alright, son. We can fix this,” Carlisle says, voice strong and unwavering to the point Edward almost believes him.  

Carlisle joins in the hug, wrapping himself around the pair. Edward shakes silently in a purgatory of emotions his vampire body doesn’t know how to process. He remembers the first time he was held like this by his parents. It was back when he first returned to the coven, pupils ringed with blood red and gold, conscience heavy with the people he’d killed.

After a few minutes, Edward’s body seems able to cope with the shock and his parents help him up and back to Emmett’s car. They drive him home slowly, much slower than usual, their worried eyes watching him through the rearview mirror as he stares out the window at the rain pattering down. He shouldn’t be acting like this now. Harry might not need his protection, but he should still be offering his assistance—patrolling Harry’s house, the wards, the forest. Ensuring that Victoria isn’t nearby, watching and waiting for Harry to leave and catch him in a moment of weakness.

Harry won’t let him inside the wards. Edward has no doubt about that.

“Stop the car,” Edward says suddenly.

Carlisle does, reluctantly pulling off to the side and turning around to look at him.

“I’ll be back soon.” Edward clambers out of the car.

Please, not again, Esme thinks. Not my boy.

“I promise,” Edward says, looking Esme in the eyes. “There’s something I have to do.”

“Alright, son. We’ll be waiting.”

Edward nods his head and darts into the trees at full speed. Edward knows Harry, perhaps more than Harry truly understands. He’s seen many sides of him in the time they’ve known each other, some good and some worrying. Mostly worrying. Edward may not know everything about him, but he does know that Harry doesn’t react well to situations about himself, nor does he have healthy coping habits. He’s seen Harry down more alcohol than he should, both in-person and in-vision, and he’s seen the way Harry toes the line of suicidal ideation the same way Edward did too, so many years ago. Perhaps…perhaps he’s done more than toe the line. Edward doesn’t know for sure, but he does know that the way Edward just behaved will have impacted Harry deeply, and he’s likely to self-medicate.

So, there is only one thing Edward can do for him now.

“What do you want?” Sam asks, stomping out from the trees of the Quileute lands, still zipping his jean shorts on.

“I’d like to speak to Billy Black.”

“What makes you think I’d allow that?”

“It’s about James.”

Sam instantly becomes more alert. The wizard again. I knew he was a danger. “What has he done?”

“Nothing. This is a family matter.”

“Family?” Sam scoffs. “You’re not family.”

“No, but he is. To Billy and Jacob. You cannot deny that.”

I wish I could. Sam scowls.

From the tree line behind Sam, a russet-coloured wolf slinks out, whining.

Please Sam, let me go see him, Jacob thinks. Let Edward talk to Billy.

Sam cannot hear Jacob’s pleas in human form. Still, he must understand them, because the sound of Jacob’s wolfy whines sets him on edge further.

“No!” Sam snaps. “I will not allow it.”

“I believe Billy would like to know.”

In fact, Edward knows he would. He’s read the old man’s mind—he knows exactly what Billy thinks about Harry. He knows that Billy thought that Harry looked so despondently lonely, that his eyes were haunted and sorrowful, and his words hidden behind bravado even more so. Originally, Edward didn’t see what Billy saw. Now, though, Edward thinks that maybe Billy is the one with the ability to read others.

He would, he would, Jacob yips in agreement, snapping his maw. Edward sees a glimpse of Sam in Jacob’s memory, in his imposing black Alpha form, baring down on Jacob until he submits, commanding him, barring him from visiting Harry for fear of what he could do to their pack. It reminds Edward of himself all those weeks ago where he also feared Harry and what he could do, the possibilities he presented.

“You cannot hurt him, Sam,” Edward continues, adamant that he’ll get what he wants one way or another. He’s not idiotic enough to break the treaty just to talk to Billy, but he is not above stalking the treaty line to wait for him to leave it. “He is family to Billy and Jacob. According to pack law, he is untouchable. Whatever you may feel for the wizard is null and void.”

How does he know that? “We have no such—”

Sam cannot even finish his lie before Jacob is howling at the thunderclouds above them. The other wolves of the pack join in, hidden in the darkness of the forest, but their howls no less impressive.

“Please, Sam,” Edward asks again. “I would consider it a personal favour. One I would reciprocate when needed.”

A favour from a bloodsucker? Not something we need, Jared thinks from in the trees. Sam thinks differently, though. A favour from the Cullens could be beneficial to the tribe. We wouldn’t have to use it now—it could be passed down if needed. Sam eyes Edward distrustfully but eventually nods his head.

“Alright. In exchange for a favour from the Cullens, I will allow you to meet with Billy.”

“Alone,” Edward says.

“With Jared and Paul.”

“With Jacob only.”

“Fine. Jacob, lead Edward to the main road. We’ll bring Billy there in the truck.”

The russet wolf growls in acknowledgement and bounds through the trees without waiting, which is fine for Edward. He follows Jacob at a respectable distance to ensure the wolf doesn’t get set off. He probably doesn’t need to bother, though, because Jacobs rampant thoughts are only worried for ‘James’. I should have gone; I should have defied Sam and left. I should’ve told Dad what Sam did. Edward does think Jacob should have told Billy that he was banned from visiting Harry too. It’s only been a day since his transformation, and he’s already being forced to submit by an Alpha he doesn’t agree with. Edward wonders how that works on a wolf long-term. Does it impact them negatively if they continually disagree with their Alpha’s orders? Surely it must. What is the point in an Alpha hierarchy otherwise?

“Can you keep secrets from your pack?” Edward asks Jacob suddenly when they arrive at the roadside, both pausing just behind a thick layer of trees, so they won’t be spotted by any unforeseen passersby.

What the hell is this bloodsucker asking? Of course I can, although I guess maybe I can’t. Wait. Wait—can I not keep secrets anymore? Oh my god, I didn’t think about this that much, I just thought it was cool we could hear each other’s thoughts but if I know Jared jerked off this morning then that means they also know I jerked off in the shower last night because they’ve seen it in—

Jacob, Paul’s voice rings through his head loudly, as if his thoughts were yelling. Shut the fuck up.

Oh my god, oh my god, this is so horrible. I can’t even—

“I guess you couldn’t tell me anyway,” Edward says, hoping to cut Jacob’s spiralling thoughts.

He was hoping that Jacob could block his thoughts in some way. He’d assumed their communication was intent-based, not simply a free-for-all. Unless Jacob is just too new and hasn’t learnt how to block out all the noise yet. The other wolves’ minds have never sounded as loud as Jacob’s. It would have been nice to be able to ask some probing questions without the chance of Sam finding out. He might have also wanted to ask some questions about Harry or share some information regarding his thoughts on Sam’s orders that Jacob steer clear from the wizard.

Edward might not like the wolves, but their existence is little more than an inconvenience to him because they stink and they are particular about their borders, plus they’re too obsessed with his coven. It’s been a whole century, and they still think there’s a chance the Cullens could turn around and give up their vegetarian lifestyle. Carlisle is a practicing doctor for goodness’ sake. What is only an inconvenience to him, though, Edward thinks might mean a lot to Harry. He can’t say for sure. It’s hard to tell with Harry sometimes. But it seems as though he cares for the Blacks, much more than he wants them to know. Edward has noticed it in the way he talks about Jacob with that Swan girl, and also in the way Harry opened his home, his life, to Billy. With almost no reservations which, for a guy like Harry, really says a lot.

Jacob sits as far away from Edward as he can and spirals mentally as he begins to think about all the embarrassing things he doesn’t want his pack to hear or know about, which only brings those things more to their attention. Jared and Paul bully him relentlessly for walking from the toilet with paper stuck to his shoe, or for the embarrassing dream he had about the Swan girl, or for the magazine he has hidden under his bed. Edward feels bad for even asking the question now, since it seems to have thrown Jacob off so badly. Only minutes later, the truck can be heard rumbling down the road. Sam stops the truck off to the side and Edward walks out to meet them, staying a fair distance away from the border.

“You have twenty minutes before I’ll be back,” Sam warns as he loops the car and helps Billy out into his wheelchair. “Jacob stays.”

Edward nods his acquiesce. “Thank you.”

Billy looks him up and down. Neither of them speak. Edward waits until Sam is completely out of hearing range, the heavy thud of his paws running him back towards La Push. Jacob shuffles from the trees and snuffs at his father.

“Thank you for coming, Billy.”

“What do you want?” Distrustful as always. “Sam said it was about James.”

“Yes, well.” Edward looks aside at Jacob. “You wolves are very impressive. So large. Very fast. I’ve always wondered how you work together so well as a team.” Billy frowns at him as Jacob rises onto his haunches, growling slightly. “Sometimes, it’s as if they can read each other’s mind.” Edward looks to Billy again, pointedly. What is he saying? He cannot know that they communicate like that, Billy thinks. “I can’t imagine what that would be like. To have everything I know open to my whole family.”

Edward pauses. Why is he saying this? Billy thinks. Edward waits a long moment before shrugging slightly. “Of course, I’m here to talk about James, not about that.”

I see, Billy thinks. He doesn’t want Sam to know this information, which means only I can hear it. But how does he know this? Do I trust this? Why would he take such a risk otherwise? He came here alone, too. What could be so important about James that he wants to keep from Sam? Sam has been rather vocal about his distrust of James since yesterday. Perhaps even the Cullens are aware of this. But, again, how?

“Jacob,” Billy says. “Change back.”

Jacob whines heavily, stomping his paw. No! He’s dangerous.

“Jacob.” Billy sends a heavy look at his son. “This is important.”

Jacob finally does behind the safety of a tree, and he stumbles back out in a pair of loose shorts. “What the hell, Dad?”

“Now, leave. Don’t change back until I call you.”

“What? You made me change just to leave?”

“Yes.” Billy looks at Edward. I hope I have made the right decision.

Sam’s going to kill me, Jacob thinks as he stomps away. Protect your dad, Jacob! Leave your dad, Jacob! Don’t visit James, Jacob! God, why can’t I catch a break? It’s been one fucking day and already—

His thoughts slowly disappear into the trees and Edward waits, closing his eyes and listening to ensure there is no one around, no hidden wolves waiting to hear what he has to say. When he opens his eyes, Billy has wheeled himself closer to the border line. Edward takes a few more steps forward too.

“How did you know?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Edward lies. “But I am grateful you understood.”

Typical vampire. Manipulative and a liar.

“What is it, then?”

“I have been spending time with James lately.”

“I am aware.” Billy looks rather unimpressed with the information.

“He joined my family today for a game of baseball.”

“You guys play ball?” He raises an eyebrow.

Edward can’t help laughing a little. “Yes, it’s a rather enjoyable game. However…something happened. The nomads visited us.”

“Is James okay?”

Edward pauses. “I don’t know. But he’s not hurt because of them.”

“What—”

“Please, just let me talk.” Billy nods, closing his mouth even though Edward can practically see the words trying to escape. “There was one of them—a redhead woman—she realised that James killed the vampire yesterday at La Push. He was her mate. She was…rather upset. Naturally, I freaked out, thinking that James was in danger and—”

“And you hurt him?” Billy cuts in.

“What? No! I tried to make him leave.”

“Oh. And what? Get to the point.”

“Well, you see, James doesn’t like being protected. He—he got mad. And then I got mad at him being mad. And it just—it got out of hand, and I said something I shouldn’t have.”

“Which was?”

“Well, I can’t say. But it was a secret James had shared with me. Something precious, and I let it slip in front of my family. He knocked me out and left.”

“Wait—he knocked you out?” I wasn’t aware that vampires could be knocked unconscious.

“Yes. It was a new experience.”

“Why have you come here to tell me this?”

“Because I know you care for him.”

“I cannot stop him being mad at you for fucking up.”

“No. Billy, how much do you know about James? About his life when he’s alone?”

Billy looks away, face downcast. “Nothing. I can assume…” that it’s nothing good. A teenager, living alone for one. Someone who looks so despondent, for two.

“I feel it’s not my place to say,” Edward replies slowly, thinking over his options. He could tell Billy how volatile Harry is with his alcohol and tobacco consumption. But he can’t reference the scars Billy won’t be able to see of the suicide attempts. He can’t mention that he swore Harry died in a hotel room right next to him. “I know James will not see me at the moment. I know he will not let me inside his home again. But I know that you are allowed in. And right now, I believe he needs you to check in on him.”

“So, you did all this…to ask me to visit James?” What does he know? He must know something to have done this. What is he so scared of?

“Yes.”

“And you tried to protect him?”

“Of course.”

“Of course?” Billy questions, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yes. He means a lot to me. More than you know.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Well, he doesn’t either, at the moment.”

Billy almost cracks a smile. “He’s smart, that James.”

“I hope you will visit him.”

“To ease your guilt?”

“I have no guilt for trying to protect him,” Edward replies. “Only for breaking his trust.”

Billy nods and then turns himself around, not bothering to say goodbye. I was meaning to visit him anyway; I was just going to give him some more time after what happened yesterday. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to visit him now, though.

“Also, one last thing, Billy.”

He looks over his shoulder.

“You should ask Jacob what order Sam gave him.”

Billy narrows his eyes at Edward. “And how would you know what orders he received?”

“Oh, I don’t.” Edward smiles, cocking his head to the side. “But I think you’d like to know, wouldn’t you? It’s fascinating what an Alpha could make a pack member agree to.”

Billy sizes him up for a moment longer before turning away and rolling back towards the car.

“Go on, now. The wolves get antsy when you’re this close.”

Edward darts into the trees and begins his sprint back home, feeling a little lighter knowing that Harry will have someone checking in on him soon. It might not be him, but it’s someone who cares for Harry. Someone who seems to want the best for him. Maybe in a day Edward will find out he’s made the wrong decision by pushing Billy to visit Harry, but until then he will grasp onto this hopeful feeling that he’s done something right. 

Chapter Text

Harry fights the urge to suicide into Death’s arms firstly by partaking in a few too many firewhiskey shots and secondly by deciding it is time to rampage in his training room. He figures letting loose will do him some good. Either these frustrating emotions will disappear with a little cathartic spell casting, or he’ll be in a convenient place to off himself afterwards. Kreacher knows better than to visit him in the training room. It only took one time for a spell to hit dangerously close to where he stood in the doorway for Kreacher to realise he shouldn’t enter, and it only took one close call for Harry to start putting up wards inside too.

“Kreacher, I’m going to the training room,” Harry says, sliding from the chaise and walking in as straight as a line as he can to the hallway. He thought he spoke rather clearly, but it takes Kreacher a minute to reply as he seems to puzzle through what he’d said.

“Alright, Master.”

Kreacher has been by Harry’s side since he returned home from the fun-turned-disaster baseball game with a silent apparition and a scowl on his face. Kreacher always seems to be extra clingy when Harry’s in one of his moods. He can’t blame the elf, really. His moods never end well and poor Kreacher has seen the worst of Harry too many times.

He’d been feeling alright recently, too. Life had seemed like there were some silver linings and there were things he’d begun to look forward to. Harry has never been the sort of bloke to think about his future and perhaps that’s why being Master of Death is such a horrible fate to him—the boy who only thought of ways to survive each day is suddenly ensured a future, forever. It’s a terrible fate that he’s still yet to reconcile, but lately…lately he’d been feeling a bit better. Sure, he freaked out a bit thinking about this date with Edward but that was more because of the romantic undertones and future possibilities, things that Harry had considered impossible for himself until recently.

But overall, Harry had been feeling actually pretty okay with the whole scenario. Until Edward had to go and be a right dunce. In all honesty, Harry’s wondering why he’s even blaming Edward for calling him by his name. Harry should have seen this happening when he was idiotic enough to tell the vampire his real name. It was rather inevitable that it was going to happen at some point, but he would have preferred that it didn’t happen quite so soon and in front of everyone. What’s he supposed to feel now that they all know his real name?

On the flip side, is it even that big of a deal? They didn’t even know the wizarding world existed until recently and they have no way of finding more information on it without Harry helping. All they know is the name Harry, not Harry Potter, and they don’t have any other wizards to share or get information from anyway. What harm is it to be called Harry only by the vampires in town?

Harry pauses in the door to the training room, gripping onto the gilded door handle with as much strength as possible as a wave of alcohol-induced vertigo hits him. The harm is not being called Harry. The harm is the broken trust he feels for Edward. The hurt he feels that something he shared so carefully, something that Edward clearly knew was precious, was blasted back in his face in a fit of anger. It’s as if Edward decided to take the one thing Harry gave him and hurl it right back at the first sign of discontent between them. And was it even really the first sign? Hasn’t Edward proven that he’s someone who is not able to control his own impossible need protect, to control, even if it is unwanted, unwarranted? Is that not the opposite of what Harry would want from someone, especially someone who he has the chance to be with forever?

Harry waves his hand, and the Elder Wand appears in his grip. He casts the wards into place—ones to block spells from escaping and to stop others from entering. For good measure, he even adds a silencing ward, because he doesn’t want Kreacher to worry. He’s still quite drunk, but the danger and difficulty of training inebriated is always something Harry enjoys. Besides, this is only training against his own magic mannequins. Who are rather decent but they’re no wannabe Dark Lords sending Unforgivables. Harry has fought enough of them whilst drunk on the job that it is practically a trained skill for him now.

He waves the wand at the collection of mannequins in the back corner, and they stand up, joints rattling into place as the magic flows through them. There are eleven altogether, but he only activates six of them because, even drunk, Harry is trying not to push himself into an extreme mindset, where he knows he is more vulnerable to Death’s persistence. Not that he even understands what’s so bad about killing himself since—

Harry cuts that train of thought with a slicing hex straight at the mannequins. He can’t let that thought continue because no matter how many times Hermione has explained it to him, he truly can’t find it in his heart to completely agree with her. If this is his life, then visiting Death seems really like a non-negotiable in the grand scheme of living forever. It’s like sleeping, but more extreme, more restful, better. So, really, he—

Salazar, Harry thinks, I need a smoke.

He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights it, letting the cigarette dangle from between his teeth as he weaves around the attacks of the mannequins and sends more hexes their direction. They crumble to pieces beneath the force of his spells, but quickly recuperate, their pieces rattling back together and rejoining the fight. Harry continues to duck between and around spells cast his way, sending his own attacks out with a flick of his wrist and half-formed thoughts. The alcohol in his system burns away the longer he fights, his movements becoming more precise and deadly. He looks simultaneously bored and angered, his face furrowed into a deep frown and lips pursed, but his eyes distant, as if barely paying attention to his surroundings. Harry uses his free hand to take a drag from the cigarette dangled between his lips as the mannequins begin to fight with more gusto, sending more complex spells and aiming for Harry in moments of weakness—the ground right before he steps, the break between his casts, the moment another mannequin keels over before him. They’re adaptive and smart, but Harry enjoys the thrill he gets when a hex slices past his cheek and a trickle of blood drips down. It feels more real. More deadly.

He sends out a hex that decapitates a mannequin, its body crumbling to pieces before him, and Harry’s reminded of James from yesterday, his stone-like body that cracked as he sliced him apart and threw him to the fire. But instead of James, this time it’s Edward. Edward in the motel room, only a brush away from death. Edward in La Push, dead, dying, burning to ashes. The thought makes him sick. Edward might be a bloody idiot, but Harry doesn’t want to see him dead. Doesn’t want to imagine killing him. Whatever there is between them is enough for Harry to consider forgiving him for this transgression, but he refuses to be the first person to initiate the reconciliation. Harry’s not the one who fucked up. Edward is the weird one.

Harry takes another drag of his cigarette and sends out a wave that throws two mannequins against the wall and sends another tumbling into the fourth. He follows up with a fire blast to another and sends the last one sinking deep in the ground when it tries to stalk up behind him. He can feel his senses sharpen as he slowly sobers up through the sheer effort of exerting himself, and the desire to down another shot of the burning liquid flares within him. Sobering up agitates him. Enough for him to realise how tired he really is and how much he would like a break.

“Master,” Death whispers in his ear, the nothingness of its breath ice-cold down his spine even though they don’t breathe. “Come and rest,” Death coaxes. “Take a break, Master. It’s okay to rest.”

It is okay to rest. In fact, it’s preferable to rest. But Harry doesn’t want to feel like he’s just doing what Death is telling him to do—not when he’s supposed to be the master. Besides, he hasn’t killed himself in weeks. Ron had even congratulated him on his deathless streak last time he visited. It’s a rather big accomplishment for him, after all, and does he really want to throw it away just because of Edward? Because Death is here enticing him? Because his body aches and his mind is tired? Because his chest feels hollower now than it has been in weeks?

“Not today. I won’t join you today,” Harry replies as if convincing himself, ripping himself from their shivery embrace, closing his eyes to forget the rough bones tickling along the base of his skull.

“As you wish, Master,” Death says, in both his mind and aloud, surrounding him yet not existing. Harry shivers as the imposing aura of Death slithers into the cracks and shadows of the world around him.

“James.”

Harry barely hears the name in the distance, dampened by the wards surrounding the room. There is a light tapping on the wards of someone trying to get his attention. He stops, letting the mannequins clatter to the ground in pieces as he faces the doorway, taking a drag of his cigarette. Kreacher cries out in relief, running forward to Harry, leaving Billy Black sitting in the doorway.

“Master! Kreacher be calling you for ages!”

“Sorry, Kreacher,” Harry replies, his voice rough, brushing back the hair from his sweating forehead. Kreacher shuffles closer and holds his hand to his mouth before whispering, in a voice loud enough that Harry is sure Billy can still hear it.

“Master be talking to no ones again. Kreacher be thinkings to tell Mrs Weasley,” he whispers.

“I’m fine, Kreacher. No need to tell her.” Harry pats the top of Kreacher’s head softly. “Thank you for worrying about me.” The last thing he needs is Kreacher tattling to Hermione about his whisperings because, unlike Kreacher, she is more likely to figure out that death is, in fact, Death, a being he can see and communicate with, not a thing he is master of, but an abstract being who coaxes him into their embrace.

Kreacher brushes Harry’s hand off but his ears curl down in bashfulness. “Master allows the Black mister entrance…Kreacher told him it was a bad time.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says. He did think he was going to regret letting the Blacks have free reign of the house, but until now Billy hadn’t visited, and Harry feels the least he can do is allow them entrance into their own ancestral home. Billy is probably here because of the vampire from yesterday anyway. He scuffs his cigarette out on his palm and vanishes the butt as he walks over to the door.

“Hey, Billy,” Harry calls out with a sheepish expression, rubbing the back of his hair as he walks forward. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”

“It’s okay. I came over uninvited.”

“What’s up?” Harry stops in front of Billy and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is this about yesterday?”

Billy nods, a complicated expression on his face as he eyes Harry up and down. “I wanted to check up on you. And to thank you, for saving Jacob. He said you helped him through his change, too.”

“Oh,” Harry relaxes slightly and shrugs. “Only a little.”

“That was some rather impressive magic,” Billy continues, jerking his head to the mannequin pieces littering the floor. “Are all wizards this good at fighting?”

“Master is actually—”

“Not all of them,” Harry cuts Kreacher off with a pointed look. “But most of us know a few defensive spells at least.”

“Seems like you know more than a few. You must train a lot.”

“Master must always—” Kreacher starts.

“Practice!” Harry cuts him off, knowing Kreacher was about to spout Professor Moody’s favourite slogan: one must always remain vigilant. It’s true that he trains partly because of that teaching, but the other part is simply that he enjoys letting loose at times and fighting is a fundamental piece to who he is. “If you don’t use it, you lose it, you know?” Harry laughs awkwardly and Billy gives him the grace to not look too suspicious. “Why don’t we go somewhere more comfortable than here?” Harry asks, hoping the change of location with also ensure a change of conversation.

Billy gestures for him to lead the way and smiles a little at Kreacher as he follows Harry out. Kreacher announces that he’ll bring tea and apparates with a crack. Harry leads Billy to the drawing room where they met previously, and Billy stops his wheelchair in the same spot he did last time, placing his hat on his lap. He watches the painting above the fireplace mantle. Harry looks at it too, watches as the deer inside shuffles out of view and the trees shimmer in the low light of sunrise. It’s practically a different painting to the last time Billy saw it.

“Kreacher said you were training,” Billy starts, turning to look at Harry who sits on the chaise with his arm spread along the back and his eyes pinned on the drink cart in the corner.

“Did he?”

“Yes. I was wondering what you were training for?”

“Nothing much,” Harry responds, waving his hand dismissively and bouncing his knee rapidly. “I just like to practice.”

“I see. Thank you, James. You saved Jacob’s life yesterday.”

Harry doesn’t want to be thanked for saving the life of someone. The act of saving someone seems trite to him now. It’s an expectation that he would fight to protect another, even more so if they are someone he cares for. It means nothing to him that there was the slight possibility of death because he cannot die. Billy doesn’t know that though. And even if he had properly died, Harry would have thought that were the greatest gift he’d ever received.  

“How is he?” Harry doesn’t acknowledge the thank you. His fingers tap on the armrest in a haphazard beat. The drink cart calls his name.

“He’s alright. He wanted to visit but…well, he couldn’t.”

“Is he hurt?” It’s the first time Harry has managed to drag his eyes off the bottle of firewhiskey sitting on the drink cart to look at Billy.

“No. You made sure of that. There are some pack things that still need to be sorted.”

“Anything I can help with? Want me to kick Sam’s ass?”

Billy chuckles but shakes his head. “Not yet. Maybe later. It would be nice if you could visit us again, though. At the reservation.”

Harry nods slowly. “Sure, I guess. Probably good to show my face to Sam again.” To keep him in line, that is.

He might appear to be seventeen, but Harry is actually a grown man with enough life experience to know that sometimes it is important to flex your power to gain authority over another—and Sam is someone who thrives on the struggle exchange of authority and power. There is no better way to throw a man like Sam off than to undermine what he perceives as his greatest strength.

“Jacob said you helped him when he was changing. He said he felt your magic. How did you do that?”

“It’s nothing much. You wolves are magical, after all, even if just a little. I just sent some more in there and helped him control what was happening a little. Honestly, at the time I was thinking about my Godfather. I told you he could turn into a dog, right?” Billy nods his head. “Well, I thought about how he described the process of turning, but then I realised he was probably full of shit, so I just did what felt right.”

Billy chuckles a bit and shakes his head, “Either way, thank you. Jacob tried to explain it, but he didn’t really know how to put it into words.”

“Magic can be like that,” Harry replies with a small smile.

Kreacher pops into the room with a tray of tea, placing it on the coffee table before them and disappearing just as quickly. Harry pours them each a cup and stirs in his own honey and milk, more than he usually puts. The extra sugar helps him relax a little and he sends a quick wave of magic out to disillusion the drink cart in the hopes that not seeing the dark bronze liquid will stop him from salivating for it. Billy doesn’t comment on the several dollops of honey Harry adds to his drink, but his eyes do watch each spoonful carefully.  

“I should tell you, I met the other nomads earlier, when I was with the Cullens,” Harry says after a long sip of his overly sweet tea.

“Oh? Did you fight?”

“No. I think there was some vampire stuff going on because neither of them attacked, but they weren’t friendly either.”

“It’s not easy to attack another vampire,” Billy explains. “Especially not for a coven like the Cullens.”

“Why not? There’s so many of them.”

“You don’t know much about the Cullens, do you?” Billy asks, taking a sip of his tea. “They are the largest coven in all of the Americas.”

“What? Really? There’s not that many of them,” Harry replies, furrowing his brow as he leans back into the chaise. “I mean, I didn’t think they’d be the largest group.”

“Vampires don’t work well in large numbers because they’re egotistical.” Harry nods his head gravely and Billy seems to fight to stop the smile stretching across his face. “Most of them are individuals, or they stick in small numbers for safety. If a group like the Cullens took down one vampire, nothing would happen. If they took down several, then there would be backlash.”

“Let me guess—all the solo vamps would begin to join hands for the greater cause of taking down the Cullens?”

“There’s that,” Billy nods. “But, as Carlisle explained it to us, the very act of taking down a vampire invites challenge. There are some who simply like fighting. Who enjoy the hunt and the thrill of the kill, specifically against their own kind. For a coven like the Cullens, who try to live with humans peacefully, drawing the attention of these kinds is not what they want.”

“Because then the people around them could be in danger,” Harry finishes. Billy nods his head.

“This is why the Quileute wolves do not hunt for vampires, we simply protect our lands. It is not in our interest to draw the attention or anger of other vampires.”

“You speak differently about them,” Harry says after a moment, eyeing Billy over the lip of his teacup. “The Cullens. Sam seems to hate them with his entire being.”

“Don’t blame him too much,” Billy says. “I was like that once, too. For Sam, though, everything is much…more. The Cullens are the reason he’s a wolf. And the reason many other things happened in his life. I’m old enough now to see that the Cullens mean no harm, but that doesn’t mean I trust them or believe they won’t one day revert to their true nature.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums, tipping the last of his tea back. He places the teacup back on the table and within a few seconds his knee is shaking again, his fingers tapping on his leg.

“Would you like to come and have dinner next weekend? We usually have fish fry on Sundays,” Billy asks, changing the subject not-so-subtly.

Harry pauses his movement and takes a deep breath before nodding slowly. “Sure.”

“I should get out of your hair then. I just wanted to check on you. And to thank you.”

“No need for thanks,” Harry says, standing up and following Billy as he wheels himself to the front door. “Let me get Kreacher to take you back. How’d you get here?”

“Jacob drove me.”

“Jacob drove you but didn’t come in?”

Billy shrugs. “Like I said, some pack things. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he comes next time.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees hesitantly as Kreacher appears. “Kreacher, can you take Billy to his car?”

“Of course, Master.”

“See you soon, James,” Billy says just as Kreacher apparates them away.

The sudden imposing silence of the house depresses Harry, and he stalks back to the drawing room to stare at the drink cart in the corner. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t drink. He has already been drunk tonight, so withholding from it now isn’t like some crazy success over his own alleged alcoholism. He could just have another glass. It would help him relax.  Kreacher reappears beside him and stands, watching, waiting for Harry to have a drink. The thought makes Harry sick to his stomach. He turns and stomps away from the firewhiskey that beckons him and to his room.

On his bedside table sits a quarter dose of Dreamless Sleep. It’s not enough for anything really, not enough to loosen the tight muscles of his shoulders, or enough to actually give him dreamless sleep for more than about an hour. Still, it’s the thought that counts, and Harry knows how rarely Kreacher will allow him a sip of the stuff, since Kreacher was the one who helped Harry through months of tireless withdrawals in the past. Harry fights the urge to down the potion instantly and heads to the bathroom by somehow convincing himself he’ll enjoy the experience more if he’s freshly showered.

He debates if he should attend school tomorrow, since he doesn’t have the mental energy to bother with Edward’s insane mood swings. Plus, there’s something novel about being able to avoid your problems and skip school. At Hogwarts it was hard to avoid anyone, because you’d always have class with them and, if you were really unlucky, they might even be in your dorm or common room. Forget about skipping class, too. Being able to just not turn up is exciting to Harry and there is no one else who could tell him to do otherwise.

Facing Edward is a pain, but it might be nice to see Bella. In fact, maybe it would be nice to just pretend to be normal for a day. Most of the time, acting like a muggle is annoying because he has to filter everything he says, but sometimes it is a relief. Their problems seem so trivial to Harry. Even when he lived as a muggle, his life was never easy, and his problems were much worse than he ever noticed because he was too young to really understand. It might not be fun to listen to Jessica complain about her new crush of the week, or to listen to Mike try and make Bella laugh, but it is entertaining. The most entertaining part is always Edward though, trying to blend in with the humans. Harry scowls at his own thoughts and shuts the water of the shower off.

He stalks from the bathroom with still dripping hair and wastes no time downing the potion, praying to Merlin that when the effect wears off, it’s not Edward haunting his dreams.

Chapter Text

“Jesus, what happened to you?” Mike asks, as the group of muggle teenagers Harry’s come to begrudgingly think of as friends walk over to where he is standing at his motorbike.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Harry mumbles back, taking a shaky drag from his cigarette and glaring at Edward across the carpark.

He knows he looks like shit. He looks bad enough that even Kreacher advised him to stay home today and Kreacher never advises against missing muggle school, because he’s convinced it goes against The Timeline. Harry’s hair is more mussed up than usual and his eyes are horribly bloodshot. He knows the dark bags under his eyes make him look like his face has gone ten rounds with a Boggart and lost every time.

“He still looks better than you,” Eric teases, dodging Mike’s quick punch with a cackle and running away as he gives chase.

The Cullens are all here today, the entire congregation of coupled-up teenagers standing beside their fancy cars and blatantly watching Harry. Rosalie and Emmett stand a good distance from Edward and her defiantly angry face makes Harry a little happy. Seeing a family broken up over him shouldn’t make him happy, but it does, and Harry is not above admitting that to himself in his own head. Serves Edward right for having the brains of a flobberworm.

“You don’t look that bad.” Angela smiles at Harry, patting his shoulder as she passes. “Also, you know smoking is illegal on school grounds.”

“School grounds start over there, at the stairs,” Harry retorts, taking another drag.

“Actually, the parking lot is included.”

“Whatever.” Harry shrugs. “What’re they gonna do?”

“Uh, suspend you? Expel you?” Jessica says. “You know that would look so bad on your record.”

“I don’t think the record actually matters for James, you know,” Tyler whispers conspiratorially to Jessica, side eyeing Harry.

Harry almost forgot all the muggles are convinced he’s under witness protection. Hermione’s plan works almost too well to the point where it’s a little scary how easy she finds it to manipulate the situation to their advantage. Harry laughs at Tyler’s comment and shakes his head but decides not to reply to either of their points. Maybe it would be in his favour if the school expelled him because the decision about these vampires—and Edward—would be made for him. He’d just have to skip town and move on to the second location in The Timeline. It would be years too early, but he could still make it work. Hermione would make it work, he means.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bella asks softly from beside him once everyone else has begun walking to the entrance, her eyes warm and wide like the rich wood of a well-worn broom handle. His chest aches at the sight.

“Yeah.” Harry scuffs the cigarette out on his palm out of habit, and she frowns at him.

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

“I guess I’m used to it.”

She grabs his hand and pulls it closer, checking for any signs of a mark. His palm is perfectly fine apart from a small smudge of ash and a faint red mark. There is a scar there, beneath his glamour, but it’s not something that hurts. It just happened because of time and consistency. It’s not like he always puts his cigarette out on his palm. Sometimes he uses his shoe, or a wall, or the floor, or simply magic. Still, Bella looks at it carefully, and her lips are pursed when she looks back up at him.

He feels a slight pressure on his occlumency walls and looks away from her to glare at Edward, who has the audacity to look apologetic.

“You should really quit,” Bella says. “Smoking is—”

“Bad, I know. You’re not the first to tell me.”

She sighs. “Well, you know, maybe one day you’ll listen.”

“Doubtful.” Harry shrugs. “A long and happy life just isn’t for me.” It’s not even a lie. He pushes himself off his bike and loops his backpack over his shoulder, jerking his head to the school. “Let’s head in.” He would rather stay outside for as long as possible but he’s sick of having to see Edward throwing him that same pitiful look across the carpark—all wounded, like he’s the one who’s been emotionally hexed.

“Also, my dad wanted to tell you to go get some chains put on your bike.”

“What?” Harry looks aside at her. “Whatever for?”

“Uh, the ice? Look.” She points to the cars they are walking past, including her own beat-up truck. Each of them has chains wrapped around their tyres. “It’s ‘cause of the rain. Dad said if you need help, he will organise to get some for your bike.”

“Sure, thanks. I’ll look into it and let you know.”

“Make sure you do it soon,” Bella says, pushing the door to the school open as she looks at him over her shoulder before waving goodbye as she breaks off to head to her class. “See you at lunch.”

Harry heads to his first class with an obvious Edward-shaped shadow lurking behind him. He has half a mind to turn around and ask what his problem is, but that might invite Edward to think Harry wants to talk to him. Which he obviously doesn’t, unless it’s an apology. And if the first thing out of Edward’s mouth isn’t an apology, well, Harry’s decided to hex the bugger. Maybe a batbogey hex. Ginny always said it was the best hex if you’re aiming to shame and embarrass someone and Edward might just be deserving of such a thing.

Luckily, their first class isn’t together, so Edward leaves after hovering in the doorway of Harry’s classroom for a minute like Nearly Headless Nick used to do. The class itself goes worse than usual even with Angela trying to help him by offering him the homework answers in the few minutes before class starts. Harry didn’t do it over the weekend and somehow, he also managed to leave his entire textbook at home, so the teacher makes him move to the front row and doesn’t let him zone out like he usually does. He misses sitting next to Angela once he’s moved. She’s a much calmer person than he realised, and her presence gives off a warm, relaxing energy that lets him unwind a little. He doesn’t have to worry that she’s going to ask him something odd or mention an obscure muggle sports team, then act devastated when he has no idea what the Superbowl is.

After classes, Harry notices more students than usual congregating in the hallways excitedly, and more hormones floating in the air as hordes of teenagers flirt with each other in their horribly awkward teenage ways. It reminds him of Fourth Year, when Beauxbatons and Durmstrang descended on Hogwarts and suddenly everyone was dating or crushing on each other.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks Angela as he stops next to her. She pokes her head out from behind her locker door and looks around.

“What do you mean?”

Harry gestures to the clusters of teenagers.

“Oh. You haven’t heard?” She shoves her textbook inside and slams her locker closed.

“Heard what?”

“Prom. We’re announcing the theme today!”

Terrible flashbacks of Yule Ball flitter through Harry’s mind and he shivers, shoving them back deep inside his mind. Prom. How horrible. Harry can’t think of anything worse than re-experiencing the awful trauma of a teenage dance, but it makes sense now that the entire school reminds him of Fourth Year. They’re all excitedly awaiting the prom theme and then the fight for a partner will begin earnestly.

“This is why you need a phone. I can’t believe you live without one,” Angela says, brushing her way through the crowded halls and walking towards the cafeteria. “Eric told us in the group chat two days ago.”

“So, what’s the theme?” Harry asks, because even if he has absolutely no intention of attending, he’s still interested to know. The Yule Ball required dress robes but there was no ‘theme’ to adhere to, which is why Ron looked as though he’d stepped from an ancient textbook on wizarding fashion and Harry wore perfectly normal, modern dress robes.

“It’s Monte Carlo.”

“Oh, how interesting.” Harry has no idea what Monte Carlo is.

“You don’t know what that is, do you?” Bella asks suddenly from behind him. Harry shrugs, glancing over his shoulder as he holds the door to the cafeteria open for her.

“No, but I also have no intention of attending, so I figure it doesn’t matter.”

“Think James Bond,” Angela says ahead of them. Bella and Harry follow her to their usual group table. Harry feels like he’s heard the name James Bond before but he’s not really in the know about what the name invokes in regard to a party theme.

“You’re not planning on going?” Bella asks, weaving between a couple arguing in the walkway.

“No. Are you?”

“I can’t dance. So, no.”

Harry nods his head as they stop at their usual table. Angela is already sitting with Eric, so Harry slides onto the other side with Bella following him.

“I could teach you a dance or two, if you wanted to go,” Harry says to her.

He might not have been very good at dancing when he was in Fourth Year, but Harry’s been to enough stuffy fundraising events now that he’s picked up a thing or two. It probably helped that Hermione practiced with him because he was afraid of tripping over his feet in front of literally everyone and Rita Skeeter writing some embarrassing headline like “The Boy Who Lived Who Can’t Waltz: Potter’s Pitiful Performance Worse Than a Troll on Ice”. Besides, he might regret that whole Yule Ball fiasco, but he’s pretty sure prom is like a rite of passage for American teenagers, and he doesn’t want Bella not to go if the only reason is that she can’t dance.

“You can dance?” Bella looks almost impressed but then shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I’m planning to visit my mum that weekend, anyway.”

“What?!” Eric asks, his face devastated. “You’re not going to prom?”

“Yeah,” Bella says slowly, her face apologetic. “I already planned the trip. Non-refundable tickets.”

Harry might be retired, but he’s not blind. Bella’s twitchy fingers and inability to hold eye contact with anyone other than the packed lunch in front of her tells Harry all he needs to know about how ‘busy’ Bella is that weekend. He won’t out her for such a white lie though, because Harry thinks he would have lied about such a thing too, even with the permanent reminder that he shouldn’t lie carved on his skin.

“So, who are you guys going to ask?” Bella asks Eric and Tyler, who both shiftily looks away from Bella and mumble random names out. Harry smirks into his lunch at Bella’s obliviousness.

“James.” Harry stiffens, looking up and into Edward’s pitiful eyes. “Do you have a moment?”

Harry considers ignoring Edward. He even considers straight up rejecting him and telling him to bugger off. But there are too many interested eyes watching them—not just from their own table, but also from those at the tables surrounding them, and from the Cullens in the corner. So, Harry sighs and stands up.

“Be back in a minute,” he mutters to Bella, following Edward across the cafeteria and to the doors that lead them outside into the gloomy Forks weather.

“I’m sorry,” Edward says, spinning around to face Harry with a mournful expression once they are sheltered from prying eyes and ears by another building. “I should never have said that, least of all in front of everyone.”

Harry’s heart clenches. He doesn’t want to accept this apology, because it’s easier to stay mad. It’s easier to cut Edward off and pretend this whole thing just never occurred. It would be easy to obliviate him right now and walk back inside, straight to the Cullens, and obliviate them, too. Merlin, he could obliviate the entire school and then speed his way home and begin step two of The Timeline for good measure.

“Why did you?” Harry asks instead, opening himself up to more pain and disappointment.

“I was scared,” Edward whispers, running his hands through his hair. “Of losing you to Victoria. I still am. I’m terrified at every moment that I might find out you’ve been killed, and I did nothing to protect you.”

Harry can relate to that in every way he wishes he couldn’t. How many times in his own life has he feared for his friends and family? How many times has he acted solely to protect another from pain or death? Edward is no different to him. His actions stem purely from a place of care, as unusual as that is to Harry.

“You don’t need to worry,” Harry says softly, fighting the urge to reach out and comfort Edward. “I’m exceptionally difficult to kill.”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Edward says, but the way he pauses, the hesitation in his eyes makes Harry wonder if it’s a question hidden in a statement.

He could tell him. He could mutter the words; I’m the Master of Death—but they’d mean nothing to Edward and the very idea of voicing such a thing aloud where anyone could hear feels as though a Dementor is sucking at his soul. Has he even voiced them aloud before? He knows Hermione has, but has he? He cannot remember a time where the words have ever formed on his tongue.

“Difficult enough that you shouldn’t worry about me,” Harry replies instead, his skin itching something fierce at the thought of baring all his secrets. “Worry about yourself. You’re much easier to kill.”

Edward cocks his head to the side slightly with a small smirk and a raised eyebrow, as though both disbelieving and impressed at the idea.

“I’m not sure I like knowing that.”

 “Keep being a knob-head and maybe I’ll show you.” Harry shrugs, but a small smile escapes onto his face.

Edward laughs and it’s a sound that warms Harry inside just a little. The cavern in his sternum echoes with it and he presses his hand on his chest in an effort to keep it inside.

“I really am truly sorry, Harry.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry waves him off. “Enough of that. Let’s go back—I’m hungry.”

“No, please, I need you to understand—”

“I do. I get it.” Harry turns away from Edward and stops himself from absentmindedly rubbing at his chest. “I appreciate the apology.”

“Does this mean you’re not leaving?” Edward asks, following Harry back around the building and towards the cafeteria doors.

“Depends.” Harry pauses, his hand on the door and looks over his shoulder. “Did Alice predict that I would?”

Edward pauses infinitesimally, so short of a breath that a muggle wouldn’t have noticed the break or the way Edward’s eyes dim in brightness for less than a second as he computes all the possible answers he could give. When he speaks again, he smiles, as if knowing that Harry already knows he’s lying.

“Yes,” he says confidently.

Harry lets out a short, sharp laugh and wrenches the door open.

It seems Edward can learn. He’s almost seemed human to Harry lately—apart from his absolutely insane need for control and his ever-changing eye colours—so it’s almost a relief to see a cunning side of him, one who isn’t blatantly trying to steamroll his decisions onto Harry but learning to manipulate his answers to get Harry to stay of his own volition. Honestly, if Ron and Hermione were here, they’d probably congratulate Edward for figuring Harry out so quickly whilst simultaneously packing Harry’s bags to send him far away from the bloke. What sort of sick bugger is happy when someone finally figures out how to manipulate them to their advantage? Maybe he really does need that mind healer again. He can hear them questioning him now: Are you happy he manipulated you, or are you just glad he gave you a reason to stay?

Merlin.

Harry glances at Edward beside him, who is following him back to the table of muggles even though his own tray of lunch food he pretends to eat is across the cafeteria with his family.

“Yes?” Edward asks with a glowing, radiant smile, like all the weight of the world has dropped from his shoulders.

“Bugger off to your own table,” Harry responds, pushing Edward away and stomping back to his seat.

He refuses to look back at Edward to see whether he left. He can’t believe the range of emotions he’s gone through in the last forty-eight hours. Scratch that, the last seventy-two hours have been like pulling off a Wronski Feint in a thunderstorm without his glasses on and only having light reflected from Malfoy’s pale forehead to see with. He slumps back into his seat beside Bella with a heavy sigh like all the weight of the world has dropped onto his shoulders.

“What did Edward want?” Jessica asks over the top of Eric’s conversation with Tyler. “Why didn’t he come and sit with us?”

“He’s sitting with his family,” Harry replies.

“Good,” Mike says with a glare over Harry’s shoulder, presumably at the Cullens. “It’s always too crowded when he’s here.”

“Yeah, sure, Mike,” Angela replies with a roll of her eyes. “That’s why you don’t like Edward sitting with us.”

“It is! Why else wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re jea—”

“Angela!” Mike cries, his face outraged. “Why would you even—”

“She’s right,” Tyler defends, cutting off whatever Eric was saying to him. “You’re totally—”

“Hey,” Bella whispers to Harry, nudging him slightly. He looks up from his lunch and cocks his head slightly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

She looks down at his chest and then back up. Harry glances down and realises he’s been rubbing his chest since he sat down. He stops and chuckles, awkwardly laying his hands on his lap when Angela kicks him under the table gently. He looks at her, Bella following his gaze too.

“Your ears are red,” Angela whispers conspiratorially.

Harry slams his hands over his ears in shock as both Bella and Angela giggle at him, completely at odds with the other teenagers at the table still bickering over the argument Harry is just now realising Angela incited on purpose, to stop the table from focusing their attention on him.

“I’m glad you guys made up,” Bella says lowly.

“Me too!” Angela whispers.

“What? We didn’t! We weren’t even fighting! Why would you think we made up?”

Harry truly has regressed into Fourth Year. His stumbling words and horrible lies—Godric, he’s getting flashbacks of the time he asked Cho to the Yule Ball. Bella jerks her chin behind him and Harry spins around to see Edward sitting between his siblings with the goofiest grin on his face, watching their table. He waves when Harry looks at him. Harry spins back around, feels his face heat up under the knowing gaze of the two girls and promptly lays his head on the table.

“Shut up,” he groans to the two girls laughing at his expense.

Chapter Text

There are very few moments in his existence in which Edward has not despised himself and his ability. Constantly inundated with the mundane, errant thoughts of every person around him is draining. It is something he has spent countless years working on, figuring out how to block as much input as possible. It would be impossible to remain sane under such conditions if he were not a vampire, he’s sure.

But today is a day where Edward finds it quite pleasant knowing what everyone is thinking, because it means he can rejoice in the fact every human at the school is under the impression he asked Harry to prom and received a positive answer. Although Harry’s rather brusque attitude of brushing him off in the cafeteria makes some doubt about the supposed success of his invite, when they spot Edward’s glowing, radiant smile, they all seem to conclude that he must have been successful.

There are a few reasons why this makes Edward so pleased. First, because even though it is false, it gives him hope that he might be able to convince Harry to go to prom with him, even though he knows Harry already told Bella he wasn’t going to go. Second, it makes Edward realise that these modern-day humans have noticed there is something between the two of them, and most seem to be open to the idea. Angela in particular seems very excited at the prospect. And, finally, the last reason is that Edward simply enjoys how awkward Harry looks and sounds every time he tries to deny the rumours, which he has been attempting to do for the last two days.

“Seriously, he didn’t ask me,” Harry says to some random girl in his Spanish class.

“So, he didn’t, but you wish he did?” Bella asks. Harry elbows her in the ribs and glares her direction. Edward has a developing fondness for the girl, even if her overbearing smell muddles the scent of Harry.

“No!” Harry turns back to the girl he’s trying to convince. “Seriously. We’re just…friends.”

Now, even to Edward, that pause was suspicious, and he relishes in the discomfort suddenly on Harry’s face as he realises what he’s done.

“Oh, I see,” the girl replies with a small smile. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. You guys should totally go together though. Like, everyone would support you.” She leans in closer and whispers in Harry’s ear. “Seriously, like, no one has come out here, so you’d totally be the first and you snag Edward Cullen? You’d have bragging rights for life.”

Harry groans as the girl leaves quickly, giggling into her hand and whispering to a gaggle of friends waiting for her at the door.

“Stop being a creep,” Rosalie says, jerking Edward from the minds of the students in Harry’s Spanish class and bringing him back to reality in Trigonometry.

“I wasn’t.”

“Listening in to conversations from four classrooms away is already weird, but smiling whilst you do so?” Rosalie curls her lip up in disgust. “It’s creepy. Even if he’s forgiven you.”

Edward feels a bit of guilt bubbling up under his happiness at being admonished. Maybe it is a little creepy. Perhaps Harry wouldn’t like that he’s listening in so much. He is in a public sphere though, so it seems fair game that Edward listens in. It’s not like he’s attempting to read Harry’s well-defended mind like he used to.

“When are you going to actually ask him?” Rosalie continues, her voice low as the teacher explains another problem they both already know how to solve.

“To prom? I’m not sure. He doesn’t want to go.”

“Hmm,” she hums. “Maybe he’s already been to one.”

Edward doesn’t like the idea of Harry attending a prom with another. Edward has been previously, of course, but the last time was decades ago in the few years before Emmett joined them and his partner had been Rosalie. Back then they still got along rather well, because it was before Edward realised Carlisle had turned Rosalie with the intention of her becoming his mate. Edward remembers her wearing one of the most extravagant dresses he’d ever seen that ended up ripped to shreds and covered in blood when they ended their successful prom night with a hunt. Edward already knew he wanted to take Harry to prom but now, with the idea that Harry might have already been to one that was not with Edward, he realises it is no longer a desire, but a need.

“I’ll ask him after school,” Edward declares.

“What, in the parking lot?” Rosalie scoffs. “He will definitely say no.”

“He might not.”

“What part of James implies he’d enjoy a public promposal?”

“It’s not a promposal—”

“He already told people he wasn’t going to go. He’s a secretive person, and you know why. In what universe would he appreciate being asked to prom publically?”

“I wasn’t going to ask him loudly,” Edward mutters.

“Just ask him on your date,” Rosalie continues, ignoring everything Edward said. “You do still have a date, don’t you?”

Now there’s something Edward hasn’t considered. He’s sure Harry has forgiven him for his blunder last Sunday, but he doesn’t know what that means for their planned date. What if Harry no longer wants to go? Edward might really combust. If he includes the time he dreaded Harry’s arrival, Edward has spent months unknowingly leading himself up to this moment and now it might all lay in pieces at his feet. Rosalie eyes Edward’s unsure face and sits back with a small smirk, relishing in his discomfort. Serves him right, she thinks. I hope James cancels it! He shouldn’t have forgiven Edward so quickly anyway.

Edward has noticed that even since his slip of the tongue, his family hasn’t once used Harry’s name. They barely even let the name form in their thoughts. It’s a kind, silent gesture that Harry might never come to know about, but it shows their commitment to Edward. Even if Rosalie is picking on him and silently hoping Harry never forgives him, he knows that deep down she still wants Harry to become a part of their coven. They all want him to. They are simply waiting on Edward to figure out how to make that happen.

Edward darts from the classroom when the bell rings at the end of the last period, weaving his way through the too-slow humans to Harry’s class. He has decided to take Rosalie’s advice and will ask Harry to prom on their date. If they still have one. Which is what he’s on a rampage to find out. He feels like cursing out the old lady in the reception for not letting him swap out of Trigonometry. It’s one of two classes he doesn’t take with Harry, and it has become more of a burden than expected.

Harry spots Edward snaking his way through the crowd to him instantly, as if he can sense when Edward is nearby. Who knows? Maybe his magic can. Harry is walking with Bella, and he softly shakes his head at Edward from down the hall, very minutely lifting his hand, telling him not to come over. Bella follows his eyes and turns, laughing softly when she sees Edward standing in the middle of the hallway, rivers of teenagers running on either side of him.

“He really isn’t subtle,” Bella says to Harry. “There’s no point telling him to stay away from you.”

“There is,” Harry replies, shaking his head and turning away, slipping into the stream of exiting students easily. “It’s for my own peace of mind.”

Edward sulkily follows them from his Harry-designated distance. He can hear Rosalie laughing at him further down the hall behind him.

“Who do you think you’re fooling?” Bella retorts. “You’re not subtle either. It’s kind of sickening, actually.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“What?” Bella gasps. “Surely you don’t mean with…Mike?” She whispers his name quietly, eyes darting left and right.

Edward also wants to know what Harry means by that comment. Although Mike thinks of Bella perhaps ten-per-cent more often than he does any other girl he has on his radar, Bella herself seems rather unattached to the teenager. Not like he can read much from her fog-filled mind, but he’s never even sensed the slightest hint of interest in Mike and her heart has never raced when they talk, the way a teenager’s usually would when someone they are crushing on talks to them.

“I guess you’ll figure it out one day,” Harry replies with a smile.

“Wait, no. I’m not falling for this. Don’t try and distract me from you.”

“Oh, it didn’t work?”

“Look,” Bella says as they clamber down the stairs of the school entrance and out into the chilled air. She brushes stray drops of left-over rain from her hair that drip down from the alcove. “I just want to know what’s holding you back. You’re both interested, obviously.”

Harry sighs, running a hand through his curls to flick off the droplets in his own hair, and Edward flexes his hands with the desire to run his own fingers through it. He wonders if Harry’s hair is soft. Rosalie stops next to Edward and glares at him with her nose scrunched up in disgust. Creep, she thinks, as if she is the one who can read his mind, stomping past and heading straight to Emmett who waits for her with open arms. Edward, ignoring her useless thoughts, slinks down the steps behind her and continues to eavesdrop on Harry and Bella’s conversation from across the parking lot.

“There are lots of things,” Harry says, running his fingers along a rusted edge of Bella’s truck. “But…” He hesitates slightly. “I did agree to go on a date with him.”

Bella gapes at Harry, dumping her bag on the hood of her truck, not seeming to care that it’s still covered in small puddles of rain from earlier.

“What?! When?”

“He asked me a couple of days ago—”

“And you never told me?!”

“Well, there wasn’t a right time. We ended up fighting, so.” Harry shrugs. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Oh, so that’s why Edward looked so creepy today after you guys talked?”

Edward might be developing a complex. He’s never felt like a creep before but with both Rosalie and Bella reinforcing the idea, he is starting to think that there might be some merit. He turns to Jasper and Alice who stand beside him, waiting for him to get in the car and drive them home. It seems Rosalie and Emmett left already in their own car. Edward is grateful, because it means he won’t be bombarded with Rosalie’s harsh mental jabs as he stands waiting for whatever crumb of an interaction Harry provides.

“Yes,” Alice replies to his unasked question with a solemn nod. “You have appeared rather unfortunately creepy today.”

Jasper nods in agreement, gently patting Edward on the shoulder. “It’s not you. Humans instinctively find our kind fearsome when we are too happy,” Jasper explains. “They don’t even know why they feel the need to avoid you.”

“I’m glad you two made up,” Alice says. “Of course, I knew you would.”

Edward knows that she didn’t know for sure, because he watched every single outcome she envisioned, and he saw exactly how many of them ended badly for him. There were several that even ended in blackness, which is definitively the worst outcome since it means Harry resorted to magic of some sort. Still, he appreciates Alice’s optimism in his ability to wrangle his way into the best outcome even with visions that are half-formed and misleading. Which…makes him realise that he didn’t rely on a vision to get this outcome. He wasn’t thinking about what to say next in response to whatever Harry replied in accordance with the vision he liked best. He existed in the moment without using the visions as a reference point to success.

He didn’t even realise it at the time. He was so focused on Harry and determined to apologize for his mistake. At the time, Edward was convinced that Harry would never forgive him and, even if he decided to do so, Edward was sure it would be much later, after many more apologies. Maybe he didn’t rely on Alice’s visions because he was so sure that they wouldn’t work out. He didn’t truly believe the visions of Harry forgiving him. He, himself, didn’t believe he was worth forgiveness so quickly. His mistake was so egregious that it seemed ridiculous to think Harry would accept an apology alone. But he did. And Edward hadn’t even needed the vision to make him do so.

“You really should just date,” Bella says, dragging Edward back to her conversation with Harry. “Look—he’s standing over there, staring.”

Harry turns and his green eyes stop right on Edward as if homing in on him. Edward doesn’t bother looking away or trying to hide his blatant staring. He’s already been caught out and labelled a creep, so he may as well commit. Harry narrows his eyes at Edward and spins back around with a groan.

“Can you stop?” He says, and Edward knows it is aimed at him, even though Bella is the one who apologizes with a laugh.

Edward doesn’t know what Harry replies with. He isn’t even sure if Harry does reply, because he hears a revving engine, sees the patch of black ice on the road, and knows, instantly, where the van will head when the driver slams his brakes on. The wheels lock and it slides across the ice, heading straight for Harry.

In the second it takes Edward to process what is happening, Alice begins to have visions of all the outcomes based on the decisions being considered by all involved—Tyler, who debates pulling the handbrake or steering in the opposite direction; Bella, who considers leaping to the side or pushing Harry out of the way; Harry, who must be debating between what magic to use, since many of Alice’s visions are black; and Edward, who doesn’t wait for more visions to play out to make his decision.

He slips from the too-slow grip of Jasper and runs across the parking lot as Harry grabs Bella and pulls her closer to him, pressing her into his side and lifting his hand as if to block the van. Even with Edward’s high-speed brain processing power, he realises belatedly that he is likely unneeded. Edward already knows that Harry doesn’t need him. Still, he can never escape the haunting visions of Harry’s death. Not all the real visions from Alice, but the extra ones he makes himself, ones derived solely from his own worst fears, like that of Harry crushed between two cars.

He appears in front of Harry and holds out his palm, stopping the van as it smashes against it and bounces off, leaving a large indent on its side. A millisecond later, a pulse of magic shoots from Harry, hitting the van again, leaving a second dent on its side, likely magic he formed before Edward had even appeared. Edward looks over his shoulder at Harry with slight apprehension. His green eyes are boring into Edward, not in anger or shock, but with barely hidden concern layered in the frown of his eyebrows and the slight downturn of his lips. Edward has made a grievous mistake.

It’s for the best that Rosalie and Emmett left earlier, because it’s possible she would have killed him by now if they hadn’t. What was he thinking? His family has always been his top priority. Their safety as a coven should never be compromised and there he is, sprinting across the parking lot in front of the entire school to, what? Flaunt his super strength for everyone to see?

It is possible such an accident could have caused Bella to be seriously injured, which in turn would have set Jasper off anyway, but it feels a cowardly thing to make that argument in defense of his own behaviour, because he was in no way thinking about stopping Jasper from a bloodlust rage. There’s no telling how he would have reacted if Harry’s blood were spilled on the tarmac, either. No, he cannot blame Jasper, because Edward was only thinking about himself and all the ways he would be impacted by Harry’s death or injury. About the way he cannot exist without him anymore.

“What the hell are you doing?” Harry whispers angrily at him, unfazed that the very human Bella is watching with her jaw dropped. The parking lot lights up with screams and yells of students rushing to the accident and calling for help.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Edward whispers back.

“Obviously!” Harry shakes his head. “I had it under control.”

“Yes, well,” Edward looks away, catches Bella’s eyes and then looks the opposite direction. “I see that now.”

“Just go—I’ll take care of it,” Harry whispers to him. He waves his hand at Bella, who has been watching them converse with wide, confused eyes, and she suddenly falls asleep, slumping into Harry’s arms. “Go!” Harry whispers, pushing Edward slightly.

Edward frowns but does as he’s told and sprints from the accident, disappearing into the tree line behind them and running around to meet Alice and Jasper back on the other side.

“Edward?” Alice asks, stepping forward to touch his arm. “Are you okay?” He nods his head in silence. “Let’s go,” she says, gesturing to the crowd across the parking lot. It’s important they’re seen showing concern for their classmates, and that Edward is seen not as part of the accident, but as a simply bystander.

It’s okay, Edward. James said he would take care of it, Alice thinks, squeezing his hand slightly as they join the crowd of teenagers.

Harry assures people that they are alright, explaining that Bella knocked her head and has passed out. He spins some story about the van managing to miss them both that the humans mostly seem to believe, and those who struggle to do so write it off to the intervention of God, oddly enough. Guilt festers in Edward as he waits patiently for the sirens of an ambulance speeding towards them. He feels the deep urge to run away from his mistakes. But he can’t, because to leave now would be more suspicious.

The thoughts of the students rattle around in his head and he tries to focus, to catch any mention of him or even Harry, or the way the van bounced unnaturally—twice. No one seems to have noticed anything odd yet, but there is no guarantee they won’t do so later once their brains have processed more of the information.

The ambulance finally pulls into the parking lot and the paramedics make quick work of dispersing the students. They call in the fire brigade to move the van aside in a more controlled manner than a group of teenagers attempting to push it. The urge to simply walk up and move the van aside to release Harry is strong, but Edward is not stupid enough to make the same rash mistake twice. The van is finally moved, and Harry is shuffled out of the crash with Bella at his side. His bright eyes latch onto Edward instantly and he exhales; a complicated expression Edward doesn’t understand etched on his face.

“Edward,” Harry whispers under his breath. “It’s okay. Just relax.”

“I can’t,” he replies softly, even though Harry could not possibly hear him over the crowd or with the distance. I’ve endangered them all, he thinks.

“I’ll take care of it,” Harry whispers again, looking towards Alice and Jasper as he is shuffled off into an ambulance with Bella and Tyler. “Don’t worry.”

Just trust him, Alice thinks. There is nothing else we can do.

Jasper sends out a wave of calm energy and they both lead him to the car. Edward sits in the back and tries his best to ignore his sibling’s thoughts about what just transpired as Jasper phones Carlisle to warn him. Edward watches the numerous visions playing out in Alice’s mind. Those she can see, anyway. Several of them show Harry only for a few seconds before they disappear into a fuzzy black. Sometimes Harry is alone, other times with Edward or Bella. Slowly, but surely, the fear knotting in his stomach undoes as he watches visions of everything ending up alright—Bella seemingly forgets what she sees in some; other times, she talks about freak spikes of adrenaline as an explanation for Harry’s actions, but seems to forget Edward’s complete involvement; in another, she simply says she was knocked out for the entire time.

Carlisle instructs them to wait at home and inform the others of what happened, which is in many ways worse than anything else he could have said, because it means Edward must inform Rosalie of what occurred. He’s positive she will be angry at him for endangering the entire coven. He will not blame her for her rage. In fact, he will appreciate it, because she will be correct.

They arrive home and Edward hesitantly explains what happened, with Alice and Jasper offering small insights in his defense even though they shouldn’t. He sits with his hands clenched in his lap and watches his feet as he waits for Rosalie to begin berating him.

“Well, it’s not that big of a deal,” Rosalie says instead. Edward thinks he must have misheard her. “James said he’d take care of it right? I trust him.”

“You…trust him?” Edward asks, disbelievingly.

“Why? You don’t?” Rosalie shoots back, a perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “Can’t he erase memories? Besides, you said only the Swan girl seems to have noticed.”

“I agree,” Esme says. But I can’t believe Rosalie is the one saying this, she thinks.

“I think it will be fine!” Alice chirps. “All of my visions seem to be okay.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Edward,” Rosalie says. “What you did was stupid. You endangered us all. I understand why you did it—but that doesn’t change the fact this could have ended badly, for all of us.”

Edward nods his head in agreement, appreciating that someone is getting mad at him for this. If no one had been angry about such a thing then Edward would have to hold it against himself for a long time simply out of guilt.

“I know,” he replies, eyes downcast. “I apologize.”

“At least you’ve got that wizard on your side!” Emmett says with a laugh. “Imagine if you were still in the doghouse!”

“I was never in the doghouse,” Edward replies, simply because the implication is too much to bear.

“He knocked you out,” Jasper responds. “I believe that would constitute a doghouse.”

“Are we allowed to talk about that now?” Emmett leans forward. “What was it like? Did it hurt?” Edward knew there had been an unspoken rule not to talk about what had transpired in the field that day, but it seems Jasper has opened the floodgates.

“No. It was…” Edward thinks for a moment. “Disorienting. Everything in my mind was disjointed. I could barely remember who I was, or where I was. I was riddled with the idea that I’d forgotten something I’d just experienced.”

“A dream?” Esme asks, her hand raised to her mouth in awe.

“Maybe. I couldn’t tell you. It was an enlightening moment.” Edward looks at Emmett and smirks. “You should ask James to knock you out some time. Something tells me he’d enjoy it.”

Emmett laughs, but then he starts to look contemplative at the idea. Edward’s phone rings and he answers it instantly, knowing that it couldn’t be anyone apart from Carlisle.

“Edward? I need you to come to the hospital.”

“What is it? Did something happen?” Edward asks, already heading out the door.

“James is asking for you.”

“I’ll be there in five.”

Edward hangs up and sprints for the hospital. There could be no good reason for Harry to ask him to visit, especially not when he’d assured Edward he would take care of it. From Edward’s perspective it can only mean one thing—their secret is not safe.

Chapter Text

“The doctor said you’re all clear, but we need to keep you under supervision for a few hours. I’ll go and chat to the Charlie. If he can stay home with you, you’re free to go,” a nurse says to Bella, patting her gently on the hand and leaving the room.

Bella turns to Harry the second they are alone.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” she says.

Harry studies her impassive face in silence, considering. He had decided to simply obliviate her and anyone else who realised Edward appeared at their side mid-accident. It’s not his own secret that might be in danger now. It is also the secret of the Cullens, who rely on their anonymity to live amongst the humans. Unlike Harry, they don’t have another world they can retreat to and would be forced to leave Forks and all surrounding areas for decades, if not a century at least.

“I’m sorry, Bella. I can’t allow you to remember,” Harry says softly, slipping from his own bed and walking over to her. She flinches back slightly, widening her eyes as he steps closer.

“Please?” She whispers. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know you won’t,” Harry replies. “But I promised him I’d fix it. It won’t hurt. You’ll just forget he was ever there,” he explains, perching himself on the edge of her bed. He looks into her soft brown eyes and thinks again of worn broom handles.

“But I’ll forget about you, too. What you can do,” she says with a frown.

“You would have had to do that either way.”

“We’ll still be friends, right?” She asks hesitantly.

“Of course.”

Bella takes her time to look deep into Harry’s eyes, as if checking for a lie. She lets out a deep sigh and closes her eyes tightly, jerking her head in a nod. Harry grabs her hand and gives it a tight squeeze.

“Obliviate,” he whispers.

The magic curls through his hand and up her arm, slithering into her mind. He tries not to be too sad at the fact he had to obliviate her. She has no connection to the Wizarding world, so he would have had to erase her memory at some point, even if Edward hadn’t exposed himself. Harry thinks often about obliviating people who get too close, who find out his secret, or who simply know too much about him. He might think about obliviating often, but in reality, he has not needed to use the spell many times. Not on muggles he had late night forays with. Not on wizards, either. Thinking about obliviating someone is much, much easier than actually doing so.

Harry is someone who learned to survive purely on memories. Especially in those later years of Hogwarts, when Voldemort was threading his way into Harry’s mind, distorting how he viewed the world and his friends. It was important then for Harry to keep a tight grip on his core memories. The ones that formed who he is and kept him grounded in his own being. In that sense, obliviation has never sat well with Harry. He’ll use the spell when he must, but he would much prefer never needing it in the first place, and he would doubly prefer not using it on his own friend.

There is a minute of silence before she opens her eyes.

“James? It didn’t work,” she says, pulling her hand from his and touching her temple. “What was that? It was so warm. It felt like a finger was in my brain.”

Harry sits back and frowns at her. This is the first time his magic hasn’t done what he wanted it to since he became Master of Death, at least while sober. It is a simple spell, all things considered. He could do it in his sleep, blindfolded, he’s sure, even if he hasn’t cast it often. Yet, somehow, it didn’t work. Harry summons the Elder wand and points it at Bella.

“Let me try again.”

“Is that a wand?” Bella taps the end of it with her finger. “Like, a magic wand?”

“Yes,” Harry replies, before collecting his magic and trying the spell again. “Obliviate.”

He doesn’t whisper the word this time. He says it aloud, with purpose and effort. Bella shivers and takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as the magic beams into her. After a few seconds, she opens her eyes and laughs.

“Sorry. I can’t seem to forget.”

Harry lets the wand dematerialise and crosses his arms, leaning back to look at her fully. He expands his magic and lets it soak over her skin in an attempt to find an explanation for why he cannot erase her memories. Bella sits patiently, her fingers twirling odd patterns into the thin hospital blanket layered over her jean-clad legs. He attempts legilimency even though he doesn’t particularly want to see into his friend’s mind.

“Shit,” he says eventually.

She is like a magical drain. Everything he sends her direction simply turns into nothing—at least, everything mental. He sends a very weak stinging hex at her hand, and she jerks it back.

“Ow! What was that for?” She asks, cradling her hand to her chest.

“Sorry, I was just checking something.” He sends a burst of healing magic to the red mark on her hand and Bella inspects it closely, dragging her fingers across the once-marked skin. “This is a rather big problem,” he says to her.

“Is—is there something wrong with me?” She asks.

“What?” Harry laughs. “No. It’s not wrong, it’s just unusual. You’re not affected by my magic.” He wonders if Edward can read her mind.

“Magic?” Bella looks to the door of the small room they are in before lowering her voice. “So, what are you? A wizard?”

Harry contemplates what to do in this scenario, but realises that if she cannot be obliviated, there are very few options left for him apart from ensuring that she keeps his secret, and the secret of the Cullens.

“Yes. But I cannot stress enough, this is something you should not know, Bella. It could be dangerous for you.” Particularly since he cannot obliviate her. If he cannot, that means no one else would be able to either and Harry doesn’t want to find out just to what lengths MACUSA is willing to go to ensure they adhere to the Statute of Secrecy. Harry stands up and heads to the door. “I need to find Carlisle. Wait here.”

It doesn’t take him long to track the doctor down in the small hospital that is Forks General. The emergency room is quiet now that the car accident fiasco has been dealt with, and Tyler is the only patient still in the emergency ward. Carlisle had moved Bella and Harry to a private room after they were cleared under the pretence that he can’t keep the Chief’s daughter on the uncomfortable gurneys of the emergency room, but it was simply an excuse to give Harry time to do what he needed to do. Just further down the hallway from the entrance to the emergency room is a medical reception area where Carlisle stands with the nurse from earlier and Chief Swan.

“James. Are you okay?” Chief Swan asks when he spots James walking up slowly from behind Carlisle.

“Yes. I’m perfectly fine. It’s Bella who hit her head.”

“The nurse was just telling me. Thank you, Doctor,” Chief Swan says, holding his hand out for Carlisle to shake. “I’ll take her home and keep a close eye on her.”

“Pay attention to her for at least three hours more. Tell her to drink plenty of water, too,” Carlisle replies as they shake hands. Chief Swan pats Harry on the shoulder as he passes by.

“Thanks for being there for Bella,” he says. “I heard that you caught her when she passed out.”

“It was nothing, sir. She’s my friend.”

Chief Swan smiles at Harry and pats his shoulder one more time before heading on down the hallway. Carlisle dismisses the nurse before he gestures for Harry to follow him down the hall and into his office. Out of pure instinct, Harry sends out a silencing charm that seems to startle Carlisle.

“Oh. Sorry. Habit,” Harry says. He’s used to constantly protecting his conversation when they are about something sensitive. Who knows who could be listening? It seems even more pertinent now that he has all these senses-enhanced beings around, including murderous nomadic vampires with a vengeance.

“I’m simply not used to being in silence,” Carlisle replies, taking a seat behind his desk. “It’s rather jarring.” Harry takes a seat across from Carlisle and begins bouncing his knee instantly. “I take it something has you on edge? It is about the Swan girl?”

“Yes,” Harry replies, tapping his finger on his leg in time to the bounces. “I cannot erase her memory.”

“You can’t?” Carlisle raises his eyebrows in question. “Is this common?”

“No. It’s never happened before. She seems impervious to anything that would impact her mind.”

“So, it’s not all magic?”

“No. I can still hex her.”

Carlisle looks almost appalled. “I do hope you did no such thing.”

“Just a small one. She’s fine. Look—can you get Edward to come here? I’d like to know if he can read her mind.”

“Of course. I can already tell you, though, that he cannot. But only he would be able to explain it to you in more detail. I’ve heard it’s quite different to how he can’t read your mind, for example.”

Harry takes his time to mull that information over while Carlisle calls Edward. It’s rather unusual to run into a muggle who is impervious to magic. He’ll have to reach out to Hermione to see if she’s ever heard of such a thing, because Harry certainly hasn’t. There is something that seems cursed about Forks for all these unusual people and beings to collect here. Harry doesn’t like it. It feels like a bad omen.

Edward arrives quickly, hurrying into Carlisle’s office as fast as he possibly can whilst still appearing human. His hair is dishevelled from running so fast, or perhaps because he hasn’t stopped nervously running his hands through it since Harry left in the ambulance.

“What happened?” Edward asks, closing the door behind him, looking between Harry and Carlisle.

“It seems James has run into a problem.” Carlisle smiles at Harry, as if to acknowledge the name he’s not using, and Harry finds he appreciates it.

“Carlisle said you can’t read Bella’s mind. Tell me more about it. What is it like? Is it like when you try to read mine?”

Edward looks thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. “It’s very different. Your mind is like a wall, or a door slammed shut and bolted tightly. Her mind is more like a dense fog. I can glean some information, rarely, but usually it’s more like a general feeling, or an idea if she feels strongly about something.”

“And what about Chief Swan?”

“He’s the same, if not worse. Why? Did something happen?”

“I cannot erase her memories. It seems she is immune to all magic that impacts the mind.”

“Is this common?”

“No,” Harry says with a small shake of his head and a smile at the fact he asks the same question as Carlisle. “It’s very unusual.”

There is a small knock on the door of Carlisle’s office, and he gestures for Harry and Edward to wait a moment before opening it. Bella stands at the door, brushing hair behind her ears nervously and swaying left to right on her feet.

“Oh, hello, Dr Cullen. I wanted to speak to you all very quickly for a moment, if I could.” She looks behind her at her father who is chatting to the nurse at the reception. “I’ll be going home in a minute.”

“Please, come in, Bella.” Carlisle opens the door wider and steps aside.

Bella shuffles inside with a nervous smile, sliding her way inside only barely enough for Carlisle to close the door. She looks unsure but takes a breath and smiles shakily at Harry.

“I just wanted to come and let you know that I won’t be telling anyone. I know that you wanted James to use his magic to make me forget, but it didn’t work. And I mean, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, or why it wouldn’t work, but I wanted to let you know that your secrets are safe with me. All of them.”

“Nothing is wrong with you, Bella,” Carlisle assures her, moving away from the door and providing her some space so she doesn’t seem trapped inside. “It is us who are unusual.”

“Right, no, I know that, like—” she stutters. “I mean, not that you’re, like, weird or anything but—”

“Bella,” Carlisle interrupts her gently. “I cannot stress enough how important it is that you keep what you know to yourself.”

“Right. Of course. I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“It is for your own safety, Bella. There are…rules for humans who find out about us.”

“She doesn’t technically know,” Harry says. “She just knows Edward is abnormally strong.”

“And fast,” she adds, before looking away with a small nervous chuckle. “Which I don’t know, of course.”

Edward stands awkwardly in the corner; eyes locked on Bella and face scrunched in concentration. He sighs loudly and looks away. Harry knows that Edward must be blaming himself for this whole situation, again, and he’s not completely wrong to do so, but it’s also not helping them solve the problem either. It’s happened, so Harry wishes Edward could just get over it and stop beating himself up.

“We would like to keep it that way,” Edward says, looking to Carlisle for confirmation, who nods his agreeance. “I cannot undo what you already know, but I refuse to share anymore. It is dangerous for us all.”

Harry shuffles over to Bella and touches her arm gently. She stiffens at the touch and seems hesitant to look into his eyes. It hurts a little, but he knows that she is simply scared of what she doesn’t know and cannot understand.

“Bella knows what I am,” Harry says, smiling at her encouragingly. “We could enter a magical pact to stop her from sharing what she knows. If she agrees, of course.”

“A magical pact? What does it entail?” Carlisle asks, seating himself in his office chair. “Is it dangerous to her?”

“I could modify it. Usually, they would result in death if the vow were broken, but I could change it to something less extreme.” Harry frowns. “I am not worried, though. I trust Bella.”

“It might be worth it,” Edward says to Carlisle. “To protect us all.”

“It seems rather extreme. Bella has assured us that she won’t share our secret.”

“You know what the Volturi would do,” Edward argues. “It would mean our end.”

“I’ll do it,” Bella says, cutting off whatever Carlisle has gone to say. “I’m not scared of breaking it, because I know I won’t.”

Carlisle watches her carefully, considering. Harry takes the time to think of how to adjust the vow in ways that stop Bella from sharing information but keeps her alive if she manages to do so. It is possible that the spell wouldn’t take, though. He’s not sure whether Unbreakable Vows classify as a more mental or physical spell—they seem rather a mix of the two.

“What is it, James?” Carlisle asks.

“It’s possible it wouldn’t take. She’s immune to magics that alter the mind. I am unsure whether the spell I am considering counts.”

“Let’s try,” Bella says, grabbing James’s hand. “Quick, before Charlie comes.”

“No.” Carlisle stands up and holds out his hand.

“Carlisle—” Edward starts.

“No, Edward. I’ve decided. We will trust in Bella and deal with the repercussions if something goes wrong. It is not right that she risks her life, or her suffering, to amend our mistake.”

Edward goes silent at Carlisle’s orders and nods his head, looking down at his feet. Harry feels they are rather harsh words to say to one’s own son, but Carlisle is not necessarily wrong. Harry offered the spell because he wanted the Cullens to be aware that it is a possibility for magic to hold someone to a vow of silence—not because he truly wanted to tie Bella down with an Unbreakable Vow. In many ways, Harry finds that Carlisle’s answer and Edward’s quick acceptance shows more about their dynamic and personal beliefs that anything else could have.

Edward is someone who wants to risk it all to save his family or those he loves. Carlisle is someone who adheres to his vows as a doctor. He is a vampire who finds humans interesting, lovable, and worth saving. Harry wonders what it says about himself that he personally thinks that if it were him, he would have made Bella take an Unbreakable Vow to protect his own loved ones.

 “Bells, you in there?” Chief Swan calls, knocking lightly on the door.

Carlisle moves to open it, stopping briefly at Bella’s side to smile at her reassuringly.

“Yeah dad,” Bella says as she steps out of Carlisle’s office to meet him. “I was just saying goodbye to James and Edward. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Uh-uh, no way Bells. You’re spending the rest of the week at home resting. Doctor’s orders. Right, Doc?”

Carlisle nods gravely.

“I’m afraid so, Bella.”

“See, what the Doc says, goes.” Chief Swan grabs her shoulders and spins Bella around, directing her to the entrance. “Thanks for everything, Doctor. I’ll be by tomorrow to check out Tyler.”

“No problem, Chief.”

Carlisle closes the door slowly, leaving enough time for Bella to wave goodbye. Harry waves back and then elbows Edward in the stomach so he does too. She laughs a little Edward’s sullen wave just as the door closes. He expects Edward to make his displeasure at the outcome known, but he keeps it to himself, even though he seems to be responding minutely to whatever it is Carlisle thinks in his head.

“Apologies, James, I have to return to my rounds. Thank you for all your help today.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay. I didn’t end up helping much.”

Carlisle shakes Harry’s hand and assures him he truly did help them, much more than he could know, and leaves. Edward continues to stand awkwardly in the corner with a sheepish expression.

“What?” Harry asks.

“I’m sorry about today.”

“You know, you say sorry a lot,” Harry replies, stepping out from Carlisle’s office.

“I seem to always be making mistakes around you.”

“Hey,” Harry says, grabbing Edward’s cool forearm so he stops walking and looks at Harry. “It’s never a mistake to try and help someone.”

“It is when it risks my family.”

“It might be stupid, idiotic, even useless,” Harry continues. “But it’s never a mistake.”

Edward almost cracks a smile. “Are you calling me stupid, idiotic, and useless?”

“Only if that’s how you take it.”

Harry can’t help the cheeky grin spreading across his own face, even though the words hit at something much deeper inside. It’s more like he is speaking to himself than Edward. The him of the past, who beat himself up more than once for trying to save Sirius and leading his friends into an obvious trap. For him when he saved people even at a detriment to himself. It was rarely the smart or correct choice when he threw himself into harm’s way to save someone, but it was never a choice that left him feeling as if he’d made the wrong decision.

“You reminded me of myself,” Harry says softly as they step out into the drizzle of the chilled night. He looks up at the sky, wishing he could see the stars but only spotting the dark, obscure fuzziness of rainclouds in the sky. “Of all the times I made a similar, stupid decision.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Edward responds, reaching out to gently brush a lock of Harry’s hair. “Because you are someone who is incredibly kind.”

“You couldn’t possibly know that.”

Harry refuses to look into Edward’s eyes, because he feels that he is much too weak to do so. Those golden eyes might drag something out of him that he is not ready to confront.

“I can, because I watch you every day. I know you, Harry.”

The thought makes him sick to his stomach. Edward doesn’t know him—not really. He has glimpses, pieces of the puzzle, each one more out of context than the last, and he’s formed a picture of who he believes Harry is but it’s all distorted and wrong. Harry isn’t kind and he isn’t selfless; he isn’t someone without motives and he isn’t even someone he would personally consider ‘good’. Not anymore, at least. Not with all the things he’s done. Not with who he has become.

“I wish you could see you the way I see you,” Edward whispers, letting his hand drop from Harry’s hair slowly, keeping the curl wrapped around his finger as long as possible. “Thank you, Harry. For your help today. The safety of my family is all I have ever wanted, and you were willing to ensure that. You cannot understand what that means.”

“I can,” Harry replies, looking away from the sky. “See you tomorrow, Edward.”

Harry apparates away, not waiting for Edward’s reply.

Chapter Text

It is with positivity and kindness that Hermione and Harry approach Griphook’s office door after apparating in at the perfectly reasonable hour of seven in the morning on Friday. Griphook failed to remain in his office until their dedicated meeting time of eight in the evening on Thursday. Even so, they are certainly not stomping with barely-restrained anger nor are they scowling at any goblin who happens to glance in their direction. They are, however, both nursing triple-bagged cups of tea, Harry’s with a healthy dose of honey (and the whispers of a splash of Firewhiskey, unbeknownst to Hermione) and Hermione’s with two extra spoons of sugar than usual.

Harry debriefed both Ron and Hermione about the week’s happenings last night over the special roast and veggies Ron had prepared for their planned after-meeting dinner, and both had exclaimed their surprise at Bella’s immunity to magic. Hermione, in particular, was extremely interested in meeting Bella and her father to see if their magic immunity of the mind is inheritable and she made note to add the new area of research to her ever-growing list.

Ron declared that Forks was unusually cursed and that the place itself seemed to have some sort of vendetta against Harry, so maybe it was better if he left the region and took his lover vampire with him. Harry was quick to correct Ron and his terrible naming of Edward, his not-lover, and also rebuked that he should leave Forks so quickly with an offhanded comment that it’s been rather nice seeing the Black family and he’s in some way grown attached to his circle of muggle friends. Hermione withheld her own opinion because of a lack of information so they agreed to reconvene the discussion after the meeting with Griphook.

Thus, it is with a soft, gentle, and composed knock that Hermione alerts Griphook to their existence outside of his office. It is certainly not with a smashing of knuckles on wood hard enough that her tea sloshes out of her soup mug with the words ‘world’s biggest mug’ on the side.

“Well, I never—” Griphook answers the door and promptly cuts himself short as he faces the two irate wizards. “Why Mrs Granger-Weasley, Lord Potter-Black—”

“Mr Potter,” Harry says, but he is ignored by the wrinkled goblin.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The displeasure,” Hermione seethes, slotting her way past the elf and inside, establishing her position by slamming her mug on the top of Griphook’s pile of papers. “Is because you seem to have miraculously forgotten our agreed upon meeting for last night, which I find rather disconcerting, since I’ve been assured the goblins are incapable of forgetting such pertinent details, as they are core to effective administration and management of such a large corporation as Gringotts. I find it most unusual that you were unable to remember such an important meeting with the Saviour of all people. I am afraid I must demand that you be checked at St Mungo’s.”

Harry nods his head vigorously—even through Hermione’s use of his unsavoury Saviour title—and sips his tea in excitement as he waits for Griphook to respond.

“Now, Mrs Granger-Weasley, one mustn’t make such hasty demands because of an unfortunate slip of the mind. I assure you, it was simply a scheduling mistake. My assistant logged the meeting for the morning, as all my meetings usually are. I’m sure Lord Potter-Black would be able to attest to our usual AM meetings. They were rather frequent a few years ago.”

Yes, unfortunately so. No matter how busy or tired Harry was, he was always forced to attend Griphook’s meetings at the crack of dawn and he had been greatly looking forward to forcing Griphook into an evening meeting for once, so it had been a rude shock when they waited for thirty minutes outside his office before a rogue worker goblin alerted them that Griphook had gone home and wouldn’t be returning until tomorrow and was uncontactable as his Floo had been unusually disconnected.

“I must insist you be checked properly. What if you have developed a regression of the mind? It’s possible to catch such a thing if detected early enough. This could be the beginning of some dreadful case of Goblin’s Rot—I’ve heard there has been an influx of cases over in Germany, and we wouldn’t want an epidemic to spread because we simply did not take action,” Hermione says, play-acting strong concern.

“Goblin’s Rot?” Griphook questions, aghast. Harry seats himself in a chair between the two, watching the argument play out before him with rather more joy than he is used to feeling. “It is an insult that you would even suggest such a thing.”

“Oh, tosh.” Hermione dumps the rest of her belongings on his desk as if it is her own back at the DRCMC. “All beings grow old, Griphook.”

There is an awkward beat after her words and Harry swigs back his tea for the weak shot of Firewhiskey it provides.

“I suppose we can let it slide, since you swear it was simply a scheduling mistake. However, I must encourage you to visit St Mungo’s if something like this is to happen again. There is no shame in admitting if you’re Rotting, after all,” Hermione says.

“I am most certainly not Rotting, but I appreciate your acceptance of my most humble mistake.” Each syllable is practically beat out of Griphook with the effort it takes for him to verbalise them in a mostly polite tone. “Now, if we may sit down and begin with today’s meeting.”

Hermione sits herself in the chair besides Harry as Griphook shuffles around to his desk, eyes on Hermione’s pile of belongings and the mug leaving a ring of tea on his documents.

“What is the purpose of today’s meeting?” He asks once he is settled into his overly large chair, beady eyes scrutinising them from behind his small glasses.

“You know why we are here, Griphook,” Harry says, deciding now is his time to step up since Hermione already bullied the goblin into a modicum of submission. Griphook smiles, something unscrupulous that Harry could go without ever seeing again in his life.

“This must be about that American town. I rather expected you here much earlier.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Send me to a town of magical creatures,” Harry accuses, barely restraining a pointing finger.

“I simply recommended you to a town that met your requirements. If you remember correctly, I recommended more than fifteen for you to choose from.”

“Yes, but this was the first on the list and came with several glowing comments from you,” Hermione interjected. “One of which was ‘there is no other town more suited to your needs’.”

Griphook nodded his head, face open in a look of confusion. “And was I wrong?”

“Yes! We asked for a town without magical creatures!” Harry cries.

“They are not magical,” Griphook replies, now batting away arguments with mere technicalities.

“oh, come on, Griphook. Just tell me why.” Harry restrains the urge to rip his own hair out in frustration, instead turning his irritability into action and jiggling his knee.

“I told you already. There was no other town that better suited your needs.”

“What exactly are these needs you’re speaking of? We were rather clear with our own requirements,” Hermione says.

“Those are wants; I simply paid attention to what you needed. It is the key effective customer service to know what your customers need before they do.” Griphook has the audacity to look proud of this comment and Harry reserves the urge to leap across the oak desk and strangle the smile off his wrinkly face.

“So, what is it you decided I needed?” Harry grinds out between his teeth.

“Why, a family, of course.”

Harry is only kept in his chair by Hermione’s strong grip on his forearm. Griphook must be taking the piss, and Harry informs him as such.

“I assure you, I am not. Look at you, Lord Potter-Black. You don’t look a day older than seventeen. You haven’t for years.”

Harry, who sits glamoured and under a strong dose of goblin-security-proof ageing potions, wonders if somehow his magic has given out on him again.

“We are of nature magic, Lord Potter-Black. You may deceive my eyes of your age but your magic cannot hide. We know who you are. What you are.”

Harry wonders why he ever thought it was a good idea to come with Hermione to this stupid meeting. Instead of feeling strong and empowered by his confrontation to Griphook’s meddling in his life, he is now exposed and shamed, as though suddenly bared naked and plopped in a bucket of flobberworm goo.

“What do you mean by that?” Hermione asks, her voice unnaturally light and airy.

“It is as you think, Mrs Granger-Weasley. We Goblins know Harry Potter has become the—”

“Don’t say it,” Harry interjects. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of hearing Griphook verbalise his role fills him with a sense of foreboding. Like a warning, Death crawls along his skin and settles beneath his ribs, right where his heart should sit.

Griphook clears his throat and shuffles uncomfortably, his beady eyes looking at something beyond Harry, something further inside him and through him, to an entity who sits on his shoulders and breathes in his lungs. Hermione looks behind Harry surreptitiously only to find an empty patch of worn Persian rug. She shivers and Harry sends her a reassuring smile, even though he is feeling anything but assured.

“I do not need a replacement family.”

“I assure you, the Blacks in Forks are of direct lineage.”

“I’m saying I didn’t need nor want you to meddle with my life. What right do you have, to decide what I need?” Harry explodes from his chair in a rush of speed that diffuses into pacing across Griphook’s office

“Sometimes, what we need is not what we want. Sometimes, what a Goblin does is beyond our control.”

“You’re saying you sent me there because—what? Something made you? The nature magic?” Harry scoffs, suddenly finding himself to be a non-believer in the power of this omnipotent entity called ‘nature magic’.

“You might call it that. Others might say it is destiny. Goblins refer to her as Fate.”

Harry sits down promptly, his knees turning to a substance rather like jelly at the mention of Fate. He had once considered the existence of other entities after meeting Death, but such a thing is too much for Harry’s brain to comprehend, and his problems seem too imposing without the addition of another thing in his life. So he’d just never allowed himself to think about it more deeply.

Hermione gasps. “Do you mean literally? Fate?”

“Just as Death exists, Fate does too. They are as real as you or I.” Hermione’s head snaps to Harry with an accusing glare. He looks away, tapping his fingers on the arm rest as Death settles in closer, enjoying the scene. “It appears Lord Potter-Black has not disclosed this information to you. I apologise.”

“No. He has not.”

Harry at least doesn’t need to fake the guilty look on his face. Griphook stands and heads for the door. “I will allow you a few minutes of privacy.”

The door slams shut behind him, heavy and foreboding. The silence stews between them and the warmth of Death settles heavily over Harry. The hollow in his chest fills. His breaths, which feels as though they perpetually fog in front of him under the chill of his existence, feels light and warm, easy, for once. As though speaking about Death is enough to lighten everything around him.

“Why did you never tell me?” She asks softly.

“It seemed too much to bring up.”

It was one thing to realise that he can’t die, and for his friends to realise he had become the Master of Death. To also learn that Death isn’t just a concept, but a being who exists? It seemed too daunting to admit back then and became a secret he held dear to his chest the more time passed. Because to acknowledge that Death is real is to consider the existence of all other possibilities—like Fate, or Nature, or Life. Harry isn’t ready to address those ideas himself, let alone to plop them onto Hermione or Ron’s laps without so much as a warning that their entire perception of the world will be changed.

“So every time you...” She trails off, leaving the known unsaid. “You weren’t just gone, but you were with Death? A being?”

“I am not sure they really are a being,” Harry admits. “But yes. I’ve always been with Death, literally. They speak to me. Even now.”

Because Death is egotistical like the humans they collect, they can’t help but listen in when being discussed. They whisper their excitement at being talked about as not a thing that occurs but as an entity who exists. Harry wishes their enjoyment didn’t fill him with something resembling pleasure.

“Even now?” Hermione looks startled. She looks for what she cannot see and frowns at the nothingness she finds. “What is it saying?”

“They like that you are aware of them. They enjoy being more than an idea.”

Hermione scrutinises Harry for a moment before holding a hand to her mouth and looking away. When she looks back, her eyes are guarded, and Harry doesn’t know from who she is protecting herself.

“You call Death a they not an it.” She leaves the sentence hanging in the air and Harry struggles to grasp at the true implication behind her words. He shrugs.

“I never thought about it that deeply. They speak to me, so I feel like they’re a person at times.”

Not so much a person, but an entity at least, with personality perhaps, and motives, wants, desires. Harry doesn’t know how deep these things run in Death. Maybe their needs are intrinsic to their nature and their wants are simply representative of those; perhaps they don’t have a personality that developed over time but was simply present in them. Harry can’t even be sure how much of a personality they have, when all they seem to want is to have Harry die so they can spend time together.

“What does Death look like to you?” Hermione asks, fingers clasped tightly in her lap.

Harry explains what he sees—the constellations, the deep space that forms Death’s being with the nothingness that they encapsulate. He describes the way they exist, yet don’t; how they are both tangible and not; how they can be near and far, wearing the faces of the dead and voices of those he loved. He explains how Death’s chest is hollow like the rest of their body but each time he is placed there it feels like a space carved just for him, warm and encapsulating and safe.

Hermione listens with a concerned expression hidden beneath a thin veil of intrigue and an even more elusive sheen of fear. She nods her head at appropriate times and doesn’t interrupt Harry. He wonders when she started her Mind Healer training. He wasn’t aware she had done so, but it’s obvious that she has now, as she sits and listens. Hermione is not one to avoid interjecting with her own questions. He imagines that it is taking a great deal of effort to listen so attentively and not fire off one of the many queries he knows she must have.

“Harry, you should have told us this,” she says eventually, after taking a long minute to process the information.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“It does. It makes a world of difference. You’re not just avoiding death, you’re literally avoiding the being Death. They entice you back to them—into death.”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” Harry repeats again. “Whether they are in my ear or not, I’m still the one who makes the decision to kill myself just so I can rest a little.”

Hermione doesn’t flinch at his words, but her fact scrunches just a little.

“Have you tried...conversing with Death? Asking it about this whole scenario?”

Harry shakes his head and looks away, slightly abashed. He probably should have asked. But every time he visited Death, he just curled up in their chest and slept. He once asked how he could die for real and Death just shushed him, so he’d basically taken that as confirmation that questions were a waste and he should use the time during death to sleep. Now, though, he feels he should have tried a little harder.

“No, I haven’t. They didn’t answer my first question, and I’ve just...rested every time since. It is the only time I can sleep and wake feeling fully rested.”

“So, death to you feels like a recovery sleep?” Hermione looks intrigued as she leans forward and he can almost envision the notepad and pen in her hand, scribbling down notes and questions as a new research project appears before her.

A small knock on the door shelves their discussion and Griphook steps back inside.

“I trust you’ve had enough time to discuss,” He says, shuffling around the desk and climbing the steps onto his chair. “Now, we mustn’t dawdle as I have another meeting for quarter past.” He checks the watch on his wrist as if to indicate that their meeting has taken much longer than it should have. “Lord Potter-Black, I understand you are unhappy with the number of unusual creatures existing in Forks. Yes, I was aware of both the Wolves and the Vampires existence before sending you there.”

“Do the Goblins have information on these muggle creatures?” Hermione asks.

“They are not merely muggle,” Griphook corrects with a pointed look down his sharp, elongated nose. “They are remnants of the earliest magics. Goblins have always known of their existence. Specifically the Wolves, who are a newer mutation of nature magic expanded from the wizarding world.”

“May I have access to these records?” She inquires, painting a friendly smile on her face.

“You my make a formal application to the Goblin board,. It is highly unusual for a wizard to request for Goblin records and even more so for them to be released, however.”

“You knew the creatures were there and still sent me there?” Harry interrupts Hermione’s half-formed words.

“I assure you, there is no better place for you. Fate has whispered it, and I simply listened,” Griphook says.

“You’re telling me, Fate wants me in Forks?”

“Surely you’re not that obtuse, Lord Potter-Black. I would think it is rather apparent what Fate has designed.”

Harry doesn’t want to acknowledge what he thinks is Fate’s plan, for the same reason he dislikes Alice’s abilities. Because it feels inevitable. Whilst Alice might have a presentiment of the future and Luna might sometimes say it’s going to rain frogs a few minutes before it does, neither of those come close to the concept of Fate. To an unavoidable future; a path set in literal stone. Like a prophecy self-fulfilling, every action and choice and decision leads him down the path Fate has created and straight to a future he cannot avoid, even if he wanted to. And worst of all, Harry isn’t sure he wants to avoid the future Fate has planned.

“Thank you for your time, Griphook. We’ll reschedule another appointment at a later date, when we have processed this information,” Hermione says at Harry’s long silence. He sits and stares at Griphook with a scowl on his face.

She stands up, shaking Griphook’s hand and collecting her things, shuffling Harry out the office and into the hallway. Harry follows her silently, empty mug clutched in his hands and Death heavy behind him, around him. He doesn’t say goodbye to Griphook and doesn’t thank the goblin at the floo like he usually would. Hermione grips his arm and swirls them into the floo with a loud shout for the Granger-Weasley Home.

As they swirl away, Harry thinks that he wouldn’t mind being flung out into the depths of the floo system and dying again. When they, unfortunately, safely arrive, Harry mumbles a rushed goodbye to a confused Rose and avoids Hermione’s eyes as he apparates away from the middle of the lounge room, not even managing to form a reply to Ron’s curious questions.

When he makes it home, Harry tells Kreacher that he’s going to sleep and locks himself in his room, layering it with thick wards to keep Kreacher out. He thinks about making it hurt. He toys with the idea of doing something that will help him to feel again before filling the bathtub in his ensuite. It takes a while. Harry uses the time to ruminate over the questions he has for Death. He knows he wants to ask several, but right now, only one seems to matter.

When the bathtub is full, Harry slips himself inside, naked, and dunks himself under the warm water. He didn’t use bubbles his time since they often sting when entering cuts and he isn’t here to cause himself that much pain. The water is clear and steamy, his tanned skin visible beneath the warped surface. He takes a deep breath and then, using a razor from the collection he has stuffed deep inside the bathroom cupboard, he slices, twice, with shaky, alcohol-deprived yet practiced hands.

“Master,” Death purrs, their face of others leaning down to peer at him, flickering between faces. “You came.”

Harry looks at the entity before him and wonders how he could ever be their Master. They are something he fails to comprehend more every time they meet. They are everything and nothing to him. Everyone and no one. Harry finds them to be both daunting and imposing yet he is never frightened

“Death,” he says, finding his voice feels lower than usual, rougher. Unused, perhaps. “Is Fate real?”

“Of course it is all happening in your head, Harry,” Death says, with Dumbledore’s face and voice. “Why should that mean it’s not real?”

“Stop!” Harry orders.

“You dare command me?” Voldemort says.

“I am your Master.”

“—and you will obey me,” Voldemort interjects, his face smeared across Death’s hollowed head before disappearing, shuffling into constellations.

“You are frightened, Master,” Death says nonchalantly, leaning down to scoop Harry up and bring him closer to their emptiness. “Why?”

“Why are you tormenting me?” Harry replies, shuffling as far away as he can on Death’s palm of stars.

“They are your memories. Everything repeats.” Death cocks their veiled head to the side and Harry is reminded of Hermione’s comment from earlier, about how he personifies Death into something human, something understandable.

“Just answer the question. Is Fate real?”

“Everything is real, Master. Fate, too, is an existence. “

“Was this all fated?” Harry asks, looking up into the expanding space of Death’s empty face. “Me, becoming your Master?”

“Fate is not resignation. It is not unavoidable, nor guaranteed. Fate can be missed. Fate can be mistaken.”

“What does that mean?”

“The Deathly Hallows are three. The fate of Master was bestowed upon three. Two will fail to grasp their fate, and one will not.” Death places Harry in their chest. He curls into position, already slipping into darkness. “Master fought brilliantly for his fate.”

Chapter Text

When Harry wakes up, he’s clothed in a set of fresh pyjamas under the heavy duvet of his bed set. He gasps awake like usual, grasping for his chest as his heart beats rapidly back into rhythm. It takes him a few seconds to acknowledge Ron who sits in the chair near his fireplace playing a game of wizard’s chest against himself.

“Thirteen minutes and fifty-three seconds,” Ron says, not looking up from the chess board, eyes furrowing at the move he made on the opposite side. “A new record, mate.”

Harry coughs, reaching for the small cup of water on his bedside table. The new skin on his wrists tingle with the uncomfortable sensation that it should be sore.

“Hermione still thinks you’re at fourteen minutes and thirty-six seconds.”

Harry could say many things at this point. He could apologise, or ask what Ron is doing here, or say thank you for helping, even if he doesn’t mean it and wishes Ron hadn’t bothered. Instead, he opts for gulping down the entire glass of water and looking outside his window in an awkward attempt to avoid eye contact.

“So, did you get any answers?”

Harry shakes his head. Ron sighs, leaning back in the chair and gazing over to Harry as the black bishop on the board swipes through the white King.

“Hermione told me what happened. I understand why you didn’t tell us. I’m not happy about it, but I understand.” Ron stands up and walks over to Harry, chess set clattering itself away onto the bookshelf magically. “She was coming over, but I told her I would.”

“Thanks,” Harry mutters, swallowing down the burning guilt in his throat at the thought of Hermione finding him like that. Again. The first time was bad enough and she slept horribly for months afterwards. Every day she would call Harry to check on him. It wasn’t the first or the last time she found him dead, but it was the only time she found him dead like that.

“No Killing Curse his time?” Ron inquires, perching himself on the bed.

Harry shrugs. “I guess that’s a question for the mind healer.”

Ron almost laughs. He cracks a small smile and then exhales the happiness.

“Seriously, Harry. What are you thinking? Help me understand.”

Harry curls his hands into the duvet, grasping the material between his fists as he thinks about what to say. He doesn’t even know what Ron is truly asking. Thinking about his deaths? About the meeting with Griphook? About his fate as Master of Death? About Death itself? About the confirmation of another entity called Fate?

There are too many options for what he could be talking about, and Harry doesn’t feel inclined to discuss any of them. He doesn’t even know what he thinks. How could he even begin to wrangle his thoughts into something legible? To voice them to Ron in a way that makes sense and means what he wants it to? Harry knows that whatever he says now will come out twisted; worded wrong in a way that makes Ron misunderstand.

Perhaps through Fate itself, Harry is saved from needing to blurt out an answer to Ron. Kreacher appears, his ears drooping as he peeks above the edge of the bed.

“Master has a guest.”

“A guest?” Ron’s eyebrows practically disappear into my hairline. “This early? On a Friday?”

Harry frowns. He’s positive that he has no plans for today—unless Chief Swan finally found his way over to the house and is checking in on him after the car accident. Which seems unlikely, because he hasn’t heard his wards pinging. He sits up more and that’s when he sees the spray bottle in Kreacher’s hand.

“Edward?” Harry cocks his head to the side slightly. “Why is he here?”

“Ooh a vampire?” Ron asks, suddenly invested as he sniffs the air around Kreacher. He’s heard all about the garlic-spray incident from Harry previously and looks almost overjoyed to be experiencing it firsthand. He stands up and heads to the door, not giving Harry a chance to stop him. “I’ll go let him in. You, shower and get dressed. Take your time.”

“Ron! No! Don’t—” Harry starts but Ron has already apparated away in his rush to escape Harry. “Shit.”

“I’ll make tea,” Kreacher says as Harry clambers from bed and rushes downstairs, pulling down the sleeves of his pyjamas shirt so the new scars aren’t visible.

He doesn’t bother with his scar glamour. Edward has already seen him without it, so there isn’t much point, and stopping to do so now seems like a waste of the precious few seconds he has to intervene with whatever Ron’s plan is. Harry sprints out of his bedrooms and skids down the hall until he stops in front of the parlour. Inside, Edward is sitting awkwardly on the edge of a chair, his back ramrod straight and hands resting on his knees, with Ron sitting directly across from him, legs sprawled and arm lazing along the back of the chaise, the same way he sits when in an interrogation and trying to intimidate his suspect. Oddly enough, Edward does look rather threatened, with wide eyes and a small downturn to his mouth when he looks at Harry.

“Edward. What are you doing here?” Harry asks, slowly stepping into the room as he keeps his eyes locked angrily on Ron.

“I wanted to see you,” Edward replies easily, but his eyes dart to Ron.

“Seriously? It was Alice, wasn’t it?” Harry crosses his arms.

“She simply gave me the excuse to visit. I wanted to ask about our plans. I wasn’t aware you had a guest.”

“Weasley. Ron Weasley,” Ron says suddenly, leaning further back into his chair and lifting his hips a little as he spreads his knees wider. It appears to Harry as if Ron has been watching a few too many muggle movies or something during his training to become Harry’s ‘Uncle from Seattle’. Edward smiles a little and then seems to chuckle like he’s holding in a laugh.

“Cullen. Edward Cullen.”

“The veggie vampire,” Ron muses, running a hand down his chin.

“I wasn’t aware this was common knowledge,” Edward replies, glancing to Harry almost nervously, his hands clenching into fists on his knees.

“Edward, this is my best friend, Ron, who is also a wizard. Ron, this is Edward, the vampire with mind-reading abilities.”

“Ah.” Ron shuffles in his seat and Edward frowns.

“Can all wizards do that?”

“Nah,” Ron replies. “I worked real hard on that.” He taps his forehead. “Took me forever. Not as long as it took Harry, though.” Harry scowls at him.

“You know that wasn’t my fault.”

“Yeah, yeah, Snape was an arsehole,” Ron replies with a wave of his hand, adjusting his posture to something more his style. “It’s a nice trick though, to keep buggers like you out of my head,” he continues, looking to Edward.

“Buggers,” Edward seems to whisper to himself as Harry sits next to Ron, fingers tapping relentlessly on the armrest.

Kreacher appears then, tea rattling on the tray he delivers onto the coffee table between them. He attempts to place the spray bottle of garlic water beside Ron secretly, but the gleeful chuckle that escapes him as he does so ruins the intention. Ron picks it up and sprays it in the air before him as Kreacher apparates away with no less than three glares sent Edward’s direction.

“Stop that, Ron.” Harry sighs, waving the spritz of garlic-scented air away from his face. Ron sprays it once more in Edward’s direction, shrugging under Harry’s glare and Edward’s mildly amused raise of an eyebrow.

“Just checking,” Ron says, putting the bottle down.

Harry snatches it up and vanishes it.

He doesn’t like this. A meeting, unplanned, between two people he never wanted to meet. Two worlds of his he didn’t want to cross. Ron, with his determined expression, no doubt wanting to find out every piece of information he can from Edward in an attempt to see what Harry has been hiding. And Edward, an information whore who cannot wait to collect more baubles about Harry. Things Harry might not want to share; about people he isn’t ready to introduce. He feels rather as if he’s at the precipice of a cliff with Ron pushing him off and Edward pulling him down.

“I thought I told you to go shower,” Ron says.

“And I will. Once Edward has left.”

“Bugger off, Harry. The vamp and I will be fine.”

“I’m not worried about—”

“It’s okay, Harry. I would like to speak to your friend, too.”

That is exactly what Harry is afraid of. Who knows what Ron will say! He’s a loose cannon at the best of times and probably even more so after what Harry just did. What if Ron says something incriminating? Incriminating how, Harry isn’t sure, but he feels it rather deep in his bones that it’s a possibility he should be avoiding.

“Kreacher made tea,” he tries lamely, waving at the untouched pot before them.

Edward catches Harry’s eyes with a soft smile, the golden hue of his eyes glowing in the room even though the curtains are still mostly drawn and only a small filter of light penetrates the sheers. I’ll be okay, he seems to be saying, and Harry wants to tell Edward that it is not him he is worried about. Ron stirs sugar into his tea and offers Edward the bowl of blood pops. He takes one, but eyes Harry meaningfully.

Hermione, and even his mind healer, would tell him his control issues are being tested—and perhaps his distaste for not knowing all information readily as well. Harry doesn’t want to leave these two alone to undoubtedly discuss their only connection: him. He doesn’t want them to share information and collate data and figure him out any more than they both already have.

“It’s got to happen at some point, Harry,” Ron says with a shrug of his shoulders, falsely nonchalant. “It may as well be now.”

***

Edward personally believes that Harry won’t react well to such a statement. It is structured with everything he dislikes in a sentence: absolutes, demands, assumptions. Yet, Harry seems to deflate under the eyes of his red-headed friend, emptying all defiance into a large sigh that he exhales with complete defeat. It’s amusing, yet sad. It makes Edward realise how little he understands Harry’s mind. Or, more likely, how deep the rapport is between these two. Edward listens as Harry makes his demands to his friend Ron, about what they can and cannot discuss in his absence, Harry himself being the most aggressively blacklisted topic. Ron readily agrees, but his heart skips a beat as he tells a white lie they all refuse to acknowledge.

Harry lingers for longer than he should in the doorway, his scarred face scrunching in discomfort, hand rubbing up and down his arm, pulling the long-sleeved red silk pyjama shirt higher on his arms. Edward manages to glimpse the base of a new scar and clenches his fists tighter on his knees. He refuses to question. Knows he will not receive an answer. But Harry sees his stares and spins on his heels, escaping the room with his sleeves pulled low.

Edward hadn’t wasted any precious seconds earlier inspecting Harry’s friend apart from the bare minimum glance of identifying information: red hair, pale skin with freckles, open mind (now magically closed with thick barriers he isn’t dumb enough to force through, after learning from Harry how unsuccessful such a venture can be). He’d needed to use every moment to memorise Harry sans disguise. He technically already had Harry’s scars memorised from the last time he saw him, in that bed—the bed, his bed—shirtless and debauched. Not debauched. That was his vision. Not his vision, Alice’s, but his. Still, Harry had been shirtless, and his chest had been scarred and the lightning on his face visible and Edward has taken the time to commit it to memory, yet this time he did so again, as if his vampire brain might forget what Harry looked like beneath his magic.

Now, though, Edward takes the time to really look at this Ron character. To see through the base of him and into who he is as a being, as a person. He smells fine. Nothing like a human he wishes to drain dry. A far cry from the electricity that shocks in Harry’s veins and sings for him. Ron smells like fire and something watery, like a pond, in the oddest mixture. It tastes like camping beside a lake, the abstract scents of ash and smoke and still water mixing into something that pulses with calm, restrained power. So different to Harry’s almost overwhelming scent, of the darkness that stalks Edward’s vampire senses and the lightning that crackles in the air. Unlike Harry, Ron doesn’t smell appetising in the least.

He looks older than Harry. Only barely, in the slightest of ways one would struggle to pinpoint if they hadn’t watched humans ageing around them for a century. Edward, like many of his family, has prayed many times over to show the signs of living that Ron does: crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes; a few grey hairs hidden in the red; an odd sense of adulthood in the furrow of his brows. Edward realises that this is what Harry should look like. Ron is a wizard too. Yet he, unlike Harry, seems his age. Harry should be able to stand beside his friend and look the same age, yet he looks many years younger. His face is softer, rounder, jawline still full of the remnants of baby fat one doesn’t lose unless they’re in their early-twenties or turned into a vampire.

A deep-seated grief fills Edward at the pain and understanding he has for Harry. To understand what it must be like to see your friends age and live beside you, whilst you remain unchanged. Edward can only hope that Harry begins ageing properly soon. He doesn’t know why Harry is the way he is, but he can only assume that it is a slowing of the ageing process—like a delay. He won’t allow himself the hope of imagining it is for any other reason. Not yet.

“So, you’re Edward,” the redhead says, stilling, all pretence of kindness lost.

“Harry talks about me?” He likes that thought. He wonders what Harry has discussed. What thoughts he deemed worthy to share with his friends regarding the vampires he met.

“I believe he called you a ‘veggie vamp’ with a tendency to be ‘a controlling prick’.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m sure you have.” If Edward isn’t mistaken, he’s sure there was a slight up-tilt to Ron’s mouth. “Alice…this is your sister? The one with premonitions?”

“Yes.” Silence extends between them for a heavy moment. “I’ve realised Harry doesn’t like to know about the future.”

Ron takes a moment to study Edward. He doesn’t pretend to be human, not in front of a wizard who already knows the truth. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, doesn’t fidget. It doesn’t seem to throw the redhead off, though. He watches Edward in a way that makes him feel exposed. So similar to how it is when Harry looks at him with those green eyes. Flayed bare. Secrets open. Perhaps it’s not something unique to Harry, but to those with magic. At least in some way.

“Harry has bad experiences with prophecies.”

“Alice is not a prophet. She only views options.”

Ron waves his hand, as if the distinction is worth nothing. Edward is beginning to learn that maybe it isn’t, at least not for wizards and witches.

“Words have meaning. Options no longer remain options. They become pathways to avoid or follow. Sometimes the whispers of a possibility are enough to force such a future.”

Edward thinks carefully about the information he has collected prior to this moment. Part of him feels as though this is his one true moment to cement whatever it is he has with Harry—that if he should fail here, in whatever way failure could be defined, then he would lose all chances of staying with Harry. He knows many things about Harry, yet he is also a mystery. A mystery of a being from a mystery of a world with a mystery mind. And here before him is a person who knows the answer to all of these mysteries, and more.

There is only one deduction Edward can make from all the tidbits he has collected, all the information he filed away for later, the reactions he studied and collated: “Harry has experienced that before?’

Ron chuckles, yet there is no humour there.

“Your sister should be careful about what she says around him.” It is the only response Ron seems willing to reply with and Edward files even that away for later. The importance in the unsaid striking him with clarity.

“She is. We’ve learnt,” Edward watches Ron, counts the heartbeats between them as he listens for the squeak of a handle, indicating Harry has turned the shower off. “Can you tell me about him?”

Ron seems to soften under the humble desire of the question. His cheeks round with redness that would have Edward salivating venom had it been Harry’s blood pooling beneath his skin, his scent permeating the air. He smiles at Edward with a sad, knowing sort of look, pitying, almost. Edward feels that Ron understands his troubles very much in that moment.

“Harry’s not the most open bloke around,” Ron says, shifting in his chair and eyes drifting away into memories barred behind the wall of his mind. Edward has the fleeting thought to force his way inside Ron’s mind but holds it back. He is not more monster than man. He can control his ability. His desire to know. “Seems to me that he’s told ya a lot already though.”

“He has told me some,” Edward hedges. “But not enough.”

“Typical Legilimens,” Ron mutters under his breath with a roll of his eyes.

“Legilimens?”

“Mind reader. Look, Ed—Can I call you that? It’s much easier to say a short name. My name’s actually Ronald but everyone just—”

“Yes,” Edward interrupts. “You may call me Ed.”

He doesn’t like being called Ed, but he decides to accept it under these conditions because he wants to know more about Harry and Ron is the only one who can provide him some answers. If he stops rambling enough to do so.

“Right, well. Look, mate, the thing is…I can’t tell you much.” Edward resists the desire to rip his hair from his scalp. “It’s not because I don’t want to—because I do. Hermione’n I have discussed it, and we decided it would be best to share some more information with you and perhaps even the other Cullens. If we deemed you good for Harry—which I’m still on the fence about, by the way—but, the thing is, even if I wanted to tell you things, I can’t.”

Hermione…the name he first read from Harry’s mind, back on the first day he arrived.

“You…can’t.”

“No.” Ron shrugs, a rather unapologetic apology etched on his face. “Unbreakable Vow and all, you know. Not because Harry doesn’t trust us but more to avoid anyone trying to force answers from either Hermione or I.”

Edward knows that Harry is almost finished. He can hear him in his room, rattling in a draw and kicking his legs into presumably the material of his trousers. He has many questions for Ron and not enough time, especially considering how long it takes Ron to get an answer out now that he has dropped his interrogation act and transformed into some bumbling British man. He wants to know—maybe even needs to know what an Unbreakable Vow is. What are the conditions? The name implies a secret keeping of sorts between individuals, but what are the repercussions for breaking such a vow? If it is magical, is it even possible to break it? Edward knows that many of his questions might be answered if he could just figure out the particulars of this unique spell. But…there is something else, something niggling at Edward’s mind.

He doesn’t know why it seems so important to him. Maybe it’s because of the way Harry acts in crowds, with shifty eyes and quick steps, constant surveillance. Maybe it is because of the small minutiae Edward has noticed since Harry first moved to Forks. He seems shocked when someone doesn’t know something about him. He looked surprised when Jessica asked about his parents; stunned when Angela asked when he was born; confused when Mike joked about Harry being shorter than Eric. At times, it seems like Harry thinks that everyone should know him more than they do. As if information about Harry is common knowledge, part of their shared understanding of who he is. It is likely due to this collection of small incidents that Edward even notices there is something odd in Ron’s statement. Something he should ask in the minute he has before Harry reappears.

“Why would someone try to gain information on Harry?”

Ron pauses. Tilts his head to the side and smiles in a complicated way Edward struggles to decipher.

“Why, because he’s Harry of course.”

The way he says Harry is different this time. It isn’t like all the others, full of familiarity and love. It’s not the name of his closest friend and not the name of someone he knows intimately; it is the name of someone everyone should know. He says it with a curl of his lip that implies more than Edward can understand. It feels like snark, or sarcasm, but reads as truth. Edward is left with more questions than answers as Harry walks back into the room, hair wet, scars glamoured, dressed in a pair of jeans and a soft, long-sleeve black shirt with warm-looking grey socks.

He looks between the two with narrowed eyes and then scowls.

“You’ve been talking about me.”

“What else were we going to talk about?” Ron asks.

“The weather.”

Edward struggles to hold in a laugh. Ron checks his watch and then slaps his knee, standing up.

“I should go. It’s almost time for ‘Mione to start work and I have to take Rose to the Burrow.”

“You’re on duty today?” Harry asks, sure that Ron was meant to be scheduled off.

“Last minute schedule. Malfoy unknowingly found some remnants of a crux attempt. Shacklebolt has called me in to spearhead.”

Harry nods his head like any of that made logical sense, and Edward files the names and words down for later. Even if he doesn’t understand it now, he is sure he will. One day, his collection of pieces will fall into place and reveal the puzzle he knows as Harry. Until then, he will just have to wonder on what a ‘crux’ is and who a ‘Shacklebolt’ could be.

“Bet Malfoy loved that.”

“Eh, he’s not that bad. Johannes let slip that only four people have crux clearance. I think Malfoy has it figured out.”

“Well, he did know Tom well.”

Ron snorts. “Not as well as you.” He says it lightly, offhandedly, yet his eyes lock with Edward’s and they are hard, steeled, pointed in their attempt to share information unspoken. Edward nods minutely. He remembers the name easily enough for its plainness: Tom. A name to remember. If he can get over the jealously humming through him at the thought of Harry knowing another ‘well’.

“It was nice meeting you, Edward.” Ron holds out a hand and they shake hands. Edward is impressed with Ron’s ability to keep his face straight at the chill of his grasp.

“Likewise.”

“I’m sure we’ll be meeting again.”

Harry opens his mouth, perhaps to object to such a statement, one Edward knows he hates, filled with assumptions and false futures, but Ron simply sends him a side-eye and heads to the fireplace, dashing a handful of powder on the flames as he calls out for his home. When he steps inside, the flames swallow him whole. Edward shudders just thinking about how uncomfortable the fire must be.

“He was nice,” Edward says, hoping for something neutral and kind to break the silence heavy between them.

“I know.” Harry scowls. “Why are you here?”

“I did tell you already, but I am here to organise our date.” Edward takes a rather large amount of pleasure in seeing Harry’s cheeks darken with his irresistible blood as an unintelligible pile of words splutters from his lips. “More accurately, I came to ensure our date was still happening.”

“Oh.” Harry looks away from Edward, curls his fingers together shyly. “Yeah, sure.”

“Perfect. Tonight, then. Seven o’clock.”

Edward stands, pocketing a blood pop for the road and smiling broadly at Harry, cutting through the melancholy in his mind as he ruminates on what he has learned in this trip. About the injury Harry sustained yet is already healed. The tension between best friends. An unusual discussion about clearances and cruxes. Shacklebolt. Malfoy. Tom.

As usual, Edward leaves Harry feeling more confused, his list of questions longer than ever, yet with the unshakeable knowledge that he’s one step closer to the truth.

Chapter Text

Edward arrives at Harry’s at six fifty-five on the dot, with a bouquet of flowers and fresh golden eyes. He stands on the cabin porch for a good three minutes. If he were human, his heart would beat from his chest, and his palms would be clammy. But instead, Edward has the distinct, sickening feeling that he drank too much blood and it now swooshes around his stomach too fast, too much. He’d wanted to be prepared to be alone with Harry in the car. He has been adept at keeping most of his desires on a short leash when they are together and only struggles with his fangs popping out every now and then. But Edward knows first-hand how hard it is to sit in a car with Harry beside him. How the desire to lean across the console and bite down—

“Be gone!” Kreacher hisses, poking his head out from the door and spritzing Edward with suspiciously not-garlic-scented water. Edward is sure that Harry had magically disposed of the bottle, so it seems Kreacher either has a stash prepared, or he has organised a new one just for his arrival.

“Hello, Kreacher.” Edward smiles down at the elf who seems unimpressed with the gesture.

“Be gone, foul being!” Kreacher says again, spritzing he bottle.

“KREACHER!” Harry yells from somewhere in the house. “Are you spraying Edward again?”

“He is not good enough for Master,” Kreacher whines, closing the door slightly as if it could stop Edward from hearing their conversation.

“Let him in Kreacher. And get rid of that bottle! Or I’ll burn Walburga!”

Kreacher gasps and opens the door, glaring at Edward and the flowers he holds like they’re both pieces of trash.

“Inside then, quickly.”

Edward does as he’s told and decides not to question the elf on this unusual ‘Walburga’ he seems to care so much about. Harry appears at the top of the stairs in a pair of jeans and a dark blue sweater, warm plaid socks in a deep green covering his feet. It’s one of the most colourful outfits Edward has seen Harry wear. Harry looks brighter, happier, the dark bags under his eyes less pronounced. He jogs down the stairs, curled hair dripping slowly onto the shoulders of his sweater. Edward thinks that maybe it’s simply his own perception and desires warping Harry to look happy, as if Harry is glad to see him.

“Sorry, I’m a bit late,” Harry says, waving his hand at his hair so it puffs up and flies back with a magical breeze, fluffing into place as a mess of curls. Even the rogue droplets on his shoulders disappear.

“I was early,” Edward says, before holding the flowers out. “These are for you.”

Harry seems to wish that he were given anything else in the world than flowers. He holds them slightly away from himself with a crunched expression, almost like the scent of them alone could lead to his untimely death. Edward listens as his heart rate increases.

“Do you...not like them?” Edward asks, wishing for the umpteenth time he could know what Harry is thinking.

“Why did you get these?”

“For our date.” He almost stumbles over the word, can feel it catch on the edge of his tongue. Date. How novel. Not his first, but it feels it.

“Why these?” Harry shakes them slightly, the flowers rattling in the brown paper Esme wrapped them in.

“I picked them from the meadow... they are lilies. I would have preferred to get you pink ones, but Washington lilies are white,” Edward explains softly.

Harry digests the information like a bone stuck in his throat. He seems to calm down, in only the way one can suddenly when disassociating. Vacant eyes stare through Edward, past him, into something of memory that he desires to see alongside him. What Edward would give to crawl into Harry’s mindscape right now and experience the culmination of emotions and memories he has disappeared into.

Harry has seen into Edward’s mind, knows that it is a formed like his own room, his memories stored as records on the shelf. But he hasn’t seen Harry’s. Doesn’t even know what it would be like inside—neat, messy, chaotic, orderly. He feels his sense slip out, his ability trailing along Harry’s skin before he pulls it back tightly, tries to lock down on the ability before Harry notices it and accuses him of trying to force his way inside.

In the silence between them, Kreacher steps forward, spray bottle vanished when Edward wasn’t watching and takes the flowers from Harry’s death grip. The action wakes Harry, jostles him enough to blink hard one, two, three times, his eyes refocusing on Edward them glancing down to Kreacher, letting his grip loosen on the flowers. Edward doesn’t know why, but the flowers seem to have triggered Harry on something, reminded him of his past, and Edward wishes Jasper were here to provide input on Harry’s undoubtedly complicated emotions.

“Kreacher will prepare a vase in Master’s room.”

Harry feebly nods his assent and Kreacher turns to Edward, something he could almost mistake as approval across his face before he cracks away.

“I’m...sorry?” Edward apologises, feeling as though he did something that was both good and bad.

“No.” Harry shakes his head, lifts a shaky hand to his mouth. He looks away, then back. His green eyes flick between Edward’s golden ones, as though searching for an answer. “My mother’s name was Lily,” he says, as if that explains his reaction of fear and stress.

Harry does such a thing often. Make a statement, as if the revelation of such information should suffice, as if it provides all the context Edward should need to understand Harry. As usual, Edward finds himself battling with his desire to interrogate until he has all the data, every piece of background and nuance to know why his mother’s namesake could cause such a reaction, beyond the implication that she has already passed.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he says instead.

“Yes.” Harry smiles sadly then shakes it off. His small, awkward chuckle breaks the heavy air between them. “I suppose we should go. Let me just put my shoes on.”

He grabs his boots from the shoe rack near the door, slipping his foot inside and lacing them up. Edward inspects them closer. He’s always thought they were unique in some wizarding way, but he still cannot understand why.

“They’re dragon hide,” Harry explains nonchalantly when he asks. “They’re water and fire proof. Pretty strong against most magicks too,” he continues as they walk outside and slip into Edward’s car. There are several implications to the fact that wizards wear dragon hide as shoes, but Edward can barely formulate the first two before Harry changes the subject. “So, where are we going?”

“Port Angeles.”

Because Edward has organised the perfect date all without Rosalie and Alice’s help. Rosalie would say everything was a bad idea simply to spite him and Alice would do too much, which he saw firsthand from her own visions of a future when he considered asking for her help. She was rather upset that he wouldn’t let her plan the date with him though and hid her visions of how his own plans proceed with a smirk on her face and horrible songs on repeat in her mind.

His perfectly planned date starts with dinner for two at a small French-American restaurant, followed by a movie or indoor ice skating, Harry’s choice, ending with a night drive with a view of the city from above, with perhaps some stargazing if the skies allow. Some might find such a date boring, but Edward enjoys the simplicity of it. He rather thinks Harry will appreciate it too.

“Right. Port Angeles.” Harry looks out the window at the world speeding past, finger tapping on the arm rest. “So, what’s been going on with that rogue?”

“Victoria.” Edward grips the steering wheel tight enough for it to creak. He releases the tension slowly. “Alice is keeping an eye on her. She’s split off from Laurent and seems to be laying low in Seattle for now.”

“Shouldn’t we just go track her down?”

“We’ve tried. She’s exceptionally good at slipping away.”

Edward wonders if there’s magic to find someone, like a tracking spell to search the world. He imagines not, since that seems unfeasible and Harry himself said he was hiding from others under a fake name. If it were that easy, surely someone would have found him by now.

“You said before that you would rather pink lilies over white. Why?”

It’s unusual for Harry to be the one asking so many questions. Edward usually asks fifteen questions to Harry’s one, but tonight they have swapped. He quite likes it. As if he’s not the only one begging for scraps of understanding.

“The language of flowers,” Edward says. “Everyone understood this when I was human. It was expected to bring flowers to almost all occasions, and you needed to know how to read between the lines.”

“What do white lilies mean?” Harry asks, fiddling with the volume dial of the car until a classical song from Edward’s CD echoes between them.

“Purity.” Harry snorts. “Renewal.”

“And pink?”

“Admiration. Appreciation.” Edward hesitates slightly. “Love “

The piano rings between them, the keys mixing into something softer, gentler. Harry’s heart beats loudly and blood pools beneath his rosy cheeks. Edward stops breathing, because to do so is torture of perhaps the worst kind he could ever fathom. Stopping is equally painful.

“I suppose I should read up about these flowers,” Harry says softly, and Edward nods his head, not trusting himself to speak through the pool of venom under his tongue.

He doesn’t want to fall into silence, but Harry stops asking questions and Edward struggles to keep his fangs retracted and must fight back intrusive thoughts of wanting to lean over. Harry seems to notice that Edward is having a hard time after a while because he lowers the window to let fresh air inside and waves his hand around until a strong minty smell infuses the car.

“Is it always like that for you?”

“Only sometimes,” Edward replies, clearing his throat slightly as the venom dissipates. “When we are in an enclosed space.”

“Must be hard to be in class then.”

“Only since you’ve started.”

Sometimes the truth is best left unsaid, Edward thinks, when Harry’s cheeks burn red again and his scent permeates the car once more, fighting against the fast breeze of the open windows.

“Only me?” Harry asks after a minute, glancing at Edward briefly before deciding to look away again.

“You smell…” Edward trails off. The thought alone, the memory, forces his fangs back out and he clenches his hands on the steering wheel. “Like nothing I’ve ever smelled before. Divine.”

“Really?” Harry sniffs his shirt slightly. “That rogue said I smelt weird—like I’d already been bled dry.”

“Jasper thinks so, too. He’s the newest to our lifestyle, so he struggles the most out of all of us to control his thirst. Yet, he feels no desire to drink from you. None of them do.”

“But you?”

Edward tries to keep his eyes on the road. Fails. Harry is looking at him too, green eyes wide with curiosity, flickering down to Edward’s mouth where his fangs poke out just slightly, catching on the edge of his bottom lip. Edward’s mouth floods with venom. He wishes Harry were more aware. He swallows, fights the desire to pull the car off the road and leap. Shoves those visions of Harry, debauched, neck riddled with bites, finger beckoning, back into a dark corner of his mind.

“You’re like a drug to me, Harry,” he breathes softly. “Like my own personal brand of heroin.”

Harry holds his eye contact for a second, two. He blinks, looks down at Edward’s fangs once more, licks his own lips and breaks the eye contact.

“Alright, junkie. Eyes on the road.”

Edward does as he’s told with only the slightest of hesitation.

They spend the rest of the drive answering questions. Edward answers Harry’s questions about the coven, how Carlisle turned him first, and briefly explains how the rest of his family members came to join the pair. Harry shows interest in the hierarchy of their coven, so Edward explains that Carlisle is their leader, and all decisions ultimately come down to him even though all members can share their ideas, but that Carlisle often asks for them to vote as a way of deciding democratically.

“What if Carlisle dies? Would you become the next leader?”

“Perhaps. But if Carlisle were to die, it is more likely that we would all be dead. I’m not sure our coven could survive without him, anyway.”

Edward asks about the wizarding world. He asks about the wizarding school and Harry tries to explain the rules to an odd and dangerous sounding game called Quidditch. Edward files away the information about the golden snitch for later, knowing that he saw one of those on Harry’s bookshelf, hidden behind magic and stored carefully near his wand. He asks about Harry’s favourite subject, which led into a small explanation on what the ‘Dark Arts’ are.

“Would the spell to kill another be considered Dark then? And the ones you mentioned about pain and control?” Edward asks.

“Very. The most, even.”

“You learn defence against these, yet also how to cast them?”

“You’re not taught to cast them, usually. There were…extreme circumstances that forced some of us to learn them.”

“Could you cast one on me? I am curious to know what it is like. Preferably not the killing one.”

“No,” Harry replies, a dark look on his face. He pinches his fingers as if trying to force feeling back into them. “They require intent.”

Harry rubs at his chest and Edward remembers the scars there, hidden beneath his magic, the one like lightning that sparks out from his heart. Instead of thinking about that too carefully, for fear of what he might consider—of what Harry might confirm if he asks—Edward thinks about the implication of being unable to cast a spell without intention. That Harry wouldn’t want to cast any of those spells he threatened previously. Without that want, perhaps he couldn’t cast them successfully.

“Are all spells like that?”

“Pretty much. With the wrong intention—or none—the spell won’t work out how you plan.”

The continue talking on the drive to Port Angeles, but about more mundane things, like the peculiarities of ‘American muggles’ and the differences between school lunches at Forks HS and Harry’s wizarding school. For the entire drive, Edward collects his courage and refines his question for Harry, it is finally time just a few minutes before they arrive in Port Angeles.

“May I ask about your mother?” He asks hesitantly in a lull of the conversation.

Harry takes much longer to reply than he’d like.

“What do you want to know?”

“When did she pass?”

“When I was one.” Harry watches the city lights before them, eyes locked on the main street as they enter Port Angeles. “I didn’t even know her.”

“How—”

“She was murdered. She died protecting me.” Harry’s voice is cold, distant. Edward realises belatedly that he’s crossed a line Harry didn’t want crossed; dredged up painful memories that he doesn’t want to relive. He scrambles for a way to save the conversation.

“I knew my mother, for seventeen years. Even now I cling to the few shreds of memories I have left of her,” Edward says. “I didn’t truly know her then though and still don’t now. That doesn’t make her love any less true.”

“How did your mother pass?”

“Spanish influenza. I was dying from it, too. She begged Carlisle to save me. Perhaps she could sense something in her last moments that led her to understand Carlisle wasn’t entirely human. It was because of her that Carlisle took the risk to bite me.”

“A mother’s love,” Harry breathes, turning away from Edward. He looks contemplative in the reflection.

“It was a Dark wizard. Power hungry and disillusioned, convinced that he was some type of superior being even amongst wizards. There was a war against him and his followers.”

Edward dares not even breathe in fear that Harry might stop his story. He knows intuitively that this is information being entrusted to him now, another thing he must hoard and treasure secretly, something that will help him unravel the mystery that is Harry.

“Then there was a prophecy,” Harry says with a dark chuckle. “He didn’t know who exactly it applied to, so he went after everyone that it might. My parents went into hiding but he found them and murdered them.”

Harry speaks about it so matter of fact, as if detached from the moment. The pieces of Harry he’s collected begin clicking into place: his aversion to Alice, his fear of the future being carelessly prophesied by her, even in the most mundane of ways. He slows the car down, wanting to extend the time before they arrive to the restaurant.

“He tried to kill me too,” Harry continues, fingers reaching up to brush along his hairline and down his nose along the scar Edward knows is there, beneath magic. “My mother had used powerful magic to save me. Her death, her sacrifice, is the magic that kept me alive when the killing curse hit me.”

The killing curse. A Dark magic spell from a Dark wizard, aimed at Harry. Edward fights down the rage boiling in his body. Misplaced, belated, futile rage that he knows Harry won’t appreciate nor encourage. Still, the desire to destroy that which tried to kill Harry rampages through him.

“Harry,” Edward asks, whispers, parking the car outside of the restaurant. “How old were you when this happened?”

“I was one.” Harry’s hand drops from his scarred forehead and he fiddles with a loose thread on his shirt. “I’m sorry. This is heavy stuff to just be dumping on you now.”

“No, Harry. This is everything I want to know about you, and more.”

Harry looks away from him, blush shading his cheeks. “I figured I should open up some. If we’re to give this a chance.” He chuckles as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “I can just obliviate you if it goes badly, anyway.”

“And by badly, you mean?” Edward asks, tilting his head to the side, molten eyes locked briefly with Harry’s.

“Well, we’ll just have to see.” Harry shrugs, nonchalantly, as though Edward isn’t suddenly suffering from an extreme case of anxiety.

He exits the car feeling as though he’s walking on a thin line, death and misery on one side and forgetfulness on the other. Between them is a sliver of joy, a line where they end up happy and loved, together, in whatever form that might mean—if only he can walk it.

Chapter Text

Not even an hour after Ron and Edward leave, Harry is sitting on his bed overthinking his upcoming date tonight when an old, rickety owl flies through his window, feathers fluttering around it as if held on by only a few millimetres of quill. It has a few bald patches and a leather cord wrapped loosely around its ankle with three corks hanging off it. It squawks at Harry in friendly familiarity before dumping a scroll on his lap, demanding a treat for his trouble, and quickly heading off, not waiting for a reply but leaving a few feathers behind to remember him by.

Harry doesn’t even need to see the familiar Lovegood family seal on the letter to know who the daft owl belongs to, because he has enough of those cork charms to ward off half of England shoved into his drawers. Part of him doesn’t want to open the letter because he knows that it will likely bring to his attention something he would rather ignore or hit him in the spot that hurts most emotionally. Luna doesn’t write often—in fact hasn’t written to him once in the time he’s been gone—but Harry made sure his wards would allow her letter to arrive should she choose to send one. He knows how significant her words can be in his life. How much weight they can carry. It’s why his hands shake as he holds the scroll deftly between his fingers, rolls it between his hands as he mulls over why she would be contacting him now, at this precise moment. It makes him think of Alice, too, and guilt resurfaces at how he’s treated her so poorly for something out of her control and beyond her understanding.

He closes his eyes and rips the seal open, glancing down to read her loopy letters, the additional curls and twirls softening the emotional and mental blow her words are primed to deliver.

Dear Harry,

Have you been making friends with the local wildlife? You always seemed the type to attract unusual creatures. I hope you’re not ignoring them. It’s rude to ignore an animal when it’s clearly trying to learn more about the world.

Have you laughed at yourself yet this week? I recommend it. Laughter shakes loose the cobwebs, even the invisible ones. You might discover your thoughts sound less heavy when they’ve had a good rattle. Neville and I make sure to laugh properly at least every three days lest the nargles get us.

I wonder if you’ve found any flowers where you are. Even when no one’s looking, they insist on popping up, which I admire. It reminds me a bit of love—it tends to outlast people’s expectations. Especially the sort of love that mothers leave behind. That kind doesn’t wither; it simply finds new roots.

Do you sleep with your window open? I imagine the night air is very talkative where you are. Be careful, though. If you close yourself up too tightly, even the friendliest breeze won’t be able to find you.

Write soon. And do tell me if the moon looks different there. It likes to change outfits depending on the audience.

With love,

Luna

Harry drops the letter on his bed and presses his palms to his eyes, trying to hold back the tears threatening to drop. Her words scratch at something deeper inside him, something he can’t name and doesn’t understand—wouldn’t want to, even if he could. It takes him a few minutes to collect the pieces of his being and assemble them again. When he does, he takes her letter and rereads it.

He reads it again part way through getting ready and once more as he brushes his teeth. He reads it as he slips his socks on and is halfway through reading it when Edward arrives. It’s only then that Harry realises he’s dug into the back of his closet for clothes he doesn’t wear often. Soft, expensive clothing, in colours, not blacks. He considers changing, because to dress so brightly feels inauthentic, but he hears Kreacher spritzing Edward again and decides to save him instead.

Besides, like Luna said, maybe it is time he opens himself up. Harry always sleeps with his window open, and something tells him Luna knows that. She’s telling him in her own unique way to allow people to reach him again and stop blocking every attempt at friendliness. He’s been wound so tightly these days, worried about the werewolves and the Cullens and the Blacks and Edward. He has been particularly shut off. Perhaps more so than he even was back home after he found out he was Master of Death.

That’s why, when Edward finally asks about his mother, Harry decides to open up.

“May I ask about your mother?” Edward asks hesitantly in a lull of the conversation.

“What do you want to know?”

“When did she pass?”

“When I was one. I didn’t even know her.”

“How—”

“She was murdered. She died protecting me.” Harry thinks about the memory he still has now, one that the dementors always dredge up of that night of green lights and his mother’s scream. Opening up makes him remember things he wishes to forget.

“I knew my mother, for seventeen years. Even now I cling to the few shreds of memories I have left of her,” Edward says after a minute, and Harry appreciates the redirection away from himself. “I didn’t truly know her then though and still don’t now. That doesn’t make her love any less true.”

“How did your mother pass?”

“Spanish influenza. I was dying from it, too. She begged Carlisle to save me. Perhaps she could sense something in her last moments that led her to understand Carlisle wasn’t entirely human. It was because of her that Carlisle took the risk to bite me.”

“A mother’s love,” Harry breathes, turning away from Edward, a niggling memory resurfacing, blurry and demanding attention. One from a time with Luna, years earlier, just three months after the Trio had first realised what he was.

He was drunk, teetering on the edge of blackness, a foot away from the cliff of anger and wild magic. He’d sequestered himself in quiet corner of the Three Broomsticks away from the rowdy crowd of his friends and co-workers to sink into the hole in his chest, wallow in the pain he felt that this would one day soon all be over.

 “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Luna had said, sitting down next to him.

“What?” He asked, harsher than he would ever speak to Luna sober, taking a swig from his glass filled with a mixture of strong alcohol, with extra dashes of firewhiskey from his secret flask.

“How mothers never quite leave, even when they do. Mine’s been gone for years, but I can still feel her hand brushing mine when I’m afraid.”

Luna twirled her engagement ring mindlessly around her finger as she spoke. They both watched Ginny throw back a double shot of firewhiskey balanced carefully on the stomach of a random bar-goer. The sight did nothing to Harry. Maybe three months ago it would have made him angry—hurt, more likely—but back then he had bigger things to worry about than Ginny becoming a social butterfly with a tendency for one-night stands. He’d become something similar himself, anyway. He had no right to abhor her for moving on from a relationship that held her back; not then and not now.

“Don’t you?” She had asked, turning to look at him suddenly with all-seeing eyes, bringing Harry back to a conversation about dead mothers he doesn’t wish to participate in.

“I feel her more than you know.”

More than should be possible for someone who has only met their mother’s ghost; seen the etchings of her left at Hogwarts in school photos and awards; heard her in the whispers of Petunia cursing her sister out; touched hands with the glimmer of her as he walked to his own death.

“That’s what mothers do. They weave something into us, a thread of magic so strong not even death could snip it. You know that don’t you, Harry?”

Back then he had rejected her statement, cutting eye contact in favour of the condensation building on the sides of his near-empty drink. Sickness had roiled in his stomach. Fear had beat in his ears. He’d wondered at the time if she knew his secret—if she could see through his glamours and potions without even the use of her ghastly Spectrespecs. Now, as he reviews this triggered memory, he realises that she always knew, in the way she understood he was changed, in the way she knew he was leaving before he even did himself. She might not have known, but she knew.

“I’ve something to tell you, Harry. You’ll forget, because you’re always carrying too much to remember, but one day you’ll remember, and that’s when you’ll understand.” He’d nodded his head, feigned attention even though he was thinking about how to order another drink without leaving his corner of self-imposed brooding or catching Hermione’s attention. “A mother’s love is peculiar magic. You’ll find one day that someone else knows that feeling too. Someone who was saved because of it. You’ll understand each other in ways others can’t. Mother’s love doesn’t end, Harry, it just changes hands.”

Harry remembers the words flittering in one ear and out the other, only a few syllables registering properly in his drunken haze, a fog he was used to at the near peak of his alcoholism. He had never replied but like Luna said, the words lingered in him, hooked into something deep inside to come crawling out at this moment and remind him of something he was destined to acknowledge. A bond, however tentative, between him and Edward. A bond he had been trying his best to ignore the pull of; one he willingly covered his eyes and ears against. And there is Luna again as usual, in his moment of need, pulling him back on track with small words of encouragement and seeds of doubt planted years earlier.

“It was a Dark wizard. Power hungry and disillusioned, convinced that he was some type of superior being even amongst wizards. There was a war against him and his followers,” Harry starts with a hitch in his breath and clammy hands.

Edward listens silently but attentively, eyes locked on the road as Harry explains in the fastest way possible the general outline of his mother’s sacrifice: the prophecy, her magic, her death, how young he was. He finishes his explanation just as they park at the restaurant and Harry tries to alleviate the uncomfortable heaviness that settles over them from his trauma dump by joking about obliviating Edward if it all goes horribly wrong. Somehow, that seems to make everything worse. Edward turns an even more extreme shade of pale, and he appears terrified at the mere concept.

“I was joking,” Harry says, slamming the car door closed and walking around to stand beside him. He fights down the urge to reach out and touch Edward’s hand, instead deciding a simple tap on his forearm is enough. “I wouldn’t actually obliviate you.”

Harry can’t really think of a reason why he would need to do so anymore. Even if it doesn’t work out between the two of them—whatever that means—if Edward doesn’t know about Harry being the Master of Death, then there’s no reason to obliviate him. Harry has other people he has been romantically involved with before out in the world walking around with all their memories. Besides, it’s not like the Cullens should forget about Wizarding society when Harry moves elsewhere. Everyone in wizarding society already knows about his past, too, so it’s not worth the effort of obliviating that away. If he’s careful about everything related to Death, then there wouldn’t be a reason to remove any of Edward’s memories.

“Oh,” Edward seems to relax and nod his head. “I just… don’t like the idea of forgetting,” he tacks on honestly, leading Harry to the entrance of the restaurant.

“I’m sorry.” He feels like a right ass.

“It’s alright, Harry. We’re still getting to know each other.”

“No, I shouldn’t have said that. It was a bad joke.”

Harry wouldn’t want to forget, either. He hates the idea of people tampering with his own mind and it’s rather horrid of him to assume that Edward wouldn’t mind the thought himself. Edward reaches out and slides his hand down Harry’s wrist to gently touch his fingers in a half-attempt at holding hands that he releases too quickly. Edward smiles reassuringly as they climb the stairs to the restaurant, and he holds the door open for Harry with a gesture for him to enter first. He does so, fingers tingling.

“Welcome to C’est Si Bon,” the hostess says as they step into the restaurant warmed by a low crackling fire and filled with a soft smoky scent. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes, it’s under Cullen.”

The hostess takes a moment to glance at them both, hesitating when she locks eyes with Harry and a blush flushes across her cheeks. Edward looks at Harry with an amused expression on his face.

“A table for two, I see.” The host smiles shyly at the pair and leads them to their table with perky steps; two menus clutched in her hands. Their table sits smack bang in the middle of the restaurant. Harry is well aware of the curious gazes of the people around them, but for once they’re not looking at him and are instead muggles awed by Edward’s vampiric good looks.

“Perhaps we could sit somewhere a little more…private?” Edward asks the waitress, smiling at her with a flash of fangs she probably doesn’t notice as he slides her a fifty dollar note. She appears dazzled for a moment.

“Of course.” She pockets the note deftly, but her eyes remain locked to Edward’s for a few seconds longer than considered polite. Harry fights the urge he has to clear his throat and move her along.

Eventually she blinks and the moment breaks as Edward slyly places his hand on Harry’s lower back. He raises an eyebrow at the host who blushes an even deep red and skuttles away quickly, not even glancing over her shoulder to check that they’re still following. She points them to a corner table and hurridly skuttles away without even mentioning the night’s specials. Harry settles into the plush velvet chair in the corner of the room with a sly smirk on his face.

“It’s not a competition, you know,” he says.

“I couldn’t let you show me up.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t.” Harry laughs at the sheer impossibility of showing Edward’s good looks up.

“You don’t see yourself clearly at all, do you?”

Edward hands Harry a menu to read whilst he ponders that statement. He’s not blind—Harry knows he is attractive. But he’s not Cullen attractive. Harry used to be winsome when he was younger, but he would say that he’s more ruggedly handsome now. If Harry were to think about it deeper than that, if he were to categorise his looks, perhaps he would label himself as something insidious.

“Perhaps we are both dim-sighted,” Harry replies, before deciding to change the subject. He points at something on the menu and asks Edward what it is.

“I believe that is a snail dish. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure to trying them personally, but I hear they taste like mushrooms, if that helps.”

Harry pulls a face at the thought of eating snails.

“I’m sure they taste wonderful. Not to my taste, though.”

“No?”

“My friend once cast a spell that backfired, and he puked up slugs for hours. I can’t stomach the idea of slugs or snails now.”

Edward cringes and licks his lips as if imagining something slimy crawling in his mouth. He nods his head.

“Best to choose something safer. How about the beef bourguignon? That seems relatively harmless, and slug free.”

“Sure. Sounds great.”

Edward signals for the waitress, who introduces herself as Amber in a stutter, eyes flickering between the two as though she can’t decide who to look at. Harry watches in amusement as Edward politely orders only one meal.

“Sure. One beef bourguignon. And for drinks?”

Edward gestures to Harry, as if asking what he would like. He’d already spotted the alcohol on the menu—fancy beer, plenty of white wines ranging from budget to expensive, and a few simple gin cocktails. His hand tremors as he considers ordering something to take the edge off this whole interaction; a wine or two to wash down the uncomfortable lodgement of emotions that have been stuck in his throat since he read Luna’s letter. His heart beats loudly in his ears. He looks up from his hand and to Edward’s molten eyes, cataloguing him in ways that leave Harry unsettled. He slams the menu closed.

“Water is fine, thank you.”

The waitress takes the menus from them both after confirming their order and triple-checking that they only want one main. She rushes back to the waitress stand and whispers something to another worker, giggling behind her hand.

“What did she say?” Harry asks, deciding that he may as well get some entertainment from the fact that Edward can hear every damningly fast beat of his heart.

“Nothing ground-breaking, just telling her co-worker to check us out. She thinks we’re a cute couple.” He pauses and then coughs awkwardly into his hand. “She has a…vivid imagination.”

Harry laughs and looks back at the waitress who breaks eye contact and escapes into the kitchens, almost knocking over another waiter exiting with plates stacked on his arms. Dinner flows smoothly from there, with both of them avoiding the heavier topics they had discussed in the car, but the knowledge of what was said sinks between them, whispers itself along the frayed edges of their conversation as soft tones and gentle eyes. There’s an unspoken knowledge between them that at the core, base of their existence, they both are here because of their mother’s love. Harry finds it comforting; he can only hope Edward does, too.

They ask for an extra plate when the beef bourguignon arrives so they can pretend they are sharing, adding some for Edward to push around until Harry eventually scoops the few pieces for himself. Dinner is warm. Comforting. Harry slips out of his sweater part way through, hanging it off his chair and revealing a soft long sleeve shirt beneath. Edward makes him laugh when he whispers to Harry the explicit thoughts the waitress had when he’d stripped off.

Harry answers more of Edward’s questions about the Wizarding world, attempting to explain that most banks are owned by goblins and that they have a completely different currency to muggles. In turn, Edward talks about some of the places he’s lived in the last hundred years. It’s rather interesting to Harry to find out that the Cullens don’t always live together—sometimes Rosalie and Emmett break off to live as a married couple for a decade; other times Jasper and Alice do so. Edward always stays with Carlisle and Esme, though, because they won’t let him leave again.

“Again?” Harry asks as they step outside the restaurant, feeling full and happy, warm on the inside in a way he can’t remember feeling for a long time. He slips his sweater back over his head as the chill of the night air brushes along his skin.

“I left for a while. I resented Carlisle for forcing this lifestyle on me. I was tired, and so very hungry. I left them, so that I could feed. Truly feed.” He glances into the distance as they walk to the car, his face solemn. “I only hunted despicable humans; murderers and rapists, those who I believe deserved to die. Still, it is not a thing I am proud about.”

“You came back, though,” Harry replies, looking up to the stars. “That’s a decision you made. We’ve all done things we regret. Hurt people.”

“I killed them, Harry,” Edward says softly, opening the car door for Harry, his face scrunched into something complicated, disgusted. “You cannot understand the weight of that.”

“Can’t I?” Harry looks at Edward, caged between the door and his chilled body.  Edward pauses. They lock eyes, Edward searching for answers to questions he won’t voice and Harry waiting for him to do so. When he doesn’t, Harry slides into the car. “What’s next? Are we going home now?”

Edward sighs and shakes his head, leaning down so his face is mere centimetres from Harry’s, a small smile on his lips.

“You’re a conundrum, you know that don’t you, Harry?”

“I’ve been told it’s my specialty.”

Edward closes the door and takes his time walking around the car like a plain human. Once inside, he turns to Harry.

“I thought we could watch a movie or go ice skating. Your choice.”

“Movie,” Harry replies quickly.

Harry has too many precious memories of ice skating to consider overwriting one now. Winters out on the frozen pond near the Burrow with Ron tumbling every three steps and Ginny gliding past like a duck on water. There was even a time he skated on the Hogwarts’ Lake, before everything went sideways. Besides, he hasn’t been to the movies a whole lot in his life, especially not muggle ones. It seems like a good first date thing to do.

Edward drives them to the cinema in comfortable silence, something Harry wasn’t expecting from the information hungry vampire who consistently spouts out questions in a attempt to get to know Harry better. At the entrance, they purchase tickets to the next available showing without checking what movie it is, only to end up in a fit of shared laughter in the back row as the title card ‘Bram Stoker’s Way of the Vampire’ appears on screen. Harry whispers questions to Edward as it plays and he replies in equally low tones that no, they can’t transform into bats and he’s not in any way jealous of their ability to do so; and that no, they cannot hypnotize humans with a wave of their hand; and that yes, he agrees the movie is rather low-budget. They are hushed more than once by movie-goers.

Harry finds that he likes spending time with Edward much more when he’s not trying so hard to hide everything about himself. Even though Edward has eased up on the questions—of which Harry is sure he has many more, he’s just choosing to withhold them for now—they still manage to talk comfortably and, more than that, happily. He hasn’t thought about Death once and his once-hollow chest feels full and overflowing with an emotion he can’t quite place; a warmth he isn’t used to feeling. In the dark of the theatre, Harry remembers he’s a Gryffindor and acts on the impulse to take Edward’s hand in his own, tentatively interlocking their fingers. Edward smiles at him with those blinding teeth and molten eyes, tightening his grip and bringing their entwined hands over the arm rest to settle in Harry’s lap. The last quarter of the movie consists of Harry trying to maintain his composure as Edward thumbs small circles onto the back of his hand.

Edward doesn’t let his hand go even when the movie ends and they wait until everyone else has left to depart. They take their time meandering back to the car, muttering about nothing in particular to each other. Harry’s hand feels like it’s alight. It tingles pleasantly where they touch. He knows that Edward’s hand is cold, likely icy, but to him it feels warm, soft. Edwards feels alive.

“I planned to take us stargazing, but it’s getting late,” Edward says softly, his voice barely a murmur as he opens the door for Harry, hesitating to let go of his hand. “I think we should head back.”

“Okay,” Harry whispers back, suddenly feeling shy and sad. They were at dinner for far longer than expected simply because their conversation flowed so smoothly; they continually had new questions to ask, with strong desires to know the answers to everything they’ve kept hidden from each other.

The drive to Harry’s is relatively silent. Edward seems to be thinking hard about something, and Harry is content to let him do so. Eventually, their hands drift back together. When Edward apologises for being cold, Harry tells him he’s not, and Edward sends him a fond look as though he told a kind white lie. Edward drives Harry right to his door now that the wards are keyed to let him in and he uses his vampire speed to rush around the car and open the door. He escorts Harry to the door with a soft hand at the small of his back, stopping on the top step, watching as Harry opens the front door.

“Thank you for tonight, Harry,” Edward says politely, standing stiffly. “I had a wonderful time.”

“I did too,” Harry admits rather abashedly, looking away. He swallows, opens his mouth to say—

“I want to do this properly,” Edward interrupts.

“So, no goodbye kiss?” Harry jokes, but it seems to go over Edward’s head as he looks both interested and distraught at the idea.

“I'm from a different era...And if I'd have met you back then, I would've courted you. We'd have taken chaperoned strolls, and ice tea on the porch... I may have stolen a kiss or two, but only after asking your father's permission. I would've got down on one knee... and I would have presented you with a ring.”

“Two men? Surely not,” Harry replies, leaning on the door behind him, finding some blasé courage within him at the sight of Edward so flustered.

“Well, no. Perhaps not two men,” Edward admits, stepping down a step as Harry walks towards him. “But still, I would—”

“My father is dead.” Harry walks forward until they are face-to-face, Edward finally at his height on the lower step. “The only person you need to ask for permission is me,” he whispers, breath washing across Edward’s face, their lips tingling from their closeness.

“But—”

“I want to. Don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but—”

“Then ask.”

Harry knows now, deep inside. Something that he perhaps always knew and was instinctually avoiding. Something he could feel from the moment they first locked eyes across the car park and Edward tried forcing his way in Harry’s mind. The fire beneath his skin when they touch, the flush of magic in his chest, the life he feels in Edward’s immortal, frozen body. Mother’s love doesn’t wither; it simply finds new roots.

“May I kiss you, Harry?”

Chapter Text

Harry leaves Edward in suspense for a beat, then two, before he reaches forward and wraps a hand around the back of his neck. Edward allows Harry to pull him forward until their noses brush. The tips of their lips touch, just barely. They pause there for a moment, Harry searching in Edward’s eyes, magic tingling down his spine. Then, he leans forward, a small smile stretching his lips as they finally kiss.

It is slow, at first, gentle and tentative, if only because Edward is stiff as a board, hands clenched at his side in restrained fear. For Harry, it is all-consuming. Like drinking Felix Felicis, or smoking moonweaver grass laced with muggle drugs, or the seconds after death, when he feels warm and rested, unburdened by his immortality. The hollow in his chest fills with warmth and magic until it overflows down into his extremities. It trickles through him lazily yet deeply, right into the depths of him, so different to an Avada, yet undoubtedly reminiscent of it.

Harry moans and pulls Edward closer, wraps his other arm around him too, as they continue to kiss. Edward’s hands are all over Harry, curled around his waist, gripping on his neck, angling his face until they can kiss deeper, harder. Harry pulls and Edward follows without hesitation, crowding Harry up the stairs and against the front door. He isn’t cold to the touch—he is warm and soft and real; a never-ending cup of something pouring continually into Harry wherever they touch. Edward’s hand slides up beneath his sweater, tracing the divot of Harry’s spine slowly, fingers clawing to touch more. Harry grips Edward’s hair with only a fleeting thought to its softness, arching his back to allow Edward access to whatever he wants. Bravely—and perhaps stupidly—he darts his tongue out, etching it along Edward’s lips. Edward freezes, jerks his head back and brings a hand to his mouth, covering it with horrified eyes. 

“I’m sorry—” Harry starts when he suddenly falls backwards as Kreacher opens the door behind him, caught only by Edward’s vampire speed.

“MASTER!” Kreacher bellows, scandalised, a hand to his chest as he inspects the pair. Harry, debauched, lips red and clothes ruffled, and Edward, arms locked around Harry and hair mussed up in an obviously ran-through way. “This is most unbecoming!”

“Oh, please.” Harry rolls his eyes, looking up at Kreacher from his upside-down viewpoint. “This is hardly the worst thing you’ve caught me doing.”

“Should that make me worried?” Edward asks as he pulls Harry to his feet. He holds onto his waist until he’s sure Harry is stable and takes a moment to brush Harry’s clothes down. When he’s satisfied, he looks up through his long eyelashes with the molten eyes Harry is learning he’s rather fond of.

“Begone!” Kreacher cries, spritzing Edward with water. 

“Kreacher! Give it here!” Harry commandeers the spray bottle and unscrews the lid, sniffing the liquid inside suspiciously. He stares at it for a moment before chuckling. “Holy Water? Really? What did I say about trying to kill my guests?”

“Guest are not to be exterminated,” Kreacher grumbles, grabbing for the bottle with his long fingers and clutching it to his chest as if it were his most prized possession. “Horrible muggle vampires are nigh indestructible, Master. ‘Tis just a bit of fun.”

“Oh, I agree,” Edward says with a smile down to Kreacher, who pointedly doesn’t return it. “No harm, no foul.”

“Fun. Right,” Harry says, unconvinced. “No more premeditated murder, Kreacher. We’ve talked about this.”

Kreacher grumbles beneath his breath before saying, “Come inside now, Master. No more of this horrible snogging.”

He turns, stomping through to the kitchen with only a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Harry is following his instructions.

Edward leans nonchalantly on the doorway, crossing his arms and looking down at Harry with an amused expression. 

“You do realise that saying ‘no more premeditated murder’ leaves a whole slew of options open for him, right? Such as manslaughter.”

“Yes, well. Small steps,” Harry replies with a smirk and a shrug. The silence stews between them, filled with tension both awkward and sensual. “I’m sorry—about before.”

“No.” Edward shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I just…” he trails off, pushing himself from the doorway and straightening himself out. “It’s hard for me to control myself around you.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have—”

“Please, don’t apologise.”

“You weren’t uncomfortable?”

“Only from my desire to drain you.” Edward frowns, as if belatedly realising how blunt he was. “I should go. Thank—”

“You don’t have to,” Harry interjects, refusing to let the night end so awkwardly. “You could stay.”

“I don’t think—”

“Just to talk. I can make tea. I’m sure we have some more blood pops around. You don’t sleep, right?” 

Harry doesn’t like to seem as though he’s begging, but he understands that Edward is a self-sacrificing, self-depreciating individual who will go home to dwell on the entire night. Harry knows this too well because he is the same. He can already see Edward’s mind scrambling for a reason to refuse and isolate himself to brood.

“I—no, I don’t, but—” 

“Master, tea is served,” Kreacher says from behind Harry, his head poking around the wall and beady eyes narrowing on Edward as if berating him for his audacity to say no. “Quickly now. Before it gets cold.”

“Come on, just for a bit,” Harry urges, grabbing Edward’s hand and tugging him over the door step, kicking his shoes off as he goes. 

Edward follows Harry like a dutiful duck, quiet and perhaps a little unsure. His shoes sit neatly by the door and his socked feet are silent on the carpet beneath them. When Harry checks on him over his shoulder, Edward’s eyes are soft as he looks down at him. Harry smiles back, spinning around as a blush warms up his cheeks. 

Normally, he would be panicking by now. If it were him of a week ago, maybe he’d already be packing the house up and calling Hermione to move on to step two of The Timeline. If he is to be truly honest with himself, then he would have to consider the fact that he might have even run away from today if it weren’t for Luna’s letter and the subsequent memory he unlocked, but Harry likes to ignore such obvious blights to his personality. 

Kreacher has prepared a whole spread in the sitting room, including small tea cakes and three types of tea beside a large jar filled with blood pops. It’s too much tea and Harry’s full from dinner, but he feels an indescribable emotion welling in his chest at the sight. Kreacher waits until they’ve both sat down to nod to himself in self-righteous satisfaction and apparate away. 

“Do you have…more guests coming?” Edward asks, eyeing the numerous teapots and shuffling slightly away from Harry. 

“Not that I’m aware of.” 

Harry pours himself a tea and squeezes in some honey from a hilarious bear-shaped bottle. Kreacher detests the thing and prefers to use honey pots but Harry thinks it’s pretty cute. He turns on the chaise, leaning against the armrest and bringing his feet up so they sit between him and Edward, who eyes his sock-clad toes. Harry sips his tea, watching Edward over the brim, blinking away the steam billowing into his face. Edward sits stiff, like the vampire he is. He doesn’t blink nor move, but to Harry it isn’t frightening—it’s amusing, as though he is social anxiety personified. Awkwardness, if it were a person. Eventually, Harry breaks their intense eye contact with a smirk and gestures to the jar of blood pops on the table. Edward drops his head with a small laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Nothing. I just forget what I am when I am with you.”

Harry looks away from Edward, to the moving painting above the slow embers in the fireplace. There, a stag watches them curiously from the depths of the Forbidden Forest. 

“I do, too,” Harry whispers back. 

The clatter of blood pops being shuffled through drags Harry back from the forest. He refocuses his eyes on Edward, who is rummaging through the blood pops with one hand, yet he is cataloguing Harry carefully. It is not the first time Harry has felt exposed before Edward. He knows it won’t be the last. He tries to think about how that makes him feel—how it will make him feel, later, when he’s less warm and his chest less whole, but the concept is intangible.

“What does that mean to you?” Edward asks curiously, leaning back with his chosen blood pop in hand. “To forget what you are?”

“Well, what about you?” Harry deflects. “You seem rather high-strung about my blood when we’re together. How can you forget what you are then?”

Edward nods his head, acknowledging Harry’s point. He unwraps his blood pop before he answers. “Perhaps ‘forget’ isn’t the right word—it merely becomes an after thought. Unless something…” he trails off, plops the blood pop in his mouth and rolls it to the side to continue talking. “Think about it like…you’re really hungry. You skipped breakfast and lunch. Then someone says something funny, or you join a really interesting conversation, and you forget that you’re hungry. But then you smell a waft of something delicious like…I don’t know—pizza? And suddenly, you remember you’re starving.”

“So…you’re saying I smell like pizza?” 

Edward laughs, fondly, kindly, with his head thrown back and a roll to his eyes.

“You smell much more appetising.”

“First you call me heroin, now I’m pizza?”

“Both terrible analogies, I apologise.”

“Do you even know what pizza tastes like?”

“No,” Edward admits, rolling the blood pop around in his mouth. “It wasn’t really a thing when I was human.”

Harry thinks it’s pretty sad to never have tried pizza in one’s life, but it also took him a long, long time before he ever got to eat pizza. Even then, his first bite was a lukewarm slice of the cheapest cheese pizza available at an end of term class party when he was nine. Still, that was one of the most delicious things he’d ever eaten and he used to dream about having a whole pizza on those nights he was locked in the cupboard without dinner. 

“Well, you’re missing out,” Harry says eventually, looking back to the painting of the forest as he takes a sip of his tea and contemplates how he got here. 
At one time he would have said it was because he fought hard and survived at every opportunity. It feels disingenuous to say that now. Not even because he’s extraordinarily excellent at killing himself, but because mostly the only reason he’s here now is that he was terribly good at dying. Specifically at dying when it was most beneficial to everyone and not a moment too soon. 

A loud crunch breaks Harry from his thoughts and he looks back at Edward, who smiles sheepishly, pulling the blood pop stick from his mouth and continuing to crunch on the pieces. 

“Can we talk about it?” Harry asks, placing his half-empty mug on the table and stretching out to poke the side of Edward’s thigh with his foot. “More, I mean.”

“If you wish.” Edward looks as if he wants to flit away using his vampire speed, so Harry plops his feet into his lap to keep him seated. 

“I’m sorry about before. For pushing you.”

“Harry, please—”

“No! Let me say it. I shouldn’t have done something you didn’t want and—”

“You think I didn’t want to?”  Edward curls a hand around Harry’s ankle and tugs him closer with minimal effort, until he’s pressed up right beside Edward, legs dangled over the armrest and head on the cushion below him. Edward leans close and his breath whispers across Harry’s face as he says, “Believe me, I want to.”

“Then?”

Edward exhales slowly, shakily. He leans back, but keeps his hand wrapped around Harry’s ankle, pressing up above the line of his sock and under his trousers to touch his bare skin. Harry finds it rather hard to pay attention, which in many ways is a blow to his ego as he’s not exactly a prude. Still, there’s something tentative about the way Edward touches his skin and the fire in his touch is more than enough to have Harry losing his train of thought. He sits up, perching himself on his elbows to clear his head and get a better view of Edward’s complicated expression.

“Vampires—at least my kind—produce venom. Usually this is something we produce intentionally, or when biting someone. But with you—” Edward laughs darkly. “With you I can’t seem to stop producing it. Involuntarily. Every moment with you I seem to be drowning in it. Still, stupidly, I kissed you, and I apologise for that. It needs to enter the bloodstream to be of any danger, so I made sure to be exceptionally careful but—”

“But then I tried to turn it into a snog.”

“…It’s rather hard to keep my fangs retracted when I’m producing so much venom.”

“So, you weren’t upset that I snogged you, you were upset that I could have cut myself on your fangs?”

Edward nods his head, frowning, and releases Harry’s ankle. He’s sad for a moment but then shuffles up, sitting himself in a slightly more comfortable position but keeping most of his legs across Edward. It makes sense to him now why Edward would react that way. He’d thought for a bit that Edward was just really touchy about taking things too far—which is honestly still a possibility. 

“You know, I’m probably immune to your venom.” 

Edward jerks his head to Harry and narrows his eyes. “You can’t know that.”

“I was bit by a venomous basilisk and healed by a magical phoenix. I’m pretty much filled with anti-venom.” 

A total lie, but one he feels no shame in making if it means Edward would be more interested in kissing him and that he doesn’t need to disclose the real reason that his venom isn’t much of an issue. Although, knowing Edward, even if Harry pointed out that he could die, but that he’d most likely come back, he’d still have an issue with it and might even become more paranoid about it. 

“Being healed one time is not the same as being immune,” Edward points out, because he’s a difficult opponent who apparently doesn’t like to take the easiest route. 

“We could test it. Take some of your venom, some of my blood, wrangle a potion together, see the outcome.” Edward closes his eyes and then shakes his head abruptly, as if shaking away an image. 

“I would prefer not to risk it.” 

“It could—”

“What has changed for you, Harry?” Edward asks intently, eyes locked on Harry with more than a little suspicion. “We’ve been…dancing around each other for months. You’ve been adamantly keeping me at an arm’s distance. Why are you so willing to do this? To try be with me, knowing what I am? Why now?”

Harry nods his head and looks away, covering his mouth with his hand and wondering how much he should tell Edward. He doesn’t know how to say that the hole in his chest is filled when they touch, not with Death, but with life; or how his magic stretched and snapped into place when they met, though he was determined to ignore it; or how, in a life where even the most extreme explorations into drugs and alcohol still feel dull in comparison to death, Edward is like sunlight and laughter. He feels like the echoes of the Burrow and the warmth of the Gryffindor dorms.

Edward is more to Harry than even he personally understands and, truly, he doesn’t want to know just yet—how perhaps this relationship could be Fate messing with him again and how Edward could be something, someone, designed specifically for him a century ago, because then he might have to confront the scary idea that all of Edward’s personal suffering as both a human and a vampire could be his fault, as it usually is when anyone he loves has suffered at the hands of Fate. Instead of addressing any of these things, in any serious, meticulous way, Harry chooses to run away from his Gryffindor nature, as he is wont to do when it comes to emotions of the heart.

“You’re my pizza,” he says, rather lamely. When Edward doesn’t reply instantly, he continues in a barrage of words, “What I mean, is that there are many things I don’t know in this world and even more that maybe I do, but from all of those, the one I know for sure, is that this is something, and if I don’t try—if I keep avoiding it because I am wilfully ignorant or because I’m terrified of the possibilities—I know I will regret it. I know one day I’ll look back and wish that I had taken the chance.”

"You must know, Harry, that my kind…we love for eternity. For me, it would not be a chance, nor a moment in my existence. You would become my life.”

Such a concept is frightening to Harry. His pulse spikes; his hands become clammy. He smothers the urge to pull his ankle from Edward’s soft touch and shuffle away to some corner of obscure mental safety. His fingers start to twitch and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Edward can see him freaking out. Probably hear it too—smell it in the air. He releases Harry’s ankle and smiles sadly.

“This frightens you.”

“No, no—” Harry says, pulling his leg off Edward’s lap and sitting up, so they can continue this conversation when he’s not plastered across the chaise.

“I know that it does.”

“No—well, yes,” Harry admits, reaching out to grab Edward’s hand. “I’m not…good. For you.” Edward clutches onto his fingers and doesn’t let him pull away, nodding for Harry to continue. “I’m, I’m fucked up. Mentally, physically.” Harry waves his hand, releases the glamour hiding his scars. Many are still covered by his clothes, but Edward’s golden eyes still graze along his face, down his neck and chest, along his arms, following the contours of the scars he saw once before. “I have…issues with substance abuse; I can’t sleep properly; I have PTSD and more trauma triggers than I even know. I moved to Forks under the the impression that it was the beginning of a long time that I would be spending alone—just to meet you. And, at first, I wanted nothing to do with you, because I was preparing to spend forever alone, and my magic always called to you in a way I wanted to ignore. I want to hope that—just once—Fate might be on my side; that my entire existence is not some bloody joke.”

Tears well in Harry’s eyes as he looks down at his scarred hands, caressed lightly by Edward’s pristine, pale fingers. 

“Someone told me recently that fate is not unavoidable, nor guaranteed. That fate can be missed,” Harry says, looking up once more into Edward’s eyes. “I don’t want to miss this fate.”

“I understand, Harry,” Edward whispers, thumbing the tears from Harry’s eyes and wrapping his hands around his head, pulling Harry to his chest. 

They stay wrapped around each other for hours. They adjust on the chaise when Harry grumbles about being uncomfortable until he is laying atop of Edward, his cheek pressed against his chest and eyes locked on the fire crackling across from them. 

“Will you stay?” Harry whispers eventually, on the border of sleep. “Please.”

Beneath him, Edward is warm, yet still. His chest doesn’t move up and down unless he breathes to whisper something to Harry. A heart doesn’t beat in his chest. Blood doesn’t flow in his body. But Harry’s own magic seeps from his body and into Edward’s rotates itself in his core and drips back into Harry, warm and smooth, like perpetual drops of firewhiskey. 

Edward replies something in the affirmative that Harry doesn’t hear. 

Chapter Text

It is the greatest torture to be Harry’s pillow as he sleeps.

Just hours ago Harry said he struggled to sleep regularly, but to Edward he seems perfectly peaceful. His breathing is even; his body rather still. Apart from the odd mumbling, Harry is a normal sleeper as far as Edward is concerned. He doesn’t have the largest data pool on the habits of sleeping humans, but Harry seems rather settled. Edward had been prepared for night terrors to be plaguing Harry. There seems to be no fear in Harry’s dreams—if he is dreaming.

Edward closes his eyes, counts Harry’s breaths and heartbeats. Shockingly, Harry doesn’t seem to mind the chill of his body. He doesn’t shiver. Goosebumps don’t prickle along his skin. It’s as if he cannot feel the cold Edward emanates. Contrastingly, Edward can feel a slow-moving heat radiating into his own body, warming him from within and filling something in his own chest he never once noticed was empty. He remains perfectly still so that Harry doesn’t wake, and to maintain control on his paper-thin restraint that has already been tested heavily tonight.

He hoards another vision in his mind. This one, though, unlike many others, is real. It is not a projection of a possible future. This is a moment from the past. Something he experienced, tangibly. A memory of kissing and touching, of withholding and relenting.

He opens his eyes and looks down at Harry’s sleeping face. The elusive lightning scar shimmers in the low embers of the fireplace, yet to Edward it is blindingly clear. It flashes down from Harry’s forehead and across the arch of his nose, peaking towards his plush lips. Edward knows how those lips feel against his own now. How Harry’s strong, calloused hands feel grazing across his scalp and gripping his hair. He knows how it feels to look up and be captivated by those bright, green eyes. Not from across the parking lot, not from across the cafeteria, but from mere inches away. Beguiling and sultry. Eyes that haunt his waking dreams.

He’d wanted to devour Harry in that moment.

Not only his blood—everything. His mind, his body, his soul. Edward would have taken it all in that moment to appease the monster inside him. He could have, too, because Harry was so willing to give and Edward so reluctant not to take. Harry, who is so ruinously inclined in his own life, would surely be more so in love. Not that Edward believes Harry loves him. He isn’t yet vain enough to imagine such a thing. Still, arrogance has its small delusions, and Edward allows himself this one: that Harry might like him enough to offer anything he thinks Edward wants, simply to keep him close. Whether or not that is what Edward truly desires is almost beside the point.

There must be rules between them. Boundaries drawn from necessity, if their fragile equilibrium is to last. Edward knows he is too controlling, too possessive, too quick to smother Harry with the over-protection he despises. And Harry, for his part, is too dismissive, too volatile, too eager to retreat from the world entirely. Yet somewhere in the middle—between the impulse to destroy each other just to end the confusion, and the equal urge to devour one another whole—they’ve carved out a sliver of hope. A narrow tightrope leading toward the futures Alice saw. Ones where neither became the other’s undoing, and Edward was not condemned to wander the Earth in search of a man he would never find again.

A creak from the floorboards on the stairs catches Edward’s attention and he looks away from Harry to watch the door, listening, waiting, as Kreacher plods with his bare feet into the room. He’s not wearing his usual suit, and is instead clad in green pin-striped pyjamas with a matching hat. He almost looks festive beside the large chamber-stick he holds, the flickering flame from the candle etching deep shadows on his wrinkled face.

“Master is sleeping?” Kreacher asks, much louder than most would consider whispering, his eyes wide as he walks over to the pair. “Master no scream?”

“He’s sleeping perfectly fine.”

Kreacher looks to the corner of the room, one Edward vaguely wonders why he’s never looked at.

“Master!” Kreacher holds a hand to his mouth and fat tears well in his eyes.

Edward begins to panic, because he does not know how to care for crying beings, especially not one who feels older than Carlisle yet still vaguely resembles a child in ways he struggles to define.

“Master sleeps! Without alcohol! Kreacher must inform the Weasley’s! The Mistress!”

Edward darts a hand out and covers Kreacher’s mouth just as his tears of presumed joy begin to fall.

“Please, Kreacher. Let’s not wake him,” Edward whispers, slowly releasing Kreacher’s mouth, partly because he has said what he wanted to and partly because the elf has his hand lifted and poised as if to cast some unruly spell his way.

“Come now. Bring Master.” Kreacher jerks his head to the door and narrows his eyes at Edward. “Softly!” He demands, as if Edward could ever treat Harry with anything less than tenderness and care without also damaging himself.

Edward slowly—painfully carefully—lifts Harry’s sleeping form off his body and shuffles around until he’s sitting on the couch instead of laying. He rises inch by inch, cautiously lifting Harry even higher, pausing every few moments when he feels Harry drift into slight consciousness.

“Quickly, now. Follow.”

Edward does so, padding along silently behind the elf through the dark house to Harry’s bedroom. Harry’s bedroom being on the first floor is odd to Edward, who has himself lived in similar manors throughout his existence. It’s hard for Edward to truly parse together the layout of the house because it seems Harry, or Kreacher, has magically added rooms wherever they like, and enlarged existing spaces until they no longer follow any logical layout. Like the cupboard where Harry stores all of his brooms, which is much too large for the space it should be taking up.

Harry’s room is as he remembers it, with overflowing bookshelves and a glass chess set near the fireplace that Kreacher stands before, waving it alight with a flick of his hand. The enticing scent of Harry is no less overwhelming the second time. He softly places Harry on the plush bed and Kreacher uses magic to spell the duvet over him. Edward decides to stay in Harry’s room, perhaps use the time he’s asleep to explore the books on his shelf, or inspect the chess set more closely.

Kreacher, however, has different plans.

“Come along,” he orders, chamber-stick still in his grip, lighting the dark hallway outside.

“Harry asked me to stay with him.”

“Yes, yes, stupid muggle bloodsucker,” Kreacher mutters in a way that assures Edward he was very much meant to hear it. “Come. Now.”

Edward considers staying. Harry asked him to, after all, and he quite enjoys watching Harry sleep. It’s calming. And unusual to see Harry so relaxed, so defenceless. Everyday appears to be a battlefield for him. Constantly tip-toeing around his magic, his life, his history, all to keep the humans in Forks appeased. Even with Edward, with whom Harry is arguably the most open, he still often withholds information, retracts words half-spoken, douses out comments before he dares to even think them. Of course, this is exceptionally frustrating for Edward, who struggles with the desire to burrow himself in Harry’s mind and feed on every stray thought he can find. But he can’t, and doesn’t, and most importantly, won’t. However, there is always an exception to the lines Edward might cross in his pursuit for knowledge and understanding, and he realises that Kreacher may very well be that line.

Unless, of course, Kreacher is actually planning to tooth-paste teleport him away from the house. Which isn’t the end of the world as he can just come back in now that Harry has opened the walls of his magic to allow Edward to enter seemingly whenever he wants. The thought alone makes Edward smile to himself. Even just two weeks ago he would have said it was impossible that Harry would ever allow him into his home so freely—yet, here they are.

With his thoughts collected and only a small festering of guilt for the fact he’s leaving Harry behind, Edward follows Kreacher from the room.

_____

Of all the places Edward considered Kreacher might take him to, a magical dungeon hidden beneath the house was not one of them.

There were some periods of times where dungeons were commonplace in such manors. For a variety of reasons, all of which Edward would prefer not to consider too deeply when the dungeon currently exists in the home of the wizard he undoubtedly loves. Loves. To think the word alone is a sobering thing. He has yet to consider the depth or breadth of his feelings in more than fleeting consciousness. How much of his heart can be attributed to Harry’s scent? How much of it was para-socially created through his unhealthy obsession with the futures Alice saw? Edward doesn’t enjoy the implications of these thoughts and decides to do away with them for now, to revisit another night when he’s more alone, in a meadow beneath the stars.

“Are you going to lock me up down here?” Edward asks, poking his head into a cell along the side of a wall.

Overall, the dungeon is rather open, but it’s obviously run-down, as though even Kreacher doesn’t do much maintenance on the space. The air is oppressive. It almost feels damp on his skin and Edward wonders on the temperature down here if it has manged to create condensation on his skin. It does feel significantly warmer than upstairs was, which seems counter-intuitive for an old, stone dungeon presumably somewhere below ground level. He attributes it to the same thing he does every time something weird happens around him now: magic.

“Kreacher can only dream of doing so,” he replies wistfully, walking ahead with their only light source, leaving Edward in the darkness of the dungeon. He can see perfectly fine, of course, but something about the action reminds him that Kreacher thinks lowly of him.

Edward follows him—ignoring odd smudges on the wall that ooze a suspiciously earthy scent that reminds him of blood long dried. Iron, dulled by stone, and blurred by Harry’s tangy magic echoing down from above.

In the corner of the dungeon, hidden behind a pillar, is a tidy area with a coffee table and candle wall sconces. The worn couch and scuffed rug tell Edward that someone, likely Kreacher, visits here often. Directly across from the couch, hung on the wall low enough to be at eye-level when seated, is a curtain. When Kreacher pulls a long cord it parts the velvety material, revealing a portrait of a woman. She has harsh features with overly-plucked eyebrows and black hair piled on her hair. She wears a high-necked, black dress, reminiscent of fashion popular when he was human. The smile on her face turns rather drastically into a scowl when she spots him.

“Kreacher! What is this…this thing doing in Grimmauld?” She asks, turning her nose up at Edward as if he were garbage from the street. Just like Harry, she speaks with rounded vowels and a British twang, but it’s much less attractive on her, even if she has the type of strong features one would consider beautiful.

“Mistress, this be the muggle vampire Kreacher speaks of.”

She looks at Edward again, this time with a more inquisitive squint to her eyes. After a minute of silence—during which Edward considers the intricacies of the magic behind moving portraits with personalities and voices—she gestures for him to sit across from her. He nods his head in a slight bow as he sits down and decides he should introduce himself to the magical woman who lives with Harry.

“It is nice to meet you. My name is Edward Cullen.”

It feels odd to be openly acknowledged as a vampire by someone he doesn’t know. It’s his greatest secret, one he has protected for over a century. Lately, it feels as though it has been thrown around flippantly—his deepest wound nothing more than a talking point. Something silly, and small, and unimportant. On one hand, he enjoys that there are no pretences between him and these magical beings. On the other, he feels bared before them, dealt the lesser hand. Just like Kreacher and Harry, Edward cannot read the mind of the portrait-lady, though he cannot be sure if this is because she is a painting or because she is magical.

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard all about you.” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “Such a terrible loss of magic, you are.”

Edward refrains from responding. He debates leaving, because he certainly didn’t come here to be vaguely insulted when Harry’s sleeping form is just outside. As it stands, Edward thinks sleeping Harry is a much more interesting conversation partner than this woman.

“Master would be most upset if he heard you say that,” Kreacher says. “He likes the muggle vampires.”

“Blasphemy!” The woman cries. “Of all the things to like! Must he continue to be so muggle!” She spits the word like dirt from her tongue and Edward realises how different it sounds coming from Harry.

When Harry calls someone a muggle it doesn’t sound derogatory. From him, it sounds soft, complicated. ‘Muggle’ is burdened with emotions the same way ‘human’ is when his family speaks of them—as the name of something once had, now lost; of something unattainable. It is a title for a being who feels simple, in the truest and nicest sense of the word. To Edward, humans are uncomplicated in their ability to live and love, burdened with the passing of time, not knowing how important life becomes only when it can be lost. It is only now, listening to someone else use the term ‘muggle’ as though it were synonymous with ‘devil’ does Edward realise how Harry utters the word with reverence.

Just as Edward decides to leave the conversation and find his way back to Harry’s side, Kreacher slaps the woman in the face rather harshly. Of course, slapping her in the face entails simply smacking the canvas of the painting, but the effect seems rather the same as she gasps and rattles around in the frame, cursing Kreacher out. He holds the candle close to the portrait and sneers.

“Speak ill of Master again, Mistress,” he hisses, the warning clear as the candle flame singes the top layer of paint away.

“Kreacher! No! I apologise!” She cries, curling away from the frame, a hand held to her reddening nose.

“Mistress only be here because of Master’s benevolence!” Kreacher slaps the canvas once more, this time simply to rattle her around.

“Why did you bring me here, Kreacher?” Edward interrupts, because he’s starting to feel that he shouldn’t have followed the elf at all.

“I need Mistress advice.”

“Mistress…” Edward trails off, looks back to the portrait. “You are related to Harry?”

“Oh yes,” the woman says, regaining her decorum and looking rather proud of the admission until Kreacher slaps her again. “No,” she admits once she recovers.

“Mistress be Sirius Black’s mother.”

Edward nods, mentally tacking another note on his cork-board of Harry’s life. Sirius Black, his godfather who died and left the house as an inheritance. The one distantly related to Billy Black—who is the sole reason Harry even moved to Forks in the first place. Edward realises now how much he owes to Billy Black and, in some roundabout way relating to family and magic, he supposes he even owes the wolves. The thought alone sends an unnatural shudder through his body. He doesn’t know how or when, but one day he will have to address this debt he seems to have unknowingly incurred.

“And may I know your name?”

“Walburga. Black.”

The poise of her response alerts Edward to the fact that her name means something, or did at some point. She says it with an air of importance only those who have names that inspire awe use. Unfortunately for her, the legacy of her name is lost on him, as the only people he knows with her name smell like wet dogs.

“Right, Walburga, it has been lovely to meet you, but I must be going.” Edward stands up. It was not lovely. He is not in the habit of insulting distantly related family members of the person he is courting however, so it is a perfect time to tell a white lie.

“Nonsense. Sit down. Kreacher! Bring him some tea—no, blood! Surely you have some in stores? What about Orion’s collection of unicorn blood?”

“Master destroyed everything, Mistress,” Kreacher admits.

“Even the stash beneath the fourth floorboard in the attic?”

“Yes, Mistress. Master has uncanny sense for the Dark.”

She looks mildly disappointed.

“I’ve already fed,” Edward points out. He wouldn’t drink unicorn blood even if he was starving. Something about it being hidden beneath floorboards makes him feel that it is not blood one should drink carelessly. He’d have to ask Harry about it later.

“Well, do sit down, this won’t take long.” She gestures for him to sit. He does so, with only a slightly hesitant look to Kreacher, who also points to the couch. “Edward, how long have you been this…muggle vampire?”

“I was turned in 1918.”

“Salazar, you’re older than I! Perhaps older than my father,” she says, clutching at the non-existent pearls on her chest. Edward notes down the new wizarding term ‘Salazar’, seemingly used the same way Harry uses ‘Merlin’ and ‘Godric’. “And you never knew of our existence? Wizards?”

“No. We have only learned of your existence since meeting Harry.”

“Harry!”

She speaks his name with sickly-sweet veneration, as if she never dares to let it form on her lips. It reminds him of Aro and the way he whispers Alice. He wishes to leave and return to the Harry he knows who is funny and kind and so very angry; not the Harry he feels in the traces of Walburga’s tone.

“You say we. You mean your coven?” She continues, waiting for Edward’s nod before continuing. “Tell me, what is he like, to you? Harry.”

“I don’t know what you are asking.”

“Kreacher tells me you are obsessed. Understandably so. The Saviour has often had many an admirer, even before he knew of our kind and he’s only grown into the looks of the Potter family line—I remember Charlus was rather sheik and—”

Her words drone into a faint buzz in the background as Edward realises that he was right all those weeks ago. Harry Potter. The name of the protagonist in the book series Bella mentioned. A series that doesn’t exist and cannot be found. He already knew, of course, but he didn’t know. It was a feeling and a thought and perhaps even a slight belief, but it wasn’t confirmed and he’d decided to let it go. To find out from Harry when—and if—he decided to mention it. Either that, or Edward would find out he was wrong all along. But now he’s finding out from some magical painting that Harry is this Harry Potter. Or at least has the same name. And, more importantly, is that he is called The Saviour.

The evidence board in his mind rattles and every piece of information he has collected falls. He needs to re-evaluate the importance of everything so far.

“—However, Kreacher tells me that the depth of your fixation is even more worrying than he initially thought. So, we must know, can you feel his magic?” Edward tunes back in just in time for her to ask the question she was rambling towards.

“Can’t everyone?” Edward replies, standing up to run away. The words feel faint on his lips as he realises he has forgotten to breathe in, to supply his vocal cords with the oxygen needed to produce sound.

“Explain it,” she demands, used to getting what she wants.

Edward doesn’t understand why she would ask such a stupid question. Everyone can feel Harry’s magic, because it oozes from him in waves. It is tangible in the air surrounding him. It prickles along Edward’s skin whenever they’re nearby and he feels it deep in his chest when they touch. Of course everyone can feel it. Even his family have mentioned—

Have they?

He tries to remember a time when they talked, or even thought, about Harry’s magic as something material. Not simply as an echo of this mythical thing called magic, but the palpable energy in the air around Harry. Something more than the deep-rooted fear they all felt when first meeting someone beyond their understanding of the world. To Edward, Harry’s magic is tactual. To his family? He does not know. Has never considered that they might not feel Harry the way he does.

“I cannot.”

Because even to think about voicing such intimate feelings has Edward shuffling towards the door.

“You must.”

“I will not,” he says, stronger this time, defensive over something he has only now realised is precious.

He thought everyone could sense Harry’s magic the same way he did. To know now that maybe they cannot makes him nervous. He cannot explain why. He wishes to be with Harry, wrapped around him as he sleeps, listening to his heart beat and to feel his magic radiating within his own motionless heart again. He doesn’t want to be here in a dungeon being questioned by a magical portrait.

“Vinculum Magicae,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “It seems you were right, Kreacher. I cannot be sure, of course, since I lack the ability to cast the necessary spells.”

“Vinculum Magicae,” Kreacher whispers. He looks to Edward accusingly and then pulls on the curtain cord, trapping Walburga beneath a thick drape despite her yelling.

“What does that mean?”

Kreacher hurries past Edward with little more than a glance over his shoulder. Edward keeps pace. Walburga demands from beneath the drapes for Kreacher to return this instant and let her out.

“What does that mean, Kreacher?”

“Hush,” the elf demands as he climbs the stairs.

Edward follows like a dutiful puppy, waiting for a scrap to be thrown his way. He knows a little Latin, as many of the novels and journals in Carlisle’s office are written in the language. But Latin, like many languages, is not easily understood when it comes to nuance and culture. He cannot be sure it means what he thinks. And if it does…then Edward feels even less sure he wants to know the answer.

Kreacher leads them to a library he’s never seen before. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the room at equal intervals and a large, antique desk sits at the front, piles of books and notes scattered across it. Moonlight shines in through the large windows, catching on Edward’s skin and dispersing into shatters of light. Kreacher heads into the depth of the library without a word and Edward stops in awe at the sheer number of books. It feels as though the entire house is filled with knowledge—from the sitting room shelves to the stacks in Harry’s bedroom. It is a wonder to see the abundance of them.

He stops at the desk and peers at the notes scattered across it. Most of the notes are written in the same flowery handwriting he noticed on his first time visiting Harry’s house. Some are written with Harry’s more structured letters. Interestingly, a quill sits on the table beside a lidded ink pot. He wouldn’t have thought wizards would be using such old technology for writing. Surely there must be a spell for that? Why would they need to take notes and not simply wave their wand for summaries?

The notes seem to be about them—the Cullens. At least in some indirect way. Harry had mentioned that he had someone researching their connection to magic the same way he did for the Quileute wolves. Edward can see now, as his eyes dart over the notes he dares not touch, that there is a longer history between magic and the wolves than he thought.

Squib Black exile confirmed by the Goblins. Nature magic?, one of the notes reads, scribbled into the margins of an unreadable scroll of paper. The words shiver in front of him as if encrypted by magic. Muggle vampires traced to Egyptian wizard—strong sunlight possible explanation for sparkling, reads another, tacked onto the cover of a leather-bound journal. Edward is rather knowledgeable about his kind. Carlisle has spent centuries researching vampires and trying to find where they come from, and how. It makes sense that he couldn’t, knowing now that wizards hide themselves so excellently from those without magic and that they are, in some way, magic themselves.

It is logical for their kind to have originated from Egypt and is something Carlisle has always thought himself, though he had little evidence to support it. The oldest of their kind, Amun, is Egyptian, and those with the strongest abilities once turned are often ethnically from the region. He picks up one book, deciding that Harry would forgive him for snooping because it about his kind: Children of Apep: Vampire Origins in Ancient Kemet. He only has a minute to flick through the ancient pages, none of which he can read, before Kreacher returns and slaps his hand.

“No touching. Mrs Weasley does not like her notes being moved.”

Edward places the book back down where he found it. So, the notes belong to Hermione. He should have assumed, he supposes, that they did. He’s yet to meet her, but he’s heard of her brilliance from Harry and even a bit during his meeting with Ron, who was a rather smitten husband. Kreacher shoves a different book in his hands. Arcana Vincula and Magical Concordance.

“What is this?”

“Edward must read,” Kreacher says solemnly, as if the use of his name alone wouldn’t have alerted Edward to the seriousness of the demand.

“Alright. What am I reading it for?”

Kreacher scrutinises him, looking up from around Edward’s knees with an imperceptible expression.

“For Master,” he says gravely, disappearing with a crack.

And for Edward, that is enough. He needs no other reason. He leaves the library and head back to Harry, the book heavy in his hands.

Chapter Text

Jacob thinks that his dad is pretty cool.

He even told him that to his face just this morning. Jacob didn’t think that anyone could tell Sam what to do. He’s the Alpha, so what he says goes. At least, that’s what Jacob thought. Turns out that the Alpha is, like, not that in charge when he’s in human form? All it took was for the elders to call him out on his unreasonable order for Jacob to avoid his literal family and Sam was in wolf form, rescinding it. He was pretty shitty about it in his mind and whatever, but Jacob had decided to ignore that and take the order at face value.

Jacob doesn’t know how his dad knew that there was some funky wolf stuff going down, but he’s grateful that he figured it out. It was totally against pack law for Jacob—or even Jared and Paul—to mention it to anyone and the whole thing had really been wearing him down. The only thing that kept him going was that he could hear both Jared and Paul’s thoughts on the matter, and they also thought Sam was being a bit over-kill by barring him from visiting James. Paul thought it was a gross abuse of Alpha powers and Jared was bummed because he had heaps of questions for James about magic. The whole thing had Jacob feeling sick for days. It was draining on him to obey the order when everything inside wanted to go and see him, ask how he was and, you know, thank him for saving his life and whatnot. He felt pretty bad about the whole thing, because James fully saved his life and then Jacob barely even thanked him for it and then just disappeared for a week.

Not that James came to see him anyway. Which is understandable. Jacob isn’t mad about that. Not really. It hurt like just a teeny-tiny bit because there were no rules against James coming to see him. But James went full crazy magician on the vamp and decapitated him so Jacob felt that James probably just wanted to have some time alone and, like, come to terms with it all or something. It’s kinda crazy if he thinks about it. Really, he should have been feeling some sort of way about it himself. It’s not often you see a head just rolling on the floor. Maybe because it was a blood-sucker he didn’t really care? It was a little freaky but mostly he was too busy trying to shift and didn’t really notice the whole thing. So, anyway, it just made sense to Jacob that James would have taken some time to himself after it all.

Or it would have, if Jacob didn’t hear that Bella and James had been in a literal car accident at Forks High School like three days later and Jacob was still barred from checking in on him. He knows they were fine because it’s literally James, and he has all that cool magic, but Bella is pretty breakable so he didn’t feel great about her being in danger.

Actually, the whole idea of her being hurt made him a bit crazy so his dad banned him from visiting her—which, really, just pissed him and his wolf off more, because then he had two orders forcing him away from people he liked—and he had called her every day since to check in with her. She ignored him a couple of times because he was being annoying or something. She always texted him though. He’s still not been cleared to see Bella yet since his dad (and Charlie) would literally skin him if he somehow lost control and hurt her, so he’s been told to wait until he can control his shifts better. Super bummer. He liked tagging along with his dad when he went to visit Charlie. It was always a good excuse to see Bella.

Anyway, at least his dad figured it out and used the elders to set things right with Sam! Because today is Sunday. Fish fry day! More importantly, the day that James agreed to come over to the Rez. So, as soon as his dad got the order from Sam removed, Jacob shifts and begins sprinting over to where he knows James lives. Running around and having complete freedom even without his full license was pretty sick.

It kinda sucks having his smell enhanced so much though, because Paul can let some stinkers rip. And Jacob can’t stop eating either. Like, way, way more than before. And he’s hot all the time. But when he’s on all fours and trampling through the forest with his nose to the ground, it’s pretty fun. He hasn’t gotten the hang of hunting just yet and still feels a bit weird mentally at times when he’s chowing down on a shared kill. Though the worst thing about being a wolf is the smell of the blood-suckers, that’s for sure. God, they reek.

He can’t explain the scent even if he wants to. It isn’t even necessarily a bad smell, in the sense that it isn’t rancid and doesn’t smell like strong turpentine or something. It’s just…gross. Wrong. It triggers something in his mind that has him on edge. In some ways, it reminds Jacob of how James smelled that day in the forest, when he first turned. He doesn’t like to think about that too much.

Besides, that’s not actually how James smells. He smells more like a strong lemon and other things he can’t name. Like something that would burn but in a beautiful way? Jacob isn’t a poet but he thinks that most people would understand the smell from that description. That weird scent is what he follows to James’s house.

Paul said it was the scent of magic, but Jacob’s pretty sure he just made that up. He heard that only Sam and his dad have been inside James’s house and Jacob knows from Sam’s mind that he hasn’t been able to find his way back inside since. The magic keeps him out. It doesn’t keep Jacob out though. Unlike Sam, he’s been invited—at least according to his dad.

It’s only when he’s much closer to the house that he smells the vampire.

Like, standing on the porch of the cabin close. He realises without a doubt that there’s a vampire inside. His first instinct is to lose his shit. He should just bash his way through the door and rip the thing to shreds. He could totally do it. Sam did tell him to avoid the Cullens and not get in any fights alone, but this is a fight to protect James. He doesn’t have a choice!

He jumps as a loud crack echoes next to him.

“Bad wolf,” an odd, bug-eyed thing says, swatting its long fingers on his nose.

Jacob yowls and scuttles backwards, tumbling off the few steps and landing on his butt. This…this thing was so totally not human.

“No mud on the porch,” the thing said. “Be a good dog. Sit. Sit!” It orders, waving a juicy-looking steak around from the end of a pair of long tongs.

Jacob absolutely refuses to sit like a damn dog—

The steak lands in front of his perfectly posed feet as he sits patiently, tail wagging behind him. It’s only when he’s three seconds into wolfing (Ha!) the thing down that he realises what just happened. He stops, looking up at the short yet lanky creature, the steak hanging half-chewed from his maw.

“Kreacher! What in Godric’s name are you—” James cuts off as he jerks the door open and takes in the scene. “Jacob?”

Behind James stands Edward Cullen, the horrible bloodsucker, whose eyes are sparkling with humour, a gleeful smirk crawling across his face. Jacob has never felt such pure humiliation. To be caught chowing down on a steak thrown on the ground before him like a dog! In front of a Cullen! His mortal enemy! Jacob hastily swallows the steak and effects a cool wolfy pose that demonstrates his huge size. The huff of amusement that escapes the Cullen tells him that it didn’t work.

“Hey, Jacob,” James says, stepping out. “Why don’t you come in?”

Jacob bobs his head and puts one giant paw on the first step to the cabin before the weird thing called Kreacher starts yelling.

“No! No wolves in the house! Master!” He yells, begs, looking at James with his bulging eyes.

“Alright, alright. Sorry, Jacob. Can you shift back? Do you have any clothes?”

Jacob nods his head again but hesitates. He’s still pretty new to this whole shifting thing and it takes him a minute to really wrap his head around it, which is even harder when there’s a gross stinky vampire watching him. His whole body screams with the order not to shift back into his really weak human form. Plus there is always that weird moment when he’s on his hands and knees in the dirt buck-ass naked, balls swinging for all to see. There is no way he’s letting a Cullen see that. He looks back at the vampire just to see him holding back his laughter with a hand over his mouth. Jacob wants to ask him what’s so fucking funny, but it just comes out as a weird wolf grunt and an awkward lip curl.

“We’ll just be inside. Come in when you’re ready,” James says, pushing Edward away with a familiar touch. Jacob doesn’t like the sight of that.

He already knew there was something going on between them since the blood-sucker popped around last Sunday demanding to chat to dad about James. But then he’d been dismissed and Jacob doesn’t really know what they talked about, just that it was enough to make his dad ask Jacob to drive him to James’s house after. Which was torture, by the way, to be so close to James and not able to go in and say ‘Hi!’ or ‘Hey, long-lost sort-of-cousin, thanks for saving my ass!’ or ‘Wow, so about that beheading the other day, how are you holding up?’. Still, thinking that there might be something going on between his newest and coolest family member and a vampire is way easier to move on from than actually seeing it.

He starts the agonising transformation as soon as the front door clicks shut, shuffled as close to the side of the cabin wall as he can be so that no sneaky vampire can try to catch a sneak-peak of his hot bod through the window. He can’t be too positive, but he’s sure he hears the Cullen laugh from inside the house and he hurries the transformation up, not wanting the bloodsucker to get any more comfortable around James than he already is.

He was so not prepared for the cabin to be an actual giant mansion on the inside. When he opens the door, he stands like an idiot for a whole minute just taking in the grand entrance and the marble floor. Thank god he doesn’t have any shoes on to mess up their carpet. He steps back out and scrapes the bottoms of his feet on the porch. He totally gets where that Kreacher thing was coming from now. He’d hate to get mud inside too, if his house looked like this. Jacob had an inkling that James was low-key rich, but he didn’t think it would be so much…this. Unless it was all magic? Which could totally be a thing.

“We’re in here!” James calls out from somewhere on the right.

Jacob follows the stench of the bloodsucker.

He stops in the doorway to take in the unusual sights. First, of the real old type furnishings and walls of bookshelves. Second, the rare spot of sun streaming in from large windows, flushing the room in afternoon sunlight. Cullen sits in the only shady patch of the weird-shaped couch next to James, reading. He doesn’t bother looking up, but Jacob knows that the bloodsucker knows he is there in the way his shoulders tense under his gaze. The weirdest thing he notices in the room is James, lounging on a rounded arm rest, with his feet up on the Cullen’s lap casually. Jacob frowns.

James splutters when Jacob walks in.

“What happened to you?” He asks, wiping stray tea from his mouth and looking Jacob up and down with shock. The vampire looks up too, narrowing his eyes at Jacob. “You were skinny like a week ago.”

“Things change, bro,” Jacob says, curling his bicep and spinning, flexing his back, only partly visible around his wife beater. “I got that wolf in me now.”

“Merlin,” James mutters under his breath. He waves his hand. “Come. Sit down. Do you want a drink? Tea? Coffee? Water?”

Jacob settles into the arm chair uncertainly with a shake of his head, his eyes darting to the bloodsucker. He just smirks at Jacob and pats the top of Harry’s foot in a way that makes Jacob scowl and look away. That’s when he spots the painting above the fireplace—one of a forest with sunlight filtering through the trees, a herd of deer rummaging through. They pause and look at him, their ears flattening before they sprint off deeper into the trees as if they could sense his wolf’s desire to hunt.
“Did that just move?” He asks, pointing at the painting and not daring to move his eyes from it.

“Yes,” James says. “Sam also seemed rather interested in it when he visited.”

Sam’s name makes him scowl again and Jacob rips his eyes from the painting, refusing to be lumped with his Alpha in any way that he can help it. He might be stuck under his leadership—because he’s choosing not to take the Alpha mantle—but he doesn’t need to have any other connection with the guy. Not after what he did. The bloodsucker hums lightly and then cocks his head to the side.

“It’s nice to meet you officially, Jacob. Thank you for your help last week,” Cullen says.

“Jacob helped you out?” James asks at the same time that Jacob grunts out a noise that sort of resembles an introduction.

“Oh, yes. After you knocked me out last week, I went to the wolves and bargained for some time with Billy Black. Didn’t he tell you? Why he visited you?”

“No,” James says sitting up and pulling his leg from the bloodsucker’s lap. “He didn’t.”

“Wait—you knocked him out? That can happen?” Jacob interrupts, eyes wide. He didn’t even know it was possible for bloodsuckers to be knocked out. He kinda assumed they were too strong for that, or something.

“With magic, apparently so,” the Cullen admits with a small smile, which grosses Jacob out because he almost looks fond of the idea. Ew.

He’s starting to think that there’s more going on here than he really wants to admit. If only Sam knew…the thought alone makes Jacob pause and realise he shouldn’t dwell too much on the details between James and this…between James and Edward. He shudders at the name. James obviously likes him for some ungodly reason. Jacob doesn’t want to give Sam any more fuel to hate James. He’s already out for blood with no real reason backing him apart from fear. Jacob knows it will only get worse if he learns how close James is with the Cullens. Edward watches him like a hawk, his gross golden eyes analysing him. Jacob fights back the urge to bare his teeth.
“Billy came here because you told him to?” James asks Edward, who finally looks away from Jacob.

“I was worried.”

“Worried.”

“Yes, after—well, I just wanted him to check on you.”

James narrows his eyes at the bloodsu—at Cullen.

“We’ll talk more about this later,” James promises, placing his mug on the table. “How have you been, Jacob? Since your change? I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you. I thought I’d give you some time to adjust…”

“It’s okay,” Jacob replies with a tight smile, burying the hurt he feels. “It did take a while to get used to. I heard you were in an accident, too. I’m sorry I didn’t come and check on you.”

He flinches in guilt. He really should have gone. Even if it was to the hospital or something, made their meeting look like an accident so Sam would have no reason to get angry. It wouldn’t have worked, anyway. Just the thought of trying to disobey is already disobeying; just the knowledge that there was a possibility he was dodging Sam’s orders would be known by the Alpha the second he transformed.

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I wasn’t even hurt,” James assures him, a soft smile on his face.

He doesn’t blame James for not checking on him, either. He had a lot going on after the whole debacle. It just sucks because he wanted to see James. He wanted to say thank you. Maybe check in on how he felt after beheading the vamp and make sure he’s not wallowing in guilt about it or something.

“You didn’t want to visit earlier?” Cullen asks, pressing on a sore point.

“What? Of course I did!” Jacob defends with his metaphorical hackles raised.

“But you didn’t.”

“I knew James was busy.”

“He wasn’t that busy.”

“He killed a guy! He needed time too!” Jacob rattles in his chair, wolf ready to leap at the bloodsucker and feeling unfairly attacked for something out of his control.

“Edward, what are you—” James starts, promptly cut off.

“Billy was here that same day,” the vampire continues.

“I was here too! I drove him here!”

“But you didn’t come in?”

“No! I—” Couldn’t he want to say, but swallows the words.

“What about the next day?” Cullen continues.

“Edward,” James tries to interject again.

“I—”

“And the next?”

“Stop, Edward,” James says, more forcefully now.

“The next?” Edward continues, ignoring him.

“It—” Jacob tries.

“A whole week.”

“You don’t—” Jacob says.

“You didn’t visit—”

“Edward! What are you doing?” James demands, standing up and facing the vampire.

“I wasn’t allowed!” Jacob yells at the same time, jumping to his feet, his wolf shivering just beneath the surface of his skin. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in an attempt to keep the wolf inside.

Instantly, the room feels drastically colder.

His wolf stops, shivers, retreats in fear further inside with a whine. Jacob opens his eyes to find Edward watching James with cautious eyes, a hand half reaching out to him. And James…he looks terrifying. His eyes are narrow yet furiously green, glowing as if his magic could seep out of them and strike Jacob down. His wolf whimpers more as they lock onto him. His fists are clenched at his sides and something expands outward from him. Jacob can’t see it, he can only feel it. Not the beautiful-lemony-burning of James’s magic, but something different. Something evil and creepy. The same scent from the forest—of cremated bloodsuckers and death.

“What? What do you mean, you weren’t allowed?” James seethes.

“O-oh,” Jacob stammers, his heart racing.

He looks to the Cullen, who catches his eyes and cocks his head as if he already knows the truth, as if willing Jacob to just say it. Cullen gestures with a slight nudge of his chin for Jacob to speak, something unnaturally soft and open in his eyes. And that alone jerks Jacob into action—the gentle furrow to the vampire’s eyebrows, as if telling him ‘it’s okay’, so antithesis to everything he knows he should expect from a bloodsucker, from a Cullen.

“Well…to be honest, there was an Alpha order. Not to visit.” Jacob didn’t think James could look any more murderous than he already was, but he was proven wrong.

“But—but it’s totally fine! I mean, the order got rescinded. Dad was all over it! That’s why I’m here!”

“You’re telling me Sam ordered you not to visit?” James laughs, but it is cold and angry, grating on Jacob’s spine. He wants to put his tail between his legs and beg forgiveness. “Right. Wait right there. We’re gonna pay a visit to dearest little old Sam.”

“No! It’s totally—” Jacob starts, uselessly. James has already disappeared silently, leaving only this weird black fog behind. “Oh my god, oh my god,” Jacob starts, gripping his hair, almost pulling it from his skull. “I have to go stop him!”

“Don’t bother,” Edward says, opening his book back up and continuing to read as if nothing happened. “He’ll go there even if you tell him not to. Besides, he hasn’t left yet.”

“This is all your fault!” Jacob accuses with a shaky finger.

“I didn’t say anything. I was just questioning you.”

“You—you,” Jacob fumbles for words. “James!” He yells out instead, stomping from the room. He doesn’t get very far before Cullen is in front of him, leaning casually on the door frame.

“Just let him go. Are you saying you don’t want to see him put Sam in his place?” Cullen looks away with sickeningly dreamy eyes. “I would pay good money to be able to see it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about! Sam did nothing wrong!” Jacob blurts and then frowns, wondering how he suddenly turned into a Sam defender when he doesn’t agree with his decisions at all.

“You don’t believe that,” Edward says.

“Yes, I do!”

“You know, Jacob, I think we have more in common than you’d think.”

“I don’t have anything in common with you, bloodsucker.”

“Come sit down and let James get ready. He won’t leave without you. Didn’t you come here to take him with you anyway?”

Jacob did come here with the intention of dragging James home with him, since it’s Fish Fry Sunday and James agreed to come to dinner last week. But there’s no way this bloodsucker should know that. He narrows his eyes at Edward.

“How do you know that?”

The vampire just raises an eyebrow and peers down at Jacob as though he’s stupid.

“This might come as a shock to you, but I am rather close to James.”

He seems to smirk as he says it. Jacob wishes he could bite that smug look off his face.

He grumbles and stomps back into the room, plops himself back into his chair and stares at the painting on the wall, resigned to the situation he’s found himself in. He has half a mind to text his dad and inform him that James found out about Sam’s order. He won’t, though, because his dad had one rule and it was that James should most definitely not find out about the Alpha order against him. It really didn’t take him long to fuck that up. The bloodsucker is just too good at pressing his buttons. It’s like he knew exactly what to say to make Jacob angry and unsettle his wolf, bringing forth his anger and stress until it boiled over into an unwilling confession.

“So what’s going on with you and James?” Jacob asks with a sigh, running a hand down his face in resignation that he’s making small talk with a vampire of all things.

“You should talk to James about that.”

“Really? You have no comment?”

“Just that I think we’ll be around each other more from now on, so we should learn to tolerate each other.”

“Learn to tolerate each other. Us.” Jacob laughs drily. “You’re the reason I’m a wolf, and you want us to be…what? Civil?”

Edward cocks his head to the side, a slight echo of what might be confusion running across his face. He never really considered that the vampires might not know why there are wolves. The fact that their presence alone awakens them, forces the wolves out to protect the tribe is a huge joke now that he’s sitting here, across from one of those very bloodsuckers. God, how easy life must be for them to just turn up whenever they want, in any decade or century, to come and live in Forks where it’s cloudy enough that no one suspects they’re a vampire. And during it all, the Quileute who are unlucky enough to be of age when they turn up transform, suddenly forced to bear the weight of it all—of the tribe, of their people, of their wolves, of their imprints. They stop ageing. They are forced to cut their hair off. Sometimes, in the worst situations, they even hurt the people they care for, emotionally or physically. All because a coven decided to move in next door.

And until they leave, more and more will shift. At first it was a pack of three, then Jacob turned and they became four. It would be nice if no one had to shift. If the Cullens never came here. Because then Leah wouldn’t be walking around the Reservation like a zombie, Emily wouldn’t have her face all scarred up, and Jacob would be able to laugh with Seth, Quil, and Embry without noticing how much they’ve grown recently and knowing what that means. Not that Quil and Embry are really talking to him anymore. Not after he shifted and joined Sam’s pack and became what they all hated on together just last week.

James appears in the room again, dressed for chilly weather and an even colder look etched on his face. It’s only then that Jacob realises Edward never responded. Instead, he’s looking away, eyes distant with a slight frown that Jacob takes as confirmation that he agrees—their kind could never be civil together.

“Let’s go, Jacob. We’ll apparate—it’s faster.”

“Apparate?” Jacob jumps up with a grin. “You’re going to use magic on me?”

“On us. Come on.” He gestures for Jacob to link arms with him. “I’ll see you later, Edward.”

“Yes, of course,” Edward replies, snapping out of his thoughts. “May I take this book with me? I’ll return home to read.”

James shrugs. "If you’d like. As I said though, there are more interesting books to read. You should try Hogwarts: A History. It probably has more that you would understand and enjoy than a book on magical concordance. I don’t even know why you picked that one.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think there’s plenty of interest in this one. Be safe, please. Try not to kill him. I’ll come back later tonight.”

“I’ll try.” James laughs before he grips Jacob’s arm tighter. “Ready?”

“I don’t know—” Jacob starts before the magic hooks into him and spins him away.

Chapter Text

When they arrive to the edge of the Reservation—to the same patch of land where Harry disillusioned his motorbike all those weeks ago—Jacob crumbles onto one knee and gags into the dirt. Harry is rather impressed. Unlike Sam, Jacob doesn’t actually vomit and he feels a nasty bulb of pride bloom in his chest at Jacob unknowingly one-upping the Alpha.

“You’re alright. It’ll pass,” Harry says, patting Jacob’s shoulder gently.

“Oh god. What the fuck was that?” Jacob groans, wiping at his mouth after one last dry retch.

“Sorry. I should have warned you. It’s a bit uncomfortable.”

“A bit?! Felt like I was rolled over by one of those big truck things.”

“Edward said it feels like he’s made of toothpaste.”

Jacob rolls his eyes at the comment but accepts Harry’s hand to help him up. Although, Harry isn’t sure how much he is really helping, as Jacob is much heavier than expected and he basically gets himself off the floor with little assistance.

“What’s with you and the Cullen anyway?” Jacob asks. He coughs heavily and then spits to the side with another groan.

Harry’s gut instinct is to deny anything is going on between them. His second is to act a bit thick and pretend he doesn’t know what Jacob could possibly mean by that comment. But Harry doesn’t act on either of those, instead gesturing for Jacob to lead the way as he thinks over his response.

In all honesty, it’s true that Harry himself doesn’t really know what’s going on. He has a sneaky suspicion based on nothing more than his horribly accurate intuition and the terribly demanding pull of his magic, but it is a suspicion he has been trying to ignore. Some might call it wilful ignorance, and Harry is inclined to agree. It was wilful ignorance in order to maintain his own sanity.

Was being the key word, because too many things have occurred in just this last week for him to continue ignoring it. Harry has barely come to terms with any of the big events of the past seven days, like the fact that Bella is seemingly immune to all mind-magics and knows that he’s a wizard, or that all of the Cullens now know his real name, even if they’re not using it. Half of his name, at least. Not to mention there is a vampire out for revenge against him. Victoria is apparently laying low in Seattle now, but Harry knows better than to think she will give up on revenge for her mate so easily. Harry knows the slippery slope of revenge himself. More than most others, he understands the burning desire that can cloud a mind when filled with vengeance.

So, yes, Harry has been ignoring this thing between him and Edward since perhaps even the moment they met. Ignored the times that Edward’s touch felt unusually warm. Ignored the times that his own body felt wrongly whole when Edward was nearby. Ignored the odd bursts of happiness he felt around Edward. If it were up to him, he’d still be ignoring it. But Edward is persistent and Luna practically called him an idiot via memories of the past. Not to mention even Ron and Hermione have been pushing him to give it all a chance—even though he’s kept all of the…not so normal things happening a secret from them. Which is just another thing he’s going to pretend he hasn’t done. At least for a little while longer. Merlin knows he should have just told them the first time he noticed all these weird things happening between him and Edward, because now Hermione is going to get even more suspicious that he might be keeping more things from them. Which he’s not, of course.

It seems even Kreacher is onto the thing between them, if the book Edward was reading when he woke up this morning is any indicator. Edward said he found it himself but Harry knows that is a lie. There is no feasible reason for why Edward would have willingly chosen a book on magical concordance of all things as his first foray into the wizarding world. It’s hardly a normal topic and decidedly less entertaining than about ninety per cent of the books in the library. Including the ones on vampires that were sitting in plain view on his desk with all of Hermione’s notes. Edward likely couldn’t read most of them without a translation charm but there were at least a few there in plain old English. It seems everyone and everything around him is forcing Harry to admit what it is that he already knows.

Harry’s pretty sure it’s all Fate’s idea of a joke.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want,” Jacob says lightly, looking over his shoulder.

Harry shakes his head and sends him an apologetic smile.

“No, sorry. I was just lost in thought.” He pauses and then realises he should just rip the band aid off. Maybe if he admits it, allows himself to actually form the words, maybe then it will sink in. “It might sound preposterous to you, but I think…I think he might be my magical soulmate.”

“WHAT?!” Jacob stumbles in his rush to spin around and flails until he catches himself on a tree melodramatically. “What do you mean? Are you saying you—you IMPRINTED?”

“What in Godric’s name is an imprint?”

“A soulmate!” Jacob screeches, gripping at his hair. “Oh my god. What the fuck! How could this happen?!”

“Wow, I mean. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” Harry says, glaring at Jacob and ignoring the pang of hurt in his chest.

“No, no. It’s fine! I mean, congratulations?” Jacob ends with a wince. “I’m sorry. That’s just—damn. Sam is going to hate that. Shit. That’s actually, like, really fucked things up.”

“What? Why?” Harry glowers. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve told and your reaction leaves a lot to be desired.”

“WHAT? You haven’t even told the Cullen?” Jacob yells, even louder this time.

Harry shakes his head and looks away. “It’s a but much, innit? Besides, I was honestly just trying to pretend it wasn’t a thing. It might not be, I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Okay, let’s just stop for a minute.” Jacob holds his hand up and then begins pacing left and right. “We need to sort this out before we go back. This is huge, like, a massive deal, okay? What do you mean ‘it might not be’? It either is or it isn’t, right? I didn’t even think wizards could have soulmates.”

“We don’t call them soulmates,” Harry says, exasperated, pinching his nose. “It’s just the easiest way to explain it. I don’t even see why this is such a big deal to you.”

“Because he’s a vampire!” Jacob practically screeches before cutting himself off and darting his eyes around. “Can you, I don’t know, put some magic up or something? I don’t want anyone listening in,” he whispers.

Harry sighs and does so with a quick flick of his wrist. He feels a little insulted that Jacob is hating on Edward so much but he knows he can’t hold it against the teen. They’re practically hardwired to dislike each other. Merlin, Jacob’s nature magic only turned him into a wolf because of vampires being around so its practically an inherited trait to dislike them. Besides, Harry knows just last week he’d also said the same thing to Ron. It would be hypocritical of him to hate on Jacob for complaining about Edward’s vampire nature when he’d also been lamenting over it somewhat. Harry’s biggest issue with Edward was never his vampirism however, it was always this unspoken thing he could tell existed beneath the surface of his attraction to Edward, and blaming their incompatibility on his vampire traits was much easier than admitting to anything else.

“Also,” Jacob continues once the noise of the surrounding forest disappears behind Harry’s silencing charm. “Soulmates are a huge thing to us. To the wolves. We have them too, you know? I mean, not everyone finds their soulmate but they are there, somewhere. We call it imprinting. And an imprint of the tribe is sacred. Protected. They can't be harmed. It's pack law.”

Harry nods his head slowly. “Alright. But I’m not part of the tribe.”

“But you are. You’re part of our family. Dad and I said so. You’re a Black. ”

Jacob says it with so much conviction, Harry begins to feel a bit guilty.

Because he’s not a Black. He never was and never would be, not truly. He might hold the Black Lordship and he might have inherited everything Sirius had a right to, but Harry has never been part of their bloodline. After he met Sirius and the whole lie surrounding his imprisonment was revealed, Harry used to fall asleep imagining what his life could have been like if Sirius never went to confront Pettigrew. If he’d stayed and taken Harry away and raised him like a true Black, as his son. The imaginations didn’t always make sense because Harry could never truly reconcile the half-insane Sirius he knew with the Sirius that existed before his stint in Azkaban. The Sirius that Lupin used to talk about, or the one he read about in his father’s diaries, or the one he learnt about in the shadowy echoes of his presence in Grimmauld. A Sirius who was more brave than reckless, one more daring than impetuous, one who lived blending the world into shades of grey knowingly; who took chances and risks with Slytherin-like calculation and a dash of rebellion, not with Harry’s own personal brand of half-baked ideas and a dash of protection from Fate.

He’d imagined what it would have been like if he’d been raised in the magical world like his parents wanted. Maybe he would have taken the Black surname, or hyphenated it to keep a connection to his parents. Maybe he would have grown taller, filled out into something a bit more like Jacob is now. Maybe, if he’d been provided the childhood he ought to have, maybe he wouldn’t have been so quick to sacrifice himself, or to trollop into danger at the first chance he had. Maybe he would have believed in the adults around him more. To Harry, the Black name has always been something unattainable, and his ownership of the Black vaults never changed that. Because the Black name was never simply about having the chance to call himself something other than Potter. It was firstly, and always, about the possible futures the name held, each one carefully plucked from his grasp before he was even aware they existed.

And then comes Jacob, declaring him a Black, declaring him family, as though it were such a simple fact. As if introducing yourself and having some vague connection to a surname erases all barriers of blood that wizards have had literal wars over.

“That’s why it doesn’t matter how much of a threat Sam thinks you are, he cannot touch you,” Jacob continues, blissfully unaware to Harry’s silent withdrawal. “Because you’re a Black.”

His comment manages to batter away Harry’s maudlin musings. As much as he dislikes Sam—especially his controlling behaviour over Jacob since his shifting—there’s one thing Harry knows about himself, and it’s that he is dangerous. Sam might be the smartest of all the odd creatures and people he’s met in Forks simply because of his ability to distrust. To be wary. Constant vigilance, as Moody would say. It makes Harry sick to his stomach to think it, but he realises that he understands Sam. More than he could even know.

Sam, who shifted alone, in excruciating pain, with no clue what was happening to him. Sam, who hid in the forest for two straight weeks as a wolf without a clue on how to turn back. Sam, who returned home and didn’t speak to anyone about what happened for over a month before a council member figured it out and confronted him. Sam, who suddenly had his life upended and the heavy burden of his tribe’s survival dumped onto his lonely shoulders.

And Harry, who knows all too well what that feels like. He wishes he’d never accidentally slipped into Sam’s mind the first day they met. If he hadn’t then he wouldn’t be feeling so conflicted about Sam at all. Because on face value, Sam is easy to dislike and even easier to hate. But when Harry reigns in on his own volatile emotions enough to think about the situation, he knows that Sam is just a scared teenager with the weight of too many lives burying him.

“And because you and Billy have accepted me as family, any soulmate I might theoretically have would be protected. As in, the wolves couldn’t hurt them.”

“Yes!” Jacob says, stopping to grab Harry’s shoulders. “You see? This is why it’s a big deal. If you’re really…well if you are, then he’s protected.”

“You already have a treaty though.”

“He would be protected even if he broke the treaty.”

“So he could come onto tribe lands?”

“Or kill a human.”

“Nothing to worry about there.” Harry rolls his eyes. “He’s staunchly vegetarian.”

Jacob scrunches up his nose. “I’m not even going to ask.”

“What? No. He hasn’t—”

“No! Stop. I don’t even want to think about it. You keep all that to yourself.” Jacob shudders. “The less I know, the better.”

Harry ponders that comment for a moment. “You’re worried Sam will read your thoughts?”

“I—How do you know that?” Jacob frowns.

Harry waves his fingers at him with a small smirk and a raised eyebrow, implying he learnt through magic. Which he did, back when he slipped into Sam’s mind and heard the voices of his pack mates inside.

“Did you tell Cullen that we can do that? Cause that would explain why—”

“Of course not.” He assumes Edward has always known that the wolves communicate telepathically. Mind reader, and all.

“Wait—does that mean you can read my mind? What am I thinking right now?”

“It doesn’t work like that. And I wouldn’t want to know anyway. Look, Jacob, it’s fine. Let’s just pretend I didn’t say anything about it.”

“I can’t just forget! They’re all going to know as soon as I shift.”

“Just think about how much it doesn’t mean anything.”

“But it does. Obviously. I saw you two.” Jacob looks away with a small blush on his cheeks and coughs awkwardly into his fist. “You were all…comfortable.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair and looks away shiftily. “Yes, as people are in their homes.” A lame excuse, even by his personal standards. He once told Hagrid he managed to sleepwalk all the way into the Forbidden Forest and his current excuse seems almost as flimsy as that one was.

“Come on! You know what I mean.”

With a flick of his wrist, Harry dispels the silencing charm and nods his head with a sigh.

“I do. And I’m sorry? Look, let’s just go and chat to Billy. It will all be fine.” He walks ahead, not waiting for Jacob to agree.

“So we’re not going to Sam?” Jacob asks, running to catch up, the relief heavy in his voice.

“Let’s see Billy first.”

Because Harry now feels confused about how to approach Sam. Originally, he wanted to come and beat some sense into him. Maybe throw a bat bogey hex his way when he wasn’t looking. Tell Sam to chill the fuck out and step back a bit. Now, he doesn’t want to do any of those things. He feels a deep sense of regret thinking about Sam. Like looking at himself all those years ago, rage wrapped around him like a protective cocoon. Surrounded by people but isolated in emotions. Deep-rooted anger at the hand he has been dealt mixing with the blinding fear that he might fail. That he might make a mistake and cost everyone everything. Sam, who is only nineteen, now in charge of his own group of child soldiers.

“So…about this vampire soulmate,” Jacob whispers the last two words. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” Harry shrugs. “Like I said, I was trying to ignore it.”

“Why? Isn’t it a good thing?”

“Like you said—vampire. And I have my own stuff going on. I didn’t think I had the time for anyone. And I didn’t want to acknowledge it.”

“I don’t get it.” Jacob frowns, kicking a rock in front of him as they continue to trek towards the Reservation. “When we imprint, we can’t ignore it.”

“Have you imprinted?” Harry asks gently after a short silence, noticing the hunch to Jacob’s shoulders.

“No. No, thank god. Sam has, so I’ve seen what it’s like. Felt it in his mind.”

“What’s it like?”

“Imprinting on someone is like...like when you see them, everything changes. All of a sudden, it's not gravity holding you to the planet. It's them. Nothing else matters. You would do anything, be anything for them. You become whatever they need you to be, whether that's a protector, or a lover, or a friend.”

Harry can’t imagine such a thing.

What he feels with Edward is not like that at all. It isn’t like the removal of the world around him. It doesn’t feel as though he would struggle to live without Edward, at least not any more than he already does struggle with living. Edward, at the base of things, feels. He feels real to Harry in a way few things do any more. He is warm and soft and inviting. He takes that emptiness in Harry’s sternum and fills it until it overflows, without even attempting to do so. He absorbs all of the discordant energy Harry oozes out and churns it around until it’s something new, something better, something that fits into all those pieces of him that are missing.

“You don’t want to imprint?”

“Maybe? I mean, I thought about it. On Monday,” Jacob laughs a little and rubs the back of his head. “You know, when I learnt about it all. It was kinda weird. I mean, Sam and Leah used to be a thing—Seth’s older sister, you remember? From the beach?” Harry nods and gestures for him to continue. “They were a thing, you know. They dated for three years. It was serious. And then Sam goes missing for two weeks and the whole time Leah is crazy. She’s out every day searching, asking if anyone’s seen him. He’s just—poof! Gone.”

Which must have been when he shifted and spent time in the forest, unable to change back.

“I never really knew Sam but Seth and I hung out, so I would see him around. Like, with Leah. Anyway, he came back and I don’t know, I remember Seth saying he was weird. Angry all the time. Mean to Leah. Just, different. And then, like a month later, he breaks up with her! Three whole years, just gone. Then a week later he’s out dating Leah’s cousin! Emily.”

Merlin. Harry’s not an expert on the whole soulmates thing but he’s pretty sure there’s better ways to go about finding ‘The One’ than publicly moving on with your ex-girlfriend of three years' cousin. That would almost be like him dating one of the Weasley brothers after being dumped by Ginny. 

“I mean, now I know that it was the imprint, you know? That he couldn’t change how he felt and he couldn’t bring back his love for Leah, no matter how hard he tried. And Emily, I’ve met her now and I know she loves Leah. She misses her. But,” Jacob shrugs, kicks his rock again, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jean shorts. “She loves Sam more, I guess. It’s weird.”

“That would have been hard,” Harry says.

He’s not sure what he would have done in Sam’s position. Harry can't even fathom a love like that at all. He’s never experienced love in that way. Sure, he loved Ginny, but he’s pretty sure he loved her then the same way he loves her now—as family. He was just caught up with it all back then. And she said she loved him, and he knew he cared deeply for her, deeper than any other girl apart from Hermione, and wouldn’t it have just been the best thing ever to truly be a part of the Weasley family? But, like all things in Harry life, it was destined to fail. If it hadn’t failed after his return from death, when he was too cold and too angry and too distant, well, it would have failed now, when he met Edward.

“Yeah. And…” Jacob pauses and takes a deep breath. A small flush appears on his cheeks when he looks aside at Harry with a sheepish smile. “I like someone. Like, a lot. And I thought about seeing if she was my imprint, but then I thought about how much it’d suck if she wasn’t. And if she isn’t, then what happens to how I feel about her now? Does that go away? Or will it fade because I know she’s not The One?” He looks distraught at the idea.

“And if she is the one?” Harry asks.

“Then…then I don’t want it. I don’t want her to feel like she has to choose me. As if she has no choice. And I know she will—choose me, that is. Because she’s too used to giving up what she wants in order to make other people’s live easier.”

Harry nods with a grave face.

“So, no. I don’t want an imprint. There’s too much drama! Too many things can go wrong!” He pauses. “No offence.”

“None taken. I’m imprint free,” Harry replies with a small smirk.

“Riiiight,” Jacob drawls. “It’s fucking weird by the way. Edward Cullen? Of all people!”

“Hey! He’s nice.”

“And a vampire.”

“You’re literally a shapeshifter.”

“We go by werewolf, thank you. It’s much cooler.”

“I’ve met actual werewolves and they’re decidedly more interesting than whatever you guys are.”

“Oh,” Jacob gasps. “You’re going there are you? If I’m uninteresting, what does that make those Cullens of yours? They’re so boring! Imagine—vegetarians!”

“You’d prefer they feed on humans?”

“No, I mean, not really. But if I was a vampire? You betcha.”

“Rather hypocritical of you.”

“I can’t imagine bunny blood really does it for them and I don’t like being hungry.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. It doesn’t, and they are,” Harry agrees as they break through the tree line and a small house appears across the yard. “But their humanity means more to them than you could imagine.”

“They’re not human, they can’t have humanity,” Jacob responds, rather harshly, before a guilty look crosses his face and he jerks to a stop, spinning to look at Harry. “Sorry. That was a bit rude. I just mean, they can’t really believe that, right? Their humanity was gone a long time ago.”

Harry knows that many of the Cullens would agree with Jacob’s statement, at least according to Edward. They’re all surviving as best as they can with the cards they’ve been dealt in life, but none of them desired to become what they are now, except for perhaps Emmett. Harry doesn’t know the whole story because Edward said it wasn’t his to tell, but it seems that he chose to be turned—although from the brink of death—because he wanted to be with Rosalie. Edward said everyone else was also dying in their own ways but were not offered such a choice.

“You can’t truly be that dense, can you?” Harry asks, patting Jacob’s elbow as he walks past.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just odd that you of all people would believe the Cullens lack humanity because of what they’ve become.”

Harry realises with a start that his comment could even relate to how he thinks about himself. Oh, how his mind healer would be rejoicing if she could hear him now. Harry of two years ago could never have fathomed such a thing coming from his own mouth. Jacob falls silent behind him as they continue to the house and Harry can only assume he’s thinking over his own forced prejudices. Many of which are likely not even his own, but those of his pack and his people. Those that were passed down through generations from a time when muggle vampires were to be feared and often slithered through the area without the risk of human attention.

The Black home is quaint and homey, and Billy is sitting in his wheelchair on the porch waiting for them. He waves at them when he spots them in the distance. They both wave back and Jacob continues his silent thinking as they trample across the wet grass, mud squelching around Harry's boots and between Jacob’s bare toes. Harry kicks his boots against the side of a log as they get closer, hoping to knock some of the mud free but it’s largely unsuccessful. He decides to throw a quick cleaning charm at them before he takes them off on the porch.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that,” Jacob says as Harry kicks his boots one last time. They’re still a good twenty metres from the porch, but he can see Billy wheeling closer with curious eyes.

“You don’t have to apologise to me.”

“I was being an ass.”

“You might have been, but we’ve all been there. I just…I don’t want you to get trapped into one way of thinking,” Harry admits, turning to look Jacob in the eyes. He has to look up a bit now. Jacob’s changed so much in just a week of his shifting inheritance and it makes him a little sad, to see how much he’s changed in so few days. “There’s a whole world out there that you’ve yet to see, Jacob. A world of magical, wondrous things, filled with people and places you couldn’t imagine. What you have seen and experienced here is but a small, sequestered part of the world, where humans and vampires and shifters are all there is. There’s so much more out there for you to experience, but only if you keep yourself open to it.”

Jacob looks down at Harry with wide, wet eyes, filled with curiosity and wonder as Harry speaks. When he finishes, a sappy smile crosses Jacob's face and he seems to fight the urge to haul Harry into a hug. In a weird first, Harry wishes he did.

“You know,” Jacob says, clearing his throat slightly. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re only one year older than me.”

Harry laughs hard enough for a few tears to escape him at the thought that seventeen-year-old Harry Potter could ever have said something so wise.