Chapter Text
"Her name will be Anastasia," Reneé declared firmly, cradling one of the newborns in her arms as if the matter were already settled.
Charlie's jaw tightened, his patience fraying at the edges. "No, Reneé, it won't be. You've already picked Isabella Marie without so much as a word from me. I get a say in this too. If you're set on Isabella, then I'm naming our other daughter."
"I am not calling her Helen!" Reneé snapped, her voice rising in indignation.
"What's wrong with Helen?" Charlie shot back, his tone defensive. "It's my mother's name—a good, strong name!"
"Her name is Anastasia," Reneé insisted, her eyes flashing with stubborn resolve.
"Damn it, Reneé!" Charlie exploded, his voice booming through the small hospital room causing Isabella to let out a whimper. Charlie immediately lowered his voice, feeling guilty. "They're my children too. You don't get to control everything. You've been shutting me out since the moment we found out about you being pregnant, and I'm sick of it. We'll name the first one Isabella, fine—but the second? She will Helen."
"I gave Bella your mother's middle name—Marie!" Reneé countered, clutching Isabella tighter. "That's compromise enough, Charlie! I'm the one who had to push them out! You did nothing but stand outside!"
"Because you made me! I would have gladly held your hand but you told me to leave! I was respecting you!"
"Yelling at me!" Reneé began sobbing. "Isn't respecting me! You're trying to control me!"
The argument ended abruptly with a resounding bang! as Charlie stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Reneé turned her attention to little Bella, cooing softly to soothe her. In the crib beside them, the other baby lay quietly, her wide, striking green eyes— so much like Helen Swan's only brighter —darting around the room in silent bewilderment. Those emerald eyes paused, locking onto a shadowed corner where something lurked.
It wasn't human. It wasn't man or woman. It was a form cloaked in darkness, humanoid yet otherworldly, its presence a void that seemed to swallow the light around it. Its eyes gleamed like twin pits of midnight, endless and hollow, yet oddly familiar. The baby didn't cry. Instead, she felt an inexplicable comfort radiating from the entity as it drifted closer.
"Good luck, Harry Potter," it rasped, a low, guttural chuckle escaping its unseen lips. Its shadowy hand hovered above her tiny head, not quite touching. "Or perhaps I should say... Helen Swan?"
The infant— Harry, or Helen —let out a small cough that morphed into a sneeze. Reneé didn't turn to comfort her. For a full hour, the child was left unattended, her cries unheard by her mother, until Charlie returned. His warm brown eyes softened as they landed on her, his bushy mustache twitching with a grin. He scooped her up gently, cradling her against his chest as she gazed up at him with those piercing green eyes.
"You've got your grandmother's eyes," he murmured, his voice thick with affection. "You're special, my little princess. I can feel it right here." He tapped his chest, right over his heart.
Reneé, however, was far less enchanted when Charlie later handed Helen to her for feeding. She hesitated, her lips curling slightly as she studied the baby. "What's wrong with her eyes?" she muttered, her tone laced with unease. "Why do they look so... strange?"
Charlie's face darkened, his protective instincts flaring. "There's nothing wrong with her," he growled, his voice low and firm.
Reluctantly, Reneé took Helen and brought her to her breast. The moment the baby latched on, Reneé shuddered violently, her face twisting in discomfort. "She feels wrong," she exclaimed, shoving the infant away. "Take her, Charlie —get her off me!"
Charlie lunged forward, catching Helen before she could fall, his hands trembling with fury at Reneé's recklessness. "There's nothing wrong with her!" he snapped, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and heartbreak. "What's wrong with you, Reneé? Bella isn't our only daughter—you have to care for Helen too!"
"Get that thing away from me!" Reneé recoiled, her words cutting through the air like a blade.
Charlie's heart splintered as he held his wailing daughter close, her tiny body trembling with hunger. Without another word, he turned and left the room, Helen tucked securely against his chest as he sought out a nurse to prepare a bottle. The rejection stung, but he wouldn't let it touch her—not if he could help it.
Helen's green eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she stared up at him, her infant mind a chaotic swirl of fragmented memories. She wasn't just a baby. She was a soul reborn —a young woman who had once been Harry Potter, cut down at seventeen in a world of magic and war. Those distant echoes of her past life flickered in her consciousness, too fleeting and disjointed to grasp fully. The weight of her former existence pressed against her fragile new form, but she couldn't make sense of it... not yet at least.
Later that night, as the hospital quieted, Charlie sat in a rocking chair, feeding Helen from a bottle. He brushed a gentle hand over her soft, downy hair. "Daddy's here, Helen," he whispered, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of her confusion. "Daddy's always gonna be here."
In his arms, Helen felt a warmth she hadn't known even in her last life. It was a safety that wrapped around her like a shield. For the first time since her soul had been thrust into this strange new life, she felt truly at peace.
🐺
The drive home from the hospital was tense, the air thick with unspoken resentment. Reneé sat in the passenger seat, constantly turning around so she could tend to Isabella—Bella, as she'd already nicknamed her, murmuring soft endearments. Charlie gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes flickering to the rearview mirror where Helen lay strapped into her car seat, her wide green eyes staring blankly at the passing world. She didn't cry, didn't fuss. She was silent, as she'd been since that first night, and it unsettled Reneé more than she cared to admit.
When they arrived at their modest Forks home, Reneé bustled inside with Bella, cooing and fussing over her every move. "My sweet little girl," she murmured, kissing Bella's forehead as she settled her into a plush bassinet adorned with pastel blankets. "You're Mommy's perfect angel, aren't you?" Bella gurgled in response, her tiny hands flailing, and Reneé beamed as if it were a symphony.
Helen, meanwhile, was left in her car seat by the door until Charlie carried her in. He set her down gently in a plain crib in the corner of the living room, one they'd hastily assembled after Reneé refused to let Helen share Bella's nursery. "There you go, princess," he said softly, brushing a finger across her cheek. Her green eyes met his, unblinking, and he felt a pang of something he couldn't name; pride, maybe, or worry.
As the days turned into weeks, a stark divide grew in the Swan household. Charlie couldn't take off work as much as he would have liked to and returned to his job at the police station. Reneé doted on Bella incessantly, showering her with affection—singing lullabies, rocking her for hours, even when Bella wailed relentlessly through the night. The constant crying grated on Charlie's nerves, but Reneé seemed to thrive on it, as if Bella's neediness validated her role as a mother. Helen, though, was another story. Reneé barely acknowledged her existence unless forced to.
"Reneé, she needs to eat," Charlie said his voice tight one afternoon when he came home and, found Helen squirming in her crib, her small face pinched with hunger. Reneé was on the couch, bouncing Bella on her knee, oblivious to the other twin's quiet distress.
"She can wait," Reneé replied curtly, not looking up. "Bella's fussy—she needs me more."
"She's hungry, Reneé," Charlie pressed, scooping Helen up himself. Her green eyes locked onto his, and though she didn't cry, he could feel the tension in her tiny body. "You can't just ignore her."
Reneé shot him a venomous glance. "I'm not ignoring her. I'm prioritizing. Bella's sensitive—she needs extra care. That one... she's fine. Too quiet, if anything. It's unnatural."
Charlie's temper flared. "Her name's Helen, not 'that one.' She's your daughter too— start acting like it."
Reneé huffed, turning her attention back to Bella, who let out a piercing wail as if on cue. Charlie shook his head and carried Helen to the kitchen, preparing a bottle with practiced ease. He was going to start having Sarah and Sue come around just to make sure Helen was getting the care she needed.
As he fed her, Helen relaxed against him, her silence a stark contrast to Bella's constant noise. But there was something else, something odd. Whenever sunlight streamed through the window, Helen flinched, her little face scrunching up as if it hurt her. Charlie frowned, tilting his head. "You don't like the light, huh, princess?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.
That night, after another round of Bella's ceaseless crying, Charlie noticed something stranger still. He'd left Helen in her crib, the room dimly lit by a single lamp. When he returned after calming Bella with Reneé, he found Helen perfectly still, her green eyes glowing faintly in the shadows. The lamp had been knocked over— by accident, he assumed— and the room was plunged into near darkness. Yet Helen wasn't scared. She wasn't trembling or whimpering like Bella would have. Instead, she seemed... at ease, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily, a faint sigh escaping her lips.
Charlie flipped the light switch on, and Helen flinched again, her body tensing as the harsh glow flooded the room. He quickly turned it off, watching as she relaxed once more, her eerie green gaze fixing on him. "What's with you and the dark, huh?" he whispered, crouching beside her crib. "You're not like your sister, that's for sure."
Reneé, however, saw it differently.
The next morning, she stormed into the living room, Bella cradled in her arms, her face pale with something akin to fear. "There's something wrong with her, Charlie," she hissed, pointing at Helen, who sat quietly in her crib, shrouded in the shadow of the curtains. "I went to check on her last night, and her eyes—they were glowing. Like some kind of demon!"
Charlie rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion warring with frustration. "She's not possessed, Reneé. She's a baby. Babies don't get possessed."
"Then explain it!" Reneé demanded, her voice shrill. "Bella cries like a normal child, she's bright and lively. But that— Helen —she just sits there, silent, staring... staring into nothing. And she hates the light! I'm telling you, there's something evil about her."
"There's nothing evil about her!" Charlie roared, his patience snapping. He stepped protectively in front of Helen's crib, his fists clenched. "She's quiet, yeah, and maybe she is a bit different but she's our child. You don't get to treat her like some monster just because she's not screaming her head off like Bella!"
Reneé recoiled, clutching Bella tighter. "You don't see it because you're blind, Charlie! She's not right. I can feel it."
Charlie's heart ached as he looked down at Helen, who stared back at him from the shadows, her glowing eyes soft and trusting. He didn't understand why she preferred the dark, why the sunlight seemed to scare her when it soothed Bella. But she was his daughter, and he'd be damned if he let Reneé's paranoia tear them apart.
He took Helen to his mother's for the rest of the day where his ailing parents were glad to see at least one of the twins since Reneè refused to let Bella come around them. His father looked down at his granddaughter and smiled as if he knew something that Charlie didn't.
"The spirits like her," He said.
Charlie rolled his eyes at his father's words. His grandmother was from the Quileute tribe, Lisa Uley just as his aunt Molly married into the Ateara family. He was raised with the tribal children due to their close ties to the families after having so many Swans marry into their families and theirs into his. His father Geoffery was best friends with his brother-in-law, the patriarch of the Ateara family just as he was best friends with Billy Black and Harry Clearwater. So he was aware of the stories and the spiritual things that his father was speaking about.
"It is too bad she is as pale as death," Geoffery said.
"She looks like ma'!" Charlie laughed.
Helen peered down at the baby. "She does but she does look sickly, Charlie. She shouldn't be this pale or cold."
Later that night, when Bella's cries finally subsided and Reneé had fallen asleep, Charlie carried Helen to the living room. He turned off the lights, letting the darkness settle around them, and sat with her on his lap. She relaxed instantly, her small body melting against his chest, those haunting green eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window. "Don't worry, princess. I'll keep you safe—no matter what," He murmured, stroking her hair.
In the quiet, Helen's past life flickered faintly in her mind—memories of a girl who'd faced darkness and emerged stronger for it. She didn't know why the darkness called to her, why the shadows hidden within felt like home. But with Charlie's steady heartbeat beneath her, she felt something she hadn't in either life: a father's unwavering love.
🐺
As the months crept by in the Swan household, Helen grew, not just in size, but in awareness. Her infant body was a fragile shell, but her mind churned with echoes of a life she couldn't fully grasp. Flashes came to her in fits and starts: a castle with moving staircases, a girl with a lightning scar, a wand in her hand spitting green sparks, and a dark, cloaked figure with a serpentine face. The memories were disjointed, like shards of a shattered mirror, and they slipped away whenever she tried to hold them too tightly. She didn't know who she'd been but she felt the weight of it, a quiet storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.
She had her moments where she would let a little whine from the flashes scaring her to the point she soiled her diaper more often than Bella did which drove Reneè mad.
The first sign of trouble came when Helen was five months old. Charlie had left for his shift at the police station, and Reneé was in the kitchen, humming to Bella as she prepared a bottle. Helen lay in her crib, tucked in the dim corner of the living room where the sunlight couldn't reach. A sudden memory flared—flying on a broomstick, the wind whipping through her hair— and her tiny hand twitched. Across the room, a rattle Bella had dropped earlier trembled, then shot into the air, hovering for a moment before clattering back to the floor.
Reneé shrieked, nearly dropping Bella's bottle. She stormed into the living room, her eyes wild. "What was that?" she demanded, staring at Helen, who gazed back silently. The rattle lay still now, but Reneé's suspicion deepened. "You did that, didn't you?" she muttered, her voice low and accusing. "There's something wrong with you."
Helen didn't respond, she couldn't, not with words. But the incident marked the beginning of a rift that only widened as her magic grew more restless. By seven months, Charlie was finally able to get Helen moved into the nursery with Bella but the strange occurrences were impossible to ignore.
A mobile above Bella's crib spun wildly one night, though no one had touched it, and Helen's soft coo from her own crib seemed to calm it down. Another time, when Reneé left Helen too long without feeding, a bottle rolled across the counter and tipped over the edge, landing upright in Helen's lap as if delivered by an invisible hand. Reneé's face paled each time, her mutterings of "demon" and "cursed" growing louder.
Charlie, though, wasn't so quick to judge. He'd come home one evening to find Reneé pacing, Bella fussing in her arms, and Helen sitting quietly in her high chair, a spoon floating lazily above her head. Reneé pointed at it, her voice trembling. "Look at that, Charlie! LOOK AT IT! She's not normal—she's possessed!"
Charlie set his jaw, exhaustion etching lines into his face, he knew Helen was different. He wasn't blind like Reneè constantly accused of him being. He saw the strange things too. But he was tired of this same old dance. "It's just a spoon, Reneé. She's a baby, not a monster."
"A spoon doesn't float on its own!" Reneé shot back, clutching Bella tighter. "She's doing it! It's not right! We need to do something about her!"
"Like what?" Charlie snapped, his patience fraying. "She's our daughter, not some problem to fix! She's just... different. Special, like I've always said."
Reneé shook her head, unconvinced, and stormed off with Bella. Charlie sighed and approached Helen, gently plucking the spoon from the air. It stilled in his hand, and Helen looked up at him, her glowing green eyes soft with something like gratitude. "You're a mystery, aren't you, princess?" he murmured, ruffling her dark hair.
Charlie had invited Sue Clearwater and Sarah Black over for coffee —a small gathering to catch up while the kids played on a blanket spread across the floor. Sue's eldest Leah was too busy playing with her doll while Sarah's twin girls had taken to Helen and Bella but
Reneé hovered nearby, fussing over Bella, who lay on her back, gurgling and kicking her legs as she chewed on a teething ring. She didn't want the girls to play with her baby, because she was scared they were hurt her. Helen, as usual, sat quietly in the corner of the blanket, her green eyes tracking the adults' movements with an intensity that belied her age.
Sue, perched on the couch with a mug in hand, watched the Swan twins with a warm smile. "They're growing fast, aren't they? Seems like yesterday they were newborns."
Sarah nodded, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the blanket. "They've got their own little personalities already. Bella's a chatterbox with those gurgles, and Helen... she's got that quiet watchfulness. Reminds me of Billy when he's thinking too hard."
Charlie chuckled from his armchair, sipping his coffee. "Yeah, Helen's always been the observer. Bella's the one keeping us up all night with her noise."
Reneé, adjusting Bella's bib for the third time, huffed. "She's just lively, Charlie. It's normal for a baby her age. Unlike some." Her eyes flicked briefly to Helen, her tone carrying a familiar edge.
The room fell into a comfortable rhythm with soft conversation and the clink of mugs, Bella's happy babbling — until Helen shifted. It was subtle at first, a slight lean forward, her small hands pressing into the blanket. Then, with a determined glint in her glowing green eyes, she pushed herself onto her knees and began to crawl. It wasn't a clumsy scoot, but a deliberate, coordinated movement, her tiny body inching toward Charlie's chair.
Sue's mug paused halfway to her lips. "Charlie, look at that! She's crawling already!"
Sarah leaned forward, her eyes wide. "She's not even eight months yet... that's early. Rachael and Rebecca didn't crawl 'til closer to their first birthday!"
Charlie set his coffee down, a grin spreading across his face as Helen reached his feet. She grabbed the leg of his jeans, pulling herself up to a wobbly stand, her gaze locked on his. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, voice thick with pride. "That's my girl."
Reneé's head snapped up, her expression tightening as she glanced from Helen to Bella, who was still rolling on her back, gurgling incoherently. "She shouldn't be doing that yet," she muttered, almost to herself. "Bella's not even close."
Before anyone could respond, Helen opened her mouth, looking like she was struggling as she sounded something out silently before saying with her small but clear voice. "Dada."
The room went silent. Charlie froze, his eyes widening as he stared down at her. Sue gasped, nearly spilling her coffee, and Sarah clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a delighted laugh. Even Reneé stopped fussing over Bella, her face paling as she registered the word.
"Did she just—?" Sue started, looking between Charlie and Helen.
"She did," Sarah confirmed, beaming. "Her first word, and so early too! Charlie, she's a little prodigy!"
Charlie reached down, scooping Helen into his arms, his grin so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You're full of surprises, princess." He held her close, her tiny hands clutching his shirt as she nestled against him.
Bella let out a loud gurgle, flailing her arms as if trying to join in, but no words came— just the same happy, shapeless sounds she'd been making for months. Reneé's lips pressed into a thin line, her hands tightening around Bella's teething ring. "That's... not normal," she said, her voice low and strained. "Bella's still babbling, and she's the active one. Helen shouldn't be ahead like that."
Charlie's smile faltered, his grip on Helen tightening protectively. "What's that supposed to mean, Reneé? She's growing, kids do things at different times."
"Not this different," Reneé snapped, her eyes narrowing at Helen. "Crawling, and now talking— it's too fast! She's not right, Charlie. I've been saying it all along."
Sue frowned, setting her mug down. "Reneé, babies develop at their own pace. My Leah didn't talk 'til she was almost two, and she's fine. Helen's just a quick learner, there's nothing wrong with that."
Sarah nodded, her tone gentle but firm. "She's a bright one, that's all. Look how she went straight to Charlie— knew exactly what she wanted. It's sweet... She's daddy's little girl."
Reneé didn't look convinced. She scooped Bella up, holding her close as if shielding her from Helen's presence. "It's not sweet. It's unnatural. Bella's normal—she gurgles, she plays. Helen just... stares and does things she shouldn't!"
Charlie's jaw clenched, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. "She's my daughter, Reneé, and she just said her first word—to me. You don't get to turn that into something bad because Bella's not there yet."
The air thickened with tension, Sue and Sarah exchanging uneasy glances. Helen, still in Charlie's arms, tilted her head, a flicker of memory stirring —shouting voices, a sense of being different, a cupboard's dark comfort. She didn't understand it, but the feeling settled in her chest, heavy and familiar. Her small hand patted Charlie's cheek as if to reassure him, and a faint warmth pulsed from her fingertips... magic, subtle but there.
Bella giggled suddenly, wriggling in Reneé's arms, her eyes fixed on Helen. Reneé didn't notice the spark, but Charlie did, and his expression softened. "See that?" he said, nodding toward Bella. "She's happy for her sister. Maybe you should be too."
Reneé huffed, turning away with Bella, muttering under her breath about "weirdness" and "favoritism."
Sue reached over, squeezing Charlie's arm. "She'll come around," she said quietly though in her eyes, it didn't look like she believed what she said at first. "Helen's lucky to have you."
Sarah smiled at Helen, who met her gaze with those eerie, knowing eyes. "She's something special, Charlie. Don't let anyone tell you different."
Charlie held Helen closer, her soft "Dada" echoing in his mind. "I won't," he promised, his voice steady. "Not ever."
Helen's past flickered brighter—a little girl who'd been called a freak, who'd found strength in the unexpected. She didn't know her name had once been Harry, but she felt the truth of it growing, a quiet power waiting to bloom.