Chapter Text
Harry dragged Edward to a nearby washroom as soon as the bell rang and history class ended.
The washroom was small and stark, smelling faintly of citrus cleanser. Harry’s breathing was ragged as he shoved the door closed behind them, barely giving Edward time to scan the small space.
"Stop. Wait," Edward said in a low voice.
"What?" Harry asked, he was too absorbed in the sensetion to think clearly.
"There's no one in the washroom and The hall is clear now, but there are two students turning the corner at the East end. They’ll be here in thirty seconds. And you still have—"
Harry yanked his hand free from Edward's, the abrupt severance making Edward’s entire system feel like it was buzzing.
"Right," Harry mumbled.
Edward watched, mesmerized, as Harry pulled a slender piece of wood from his pocket. It didn't look like much, but when Harry pointed it toward the mahogany door, the air around the washroom shivered.
Softly, with a determined whisper Harry said, "Divertio Maxima," A silent pressure wave pulsed outward.
"What did you do?" Edward asked.
"Convinced them they desperately need the washroom on the next floor. It won't hold forever," Harry said, and pocket the wand, turning the full force of his desperate gaze onto Edward. "Focus. How long have you had that mark?"
Harry stabbed a finger directly at the pale, intricate snowflake pattern imprinted just below the sleeve of Edward's forearm.
Edward instinctively looked down. His pulse—or what should have been his pulse—was racing purely from the electrical shock Harry’s brief, frantic touch had transmitted. "As long as I remember. Since I was… born.., I suppose. Why?" He answered.
Harry dropped his hand and started pacing the cramped perimeter of the washroom, his footsteps echoing on the tile. He clutched his hair with one free hand.
"No, no, no. This is impossible. It can’t be. There has to be a mistake. A massive, catastrophic mistake," Harry mumbled to himself.
Harry's mental shield was barely there; Edward could read the intense fear and denial radiating off Harry like heat.
"Harry, what does that pattern mean? You’re terrified. And you have one too, don't you? On your right hand, in the exact same pattern,"
Harry stopped pacing so suddenly he nearly stumbled. His eyes, bright green and panicked, locked onto Edward’s. The denial snapped, replaced by desperate, frantic force.
He marched straight towards Edward, slamming into his chest and grasping the lapels of his uniform with a painful grip.
"Who are you?! Where did you come from? Why are you here, looking like—like this—and wearing that mark?! Tell me!" Harry shouted so loud that Edward was sure the whole school could hear.
Edward held him instantly, absorbing the force of the collision. He didn’t flinch, despite the way the raw emotional power pouring off Harry was affecting his supernatural calm.
"Harry. Look at me. Take a deep breath. You need to stabilize," Edward tried to calm him, and mentally wanting Jasper be here.
"Don’t tell me to stabilize!" Harry yelled at him and Edward stopped talking. Harry needed to calm down and, if he needed Edward to stay silent, so be it.
After a moment, when Edward was sure Harry's breathing was even. He slowly said with his voice quiet, steady, and utterly compelling, "I am Edward Cullen. I live with my adoptive parents. I am seventeen years old,"
Harry was scornful, "Seventeen—"
"I’m not lying. But I have been seventeen for over a hundred years. Harry... I am a vampire," Edward told him before Harry could say anything.
Harry shook his head fiercely, his face contorting in pure disbelief. "No. That’s not possible. Vampires are just folklore to those humans out there. They don't exist in muggle world. Not here in Forks,"
"But they do. Now, tell me what that mark means to you," Edward gripped his hand and asked.
Harry pulled back slightly, his grip loosening as the reality of the situation forced chilling logic back into his mind.
"That mark—the snowflake pattern—it is my soulmate mark. The mark of destiny. It links two specific people across fate," Harry said, His voice was low and trembling.
"Destiny," Edward didn't hear anything like that in his world so far.
"Yes! And my soulmate… he died. He died when I was fourteen. He had that exact pattern, Edward, down to the last point, in the exact same spot on his forearm," Harry pulled at his hair as he said that.
Edward felt a sickening lurch of confusion, a sensation foreign to his long life. "But I was born in 1901. If I am the one with this mark, and I am over a hundred years old—how could the person who had your identical mark have died just three years ago?"
A ragged, hysterical laugh escaped him. "Six years," Harry clarified, defeated as though hiding anything had no point now. "I'm twenty years old."
Edward swallowed down all the questions that bubbled up, this wasn't the time or place for that. Harry was already devastated.
"Even if you are twenty. It's not possible," he said instead.
"Exactly! It doesn't make any sense!" Harry nodded.
When Harry was still shaking with all those information, Edward fought the urge to reach out to him. "Harry, I can feel it. Everything I know about the destined mate—the venom, the gravitational pull, the immediate knowledge of belonging—I feel all of it for you. I was already aware you were my mate," he said slowly.
The words seemed to break the last filament of Harry’s composure. He released Edward completely, stumbling backward. His legs gave way, and he slid down the wall until he was hunched on the cold tile floor, clutching his knees.
Harry gasped, "I can feel all that too," he said, his breath coming in shallow, quick bursts.
The cold tile floor offered no comfort, yet Harry was curled against it, his arms wrapped around himself as if holding his fragile world together. Tears streamed down his face, not silent, but choked sobs that tore at Edward’s immortal heart. This was his mate, the other half of his soul, and he was utterly, agonizingly helpless.
“Cedric… it was always Cedric,” Harry whispered, his voice raw, broken. “He was… he was supposed to be the one. The bond… it was so clear. After everything… the graveyard… the tournament…” His words dissolved into another wrenching sob that made Edward want to scream, to lash out at whatever had caused this profound pain.
Edward knelt, his instincts screaming to pull Harry into his embrace, to shield him, to mend him. But he didn’t move. Harry wasn't looking at him, not really. His eyes were unfocused, staring into a past Edward couldn’t touch, couldn’t understand.
“Why now? Why another bond?” Harry’s head snapped up, his eyes swimming in tears, finally met Edward’s. The raw agony in them was a punch to Edward's chest.
“I lost everything in that battle. Everything,” he repeated, his voice rising in anguish. “My parents, Sirius… Cedric. My childhood. I was barely seventeen, Edward. Seventeen, fighting a war no one else believed in. And then… I was twenty without aging and... Still trying to put the pieces back together, still trying to live with the ghost of him when… when you appeared. Another bond. Another… destiny.” He buried his face in his hands again.
Edward’s mind reeled. Graveyard? Tournament? Battle? What kind of 'tournament' led to a graveyard? What kind of battle made a seventeen-year-old lose everything? And twenty? Harry looked barely sixteen, seventeen at most. He had no lines of age, no weariness beyond the current, fresh grief. What was Harry? What did he mean, 'fighting a war no one else believed in'? It sounded less like a normal life and more like… a soldier’s confession.
Edward had seen soldiers, had been one himself, in a different time. The way Harry spoke of loss, of ‘everything,’ it was the voice of someone who had seen too much, done too much. The pain Edward felt was so profound, a cold ache that settled deep in his chest, making him want to tear himself apart. His mate was shattered, and he couldn’t even begin to comprehend why, let alone fix it.
Slowly, the sobs subsided, leaving Harry gasping, utterly spent. He pushed himself up, shaky, and stumbled towards the row of sinks, splashing cold water on his face.
As Harry leaned against the counter, breathing heavily, Edward’s acute hearing picked up a faint murmur from beyond the washroom door. Footsteps, hushed whispers.
“Did you see that new kid Harry drag Cullen into the boys’ room?” A girl’s voice, low and conspiratorial.
“Yeah, they’ve been in there for ages,” another voice, a boy’s, replied. “Think something’s going on?”
“Probably just… talking,” the girl dismissed, though Edward could sense her curiosity. “Why don’t you go check on them, Mike?”
“Yeah, I'm going to.... oh! I just remember I've a assignment to submit. Nah, I’m busy,” Mike’s voice sounded too quick, too loud. Edward heard his hurried footsteps retreat down the hall.
A diversion, Edward realized, a flicker of comprehension cutting through his despair. Harry, with his 'normal hearing,' was oblivious to the brief, awkward exchange.
But He had put a charm on the door, one that made people avoid it, or dismiss it. A protective charm. Just another piece of the strange, impossible puzzle that was Harry Evans.
Edward stood near the sinks, his posture tense, watching Harry who was leaning against a stall door, now looking strangely collected after the outburst of grief.
"You… mentioned a tournament? What kind of tournament was it?" Edward asked after a moment.
Taking a deep breath, Harry finally met his gaze, "There’s a school for our kind. It’s… not here. And there was a competition, a kind of challenge held among the students. Dangerous challenges."
"Who was competing? Just students?"
"Yes. Three champions, from three different magical schools. Cedric… he was the Hogwarts champion. I was also a contestant. They chose me by accident." Harry told him.
Edward's voice dropped, there's an urgency in his voice, "Then what happened? After the last challenge, what exactly happened with Cedric?"
Frowning, Harry looked at Edward with suspicion creeping back into his voice, "Why are you so interested in the tournament details, Edward? I told you he was murdered. What difference does the setting make?"
Sighing, running a hand over his face, Edward looked at the closed door of the washroom, "Look, I might be wrong. But I have to show you something. Something I’ve been holding onto, that suddenly makes horrifying sense when you talk about magic and death and tournaments."
"Show me what?"
"Not here." Edward said, still eyeing the close door, "We have to leave. Now. There’s a buzzing out in the corridor—I heard some kids talking. They saw us come in here together. You know how quickly rumors start in a school like this. If we’re seen leaving together, it’ll just confirm whatever wild story they’re cooking up."
Harry nodded in understanding. "Fine. Where are we going?"
"To my car. We'll—"
Edward didn't get to finish the sentence. Harry reached out swiftly, grasping Edward’s wrist firmly. Edward felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, a soundless, violent pressure, like being squeezed through a narrow tube while being spun rapidly.
Then, just as suddenly, the pressure vanished.
The air was sharp and cold, smelling faintly of exhaust and pine trees. The bright lights of the washroom were replaced by the pale light of the cloud cover Sun. They were standing outside the school building, in the mostly empty main parking lot.
Edward stumbled back a step, releasing a sharp breath. He looked frantically back at the school entrance, then down at Harry, who still held his hand.
Disoriented, Edward asked with a shaky voice. "What… what just happened? Did you just move us? How did you—"
Harry let go of Edward’s hand. "I Apparated us. It’s the quickest way to travel without being seen. Sorry about the unpleasant sensation; it takes practice to make it smooth,"
"Apparated? You blinked us across fifty yards of asphalt?"
"Roughly. Look, we’re exposed out here too. Don't worry, you’ll be fine. My place is safer." Harry said, "Or we can go to your place if you are sure we will be safe talking about all those stuff without anyone listening,"
Harry gestured toward a far corner of the lot where a dusty, powerful-looking black motorcycle was parked.
"That’s my bike. We’ll take that. Hold tight. And you can show me whatever it is you think connects to the Triwizard Tournament when we get inside. Let’s go."
"Can we go to my home? I'll let my siblings and parents know that we will be there," Edward told Harry befor pulled out his cellphone. "They will give us some privacy,"
Harry nodded and waited by his motorcycle as Edward make the phone call. He pulled out a cigarette and lightened up, before leaning back and watching Edward.
Harry wasn't sure how he felt about the fact that he had a soulmate who wasn't Cedric. Cedric was the one for him, as long as he was aware of soulmark and the concept of soulmates.
Hermione had told him that in wizarding world there's only one soulmate and that's all. Then why all of a sudden Edward was here with exact same face as Cedric and same voice and same soulmark in the same place as Cedric's had? And Harry was feeling all the emotions he had felt for Cedric, the touch of his soulmate as Edward touch his arm. Why was that?
He didn't want to move on from his love and accept the fact that he had a new mate... But his heart was racing every time Edward glanced at his direction, he wanted to reach out and assured Edward that everything will be fine and that he was there for him no matter what comes...which was true— Harry would be there for Edward always. But how could he forget about Cedric?
Edward jabbered away at a frantic tempo, his words tumbling over each other as he tried to convince Alice—his sister—to follow his order and leave the house for sometime.
Harry listened to him while smoking, after that the two of them roared down the road on Harry's sleek motorcycle, with Edward perched behind him, his icy presence seeping through the leather jacket that pressed coldly against Harry’s spine, a chilling reminder of the ancient blood that coursed through his veins.
The contrast between them could not have been starker: Harry, a wizard with a wild shock of hair tangled into a messy bun, draped in a battered leather jacket, ripped black jeans and scuffed boots that seemed to have lived through a thousand misadventures, versus Edward, the epitome of vampiric aristocracy, his hair cut immaculate, his attire a crisp white shirt beneath a dusty‑blue cashmere sweater and wool‑woven trousers that whispered of polished society rules.
Edward sat composed and calm, his gaze steady, while Harry’s restless energy flickered like a stray spell, and as the city lights blurred past and the bike finally eased to Edward’s expensive townhouse, a knot of doubt twisted in Harry’s gut—would Edward’s genteel family, bound by centuries of decorum, ever accept a chaotic, spell‑slinging mess of a man as a suitable companion for their son?
The motorcycle rumbled to a halt on a long, winding driveway made of crushed white stone. Harry killed the engine, the sudden silence amplified by the chirping of crickets and the distant murmur of the forest.
Before them stood a house that was less a home and more a masterpiece of modern architecture, all glass and polished wood nestled amongst towering trees. It was utterly unlike anything Harry had ever seen – certainly not the Burrow’s cozy chaos, or the grim, stately elegance of Grimmauld Place. This was sleek, minimalist, and undeniably expensive.
Harry felt his already messy bun practically deflate. He ran a hand over his worn leather jacket, acutely aware of the dust on his black jeans and the scuffs on his boots. Edward, dismounting with fluid grace, looked as if he’d just stepped out of a magazine. He was a creature of refined elegance, and Harry, with his untamed hair and wild, untidy magic, felt like a stray dog dragged into a pristine art gallery.
“My family won’t mind, Harry,” Edward said, reading Harry's broken thoughts, his voice a low melodic hum that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. It was so similar to Cedric, yet colder, deeper, with an underlying resonance that spoke of centuries rather than decades. “They’re very… accommodating.”
Accommodating to what? Harry wondered. A soulmate who looks like a homeless punk, rides a motorcycle, and is clearly from another world entirely?
Hermione’s words echoed in his mind: “One soulmate, Harry. That’s all there is.” Yet here he stood, heart hammering against his ribs, facing a ghost from his past who was undeniably, thrillingly, terrifyingly present.
Every time Edward looked at him, those golden eyes held a depth of emotion that threatened to unravel Harry’s carefully constructed walls of grief and loyalty. Cedric was the one. He had been. Harry had loved him, still loved him with a fierce, aching pain. So why did Edward’s touch feel like coming home? Why did his heart leap like a runaway snitch whenever Edward smiled?
Edward walked up the few clean-cut steps, his movements effortless, and opened the impressive double doors. Harry, after a moment of gathering his nerve, followed, feeling every inch the intruder. The interior was even more striking than the exterior – vast open spaces, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a huge library that Hermione would appreciate. It was beautiful, but felt more like a museum than a place where people actually lived.
Then, they appeared.
A woman with a cascade of golden hair, a man with kind, weary eyes, and two other figures – a tall, muscular man with dark hair, and a petite, pixie-like girl with a mischievous grin. Harry’s eyes immediately landed on the girl. Alice. Edward’s sibling. She was already bouncing towards them.
“Edward! You’re finally here! And you brought him! I took your bags and leave school as soon as I saw you are coming home,” Her voice was high, enthusiastic, and she clapped her hands together. Her eyes, the same striking gold as Edward’s, darted to Harry, taking in his messy appearance with an unnervingly thorough gaze. Harry braced himself for the inevitable judgment, the polite but pointed question about his life choices.
Instead, she beamed. “Oh, Harry, it’s so good to finally meet you! We’ve been waiting for you!”
Waiting for him? The words threw Harry off balance. Edward’s family knew about him? About them?
The golden-haired woman, whom Harry presumed was the mother, Esme, approached with a warm, gentle smile. “Welcome, Harry. Edward has told us so much about you. Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable.” Her voice was soft, melodic, reassuring.
Carlisle, the patriarch, extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Harry. We’ve heard a great deal.” His grip was firm, surprisingly cool.
Harry managed a weak smile, shaking hands with Esme and Carlisle. "It's, uh, a pleasure to meet you too." He felt a blush creep up his neck. He was a complete mess, and these people, these impossibly elegant, composed people, were treating him like he was royalty.
The large, muscular man, Emmett, clapped Edward on the back with a booming laugh. “So this is the famous Harry! Definitely more interesting than your usual hang-ups, Eddie-boy!” He winked at Harry.
Harry was still reeling. They weren’t judging him. They were… welcoming him. It was a stark contrast to his earlier anxieties. Edward’s family seemed to embrace the unexpected, the unusual. Perhaps Edward wasn't as out of place with his wild soulmate as Harry had initially feared.
Edward, sensing Harry’s bewildered discomfort, gently placed a hand on his lower back – a touch that, despite its chill, sent a strange warmth through Harry. “Come on, Harry. There’s something I want to show you.”
He led Harry past his family, who offered encouraging smiles. Harry glanced back at them, confusion and curiosity swirling within him. What could Edward possibly want to show him in this perfect, glass house? And why did his whole being suddenly feel so strangely, irrevocably bound to this enigmatic, icy man? The ghost of Cedric’s smile flickered in his memory, a painful counterpoint to the racing beat of his heart.
Edward didn't walk as soon as the house was empty; he erupted.
The moment their feet cleared the top riser of the main staircase, the century of suppressed anticipation detonated within him. Harry was still observing the sprawling opulence of the drawing-room when Edward became a silver-and-bronze flash, leaving a vacuum where his presence had been.
"Edward, wait—" Harry started, but the words died in his throat.
Edward couldn't wait. He had spent a hundred years living a borrowed life, punctuated by the hollow echo of a memory he couldn't grasp—a name, a feeling, a profound sense of loss that no amount of music or philosophy could soothe. Today, that phantom pain had solidified into the real, living presence of the man standing in his hallway.
He vaulted the short distance to the secluded, west-facing wing of the house. His closet was the size of a small apartment, but he didn't head for the racks of hand-tailored Italian suits. He went to the far back panel, a section rarely disturbed, where old leather chests rested. These held what little remained of his mortal life, preserved out of habit more than sentiment.
With impossible carefulness, he lifted the lid of the oldest chest. Inside, folded and protected by layers of acid-free linen, was the garment that had been stained scarlet when Carlisle found him: a uniform of striking, archaic quality. It was stitched meticulously in heavy, yet supple fabric, the main body a deep, muted silver, overlaid with bold, intricate borders of rich, antique gold embroidery. It was the uniform of a fighter, a champion, a man ready to face glory or death.
He didn't waste another second. He was back on the first-floor landing, stationary and silent, before the last vestiges of the sound of his departure had faded.
Harry had moved slightly, drawn toward the massive arched window that opened onto the balcony overlooking the grounds. He turned, ready to scold Edward for his impulsiveness, but the words evaporated, leaving his mouth dry.
Edward was holding the uniform outstretched, the silver and gold gleaming softly under the interior lights. He was rigid, his gaze locked intensely on Harry’s face, searching for the recognition he desperately needed.
Harry wasn't surprised by the vampire's speed— experiance in dealing with the supernatural had accustomed him to impossible movement. But the fabric paralyzed him. He froze, the air seizing in his lungs, every muscle locking into place, trapping him in a moment of visceral, horrifying familiarity.
"Where," Harry managed, his voice dangerously low, "did you get that?"
Edward stepped closer, his voice soft, resonating with a century of need. "This is what I was wearing when I died. Or, when I was supposed to die. Carlisle found me on the street in Chicago, 1918. I was delirious—fever, slices up everywhere,"
He gently pressed the heavy fabric into Harry’s numb hands.
"I was begging," Edward continued, his eyes reflecting the deep ache of the memory. "Pleading for life. I still remember the pain, the cold, the desperation. And I remember," he paused, watching the shock blooming across Harry’s face, "I remember that I was whispering a name. Only one name."
Edward leaned in, just close enough that Harry could feel the phantom chill radiating off his perfect skin.
"Harry. I was whispering ‘Harry, I've to live for Harry, I can't live him alone, he needs me’, I still can see that through Carlisle's mind,"
Harry didn't hear the rest of the words. He was anchored entirely by the feel of the uniform. It was real, tangible, heavy in his grasp, and it was setting off alarms in every part of his mind that screamed trauma.
The texture of the silver weave, the distinct pattern of the gold trim, the collar cut—it was unmistakable.
Harry began to shake, the tremors starting in his fingers curled around the fabric and quickly encompassing his entire body. His breath hitched, turning ragged and shallow. The uniform wasn't merely similar to a memory; it was the memory—a dark, terrible, blood-soaked memory.
"That’s impossible," Harry whispered, the sound a strangled denial. His vision blurred, not with tears, but with the sudden, overwhelming overlay of another scene: the oppressive darkness of the graveyard, the green light, the sound of a body hitting the dirt ...and disappeared.
"This is Cedric’s uniform," Harry choked out, clutching the garment like a shield, or perhaps a shroud. "I know this. Cedric wore this in the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Silver and gold—the colors of Hogwarts, the colors of the champions."
Edward frowned, confused. "That's what I want to know. It's the fabric that I was wearing. It’s a hundred years old."
"No!" Harry stammered, stumbling back slightly until his shoulders hit the cool stone of the balcony railing. "It’s not just a hundred years old! This is what he was wearing when the Cup portkeyed us away. When we landed in the graveyard. When Pettigrew murdered him. And Cedric was vanished from there. I had been living without him last six years,"
The implications were too vast, too monstrous, to digest cleanly. Edward’s century-old story collided violently with Harry’s deeply personal, traumatic memory from 1995.
Harry looked from the uniform in his hands—the fabric of Edward’s death—to the vampire’s bewildered face. The only way this made sense was if the universe had been drastically rearranged.
"The moment we touched the Cup..." Harry’s voice was barely audible, filled with dawning horror. "The moment we vanished from the maze, the moment I saw him fall in that graveyard—something went wrong with the portkey."
He held up the silver and gold uniform, gazing at the garment that linked their two impossible timelines.
"Edward," Harry said, his eyes wide and fixed on a place a hundred years away, "I think... I think you were sent back. A century back."
He pressed the uniform to his chest, the weight of the historical error crushing him. "When You were dieing in 1918. You wore this. And that means when Cedric vanished from that graveyard in 1995… he wasn't just killed, he was sent away. You were thrown a hundred years into the past. And the man you were, Edward, the dying man longing for me... was wearing the clothes of my future tragedy."
Cedric.
It was a foreign sound that had no connection to the shallow roots Edward had managed to cling to in this life. A name that felt like a costume he couldn’t possibly wear.
Edward pressed his hands flat against the cool granite wall. He needed to absorb every word Harry was offering, the key to the blank vault that was his memory, but the sheer volume of truth was paralyzing. His mind was rejecting the reality Harry was attempting to force through the keyhole.
I can’t, he thought, the silent plea echoing loudly enough to be heard.
As if Harry actually could read the frantic, disintegrating state of his mind—and Edward suspected he could—Harry stopped.
The intense current of his gaze softened, transforming to a steady empathy Edward had already come to crave.
Harry didn't retreat. Instead, he reached out, his fingers covering one of Edward’s trembling hands. The touch was electric, not a shock, but a deep, resonant hum—the sound of two frequencies finally aligning after an incomprehensible distance. It instantly muted the noise of Edward’s internal panic.
“It’s too much, isn’t it?” Harry’s voice was now low, the timbre rich and soothing. “We don’t need to force the dam to break today. The water will flow when it’s ready.”
He squeezed Edward’s hand lightly. “We have time. All the time in the world, literally. We can spend the next few weeks tracing how exactly your essence was sent back in time, and why, and when you decided you preferred the name Edward over Cedric.”
Harry then stood, pulling Edward gently with him. “But not now.”
Edward nodded slowly. He could do that. He had nothing invested in the present moment except this man, this sudden, overwhelming anchor that had materialized out of the ether.
“Show me your room, Edward,” Harry requested, releasing Edward’s hand so he could place a hand lightly on Edward’s back, guiding him back to the house. “Show me where you stay. Let me sit beside you in the quiet and just breathe.”
When Harry pushed open the heavy oak door of Edward’s room, the soft thud of the front door closing behind him sounded like a final punctuation mark on the world outside.
The house was silent, the kind of silence that seemed to swallow everything but the heartbeat that thrummed in the hallway. Edward’s voice, low and measured, greeted him from the threshold of his private sanctuary.
“This is my room,” Edward said, his eyes flickering with a faint amber glow that seemed to belong to a different era. “My family is out for the night, they want us to have some privacy. We have the house to ourselves.”
Harry nodded, his mind already filling the space between the words with anticipation. He stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound on the polished marble floor, and let his gaze wander over the room that lay before him.
The centerpiece was an enormous bed, its frame a cascade of dark mahogany, draped in a golden canopy. Pillows in varying shades of midnight and ivory piled in a careless. The blankets—rich, buttery cashmere—were arranged in layers.
To his left, a wall was lined with music discs, their spines a kaleidoscope of colors. The discs were meticulously arranged, as if each one were a memory waiting to be played again. A vintage turntable sat at the center of the display.
Opposite the bed, a walk‑in closet stretched like a cathedral, rows upon rows of garments that seemed to belong to a century of fashions. Silks, velvets, leather jackets, and delicate lace.
The last wall was a floor‑to‑ceiling pane of glass, framing the Forks forest in a way that made the day feel both intimate and infinite. The forest breathed with a rhythm, its rustling leaves a soft lullaby.
Harry let out a low, incredulous chuckle that echoed off the marble and glass. “We’re… so different,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe and amusement. “Your world is, it feels… modern. My world is… well, it’s more ordinary... simple,”
Edward smiled, a faint curve that reached his eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he replied, his tone smooth as the silk sheets. “You’re my soulmate, Harry. I have waited a hundred years for this moment, for you. Destiny has a way of stitching together the impossible, and I intend to cherish every thread it offers us.”
Harry’s breath hitched. He felt the weight of a century pressing against his ribs, an invisible hand that had been holding back his own heart until now.
The air in the room seemed to thicken, scented with something that was simultaneously familiar and unknown—a musk of old books, fresh rain, a hint of pine sap, and an inexplicable sweetness that seemed to rise from Edward’s very skin.
He couldn’t resist any longer. Turning on his heel, he walked toward Edward, his steps quickening with each heartbeat. In the flickering candlelight, Edward’s eyes glowed a little brighter, and his smile widened, as if he’d been holding his breath too.
Harry reached out, his hand trembling. He pulled Edward into an embrace that was both an ending and a beginning. The contact was electric, a surge that traveled through nerves and veins, igniting every scar and every whisper of longing.
He inhaled Edward’s scent. It was a fragrance he had never known, yet it felt like a homecoming.
Edward, as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment, pressed his body tighter against Harry’s. His arms, surprisingly strong for someone with such a delicate frame, wrapped around Harry’s waist, drawing him close enough that their chests rose and fell together in a synchronized rhythm.
“Finally,” Edward whispered, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. “After a century of watching the world spin, after watching seasons turn and generations rise and fall… I finally have you. I don't care if I'm Edward or Cedric. I've you by my side,”
Harry’s lips curved into a grin, part amusement, part disbelief. “I thought we’d be… more dramatic. You know, thunderbolts, lightning, the whole immortal‑and‑mortals‑destined‑to‑be‑together thing.”
"Really?"
"Yes, I suppose I could have conjured a storm," Harry said after a moment of thought.
Edward laughed. “But the quiet? The stillness? This—this is what I crave. The simple truth that you are here, that you are real, that the universe finally bothered to align our paths after so long.”
They stood there, under the golden canopy, wrapped in each other’s arms, listening to the forest’s nocturnal chorus through the glass wall. Owls hooted in the distance, a river murmured far beyond the trees, and somewhere deeper in the woods, a wolf’s howl rose—wild, untamed, a perfect counterpoint to the serenity within the room.
The contrast between them was starkly visible in the soft evening light filtering through the window. Harry was all chaotic energy barely contained: the heavy silver rings, the vivid tattoos that disappeared beneath the collar of his worn, shirt, the almost primal intensity of his being. He looked like a creature made of storm and lightning.
Yet, despite the exterior, the core of him—the inner spirit Edward had waited decades for—was a profound, unwavering stillness. It was the eye of the hurricane.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside him. Edward sank down immediately, leaning into the offered space, absorbing the warmth radiating off Harry’s body. Harry didn't attempt to speak any more of time travel or identity theft. He didn't even touch Edward again, beyond the slight, comforting brush of their shoulders.
Edward closed his eyes. For decades, he had merely existed, a shell waiting for the ignition switch, aware of a deep, inexplicable loneliness that had nothing to do with being physically alone. Now, the waiting was over. The universe had delivered his mate, and the sheer power of the connection was instantly healing.
Edward needed this stillness. He needed the profound, undeniable fact of Harry’s presence to drown out the confusing echo of Cedric's ghost. He needed to absorb that deep, inner calmness like a parched desert absorbs rain.
He breathed in, tasting the faint scent of ozone and something woody and clean that was uniquely Harry.
“Just breathe,” Harry murmured, confirming their shared silence.
Edward opened his eyes, met Harry’s steady gaze, and nodded again. Edward was not sure who he was, or who he had been. But he was certain of what he was now, in this quiet room, beside this wild, calming man who knew his truth.
He was found. And that was enough.