Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cedric never given much thought how he would die... But dying in the arms of his lover, his soulmate seemed like a good way to go.. peacefull way to end.

However, that didn't happen. Cedric stared at his soulmate in horror as green light hit his chest. He heard the scream of his lover — his soulmate across the graveyard.

Cedric didn't get the chance to say goodbye as he drifted away. It felt like apparating but it was more forceful than he remembered. He felt like going through a tunnel and his vision changing form one colour to another. It was an long apparation, after which his breathing stopped, Cedric called out to his lover but he wasn't there.

He was alone in a middle of nowhere, broken and about to die alone. Suddenly he saw pair of golden eyes looking at him. "Please," Cedric said. "Please, I have to live," the eyes looked at him in kindly but didn't reply. "I've to live," Cedric repeated. "For him,"
The words escaped his lips like a desperate prayer. The golden eyes blinked slowly, as if weighing his plea against some unseen scale. Cedric felt a chill run through him, not from fear, but from the profound sense of loss that enveloped him.

He was in a vast expanse, a place that felt both familiar and alien. The ground beneath him was soft, almost like mist, and the air shimmered ith unknown wave. It was beautiful, yet it felt wrong. He should be with his soulmate, not here, lost.

"Please," he implored again, his voice trembling. "I can't leave him alone. I have to live." The golden eyes remained fixed on him, unwavering and serene. Cedric felt a surge of emotion, memories flooding his mind—laughter shared under the stars, whispered secrets in the dark, the warmth of a hand intertwined with his.

Suddenly, the eyes narrowed, and Cedric felt a rush of energy, a pulse of life that resonated deep within him. "You want to live," a voice asked, soft yet powerful. "But this life is not a gift to be taken lightly. Will you sacrifice for love?"

Cedric's heart raced as he considered the question. He had always believed love was worth any sacrifice, but what could he give? "Anything," he whispered, his resolve hardening. "I would give anything to return to him."

The golden eyes softened, and Cedric felt a warmth envelop him, a promise of hope. "Then you must face the darkness that lies ahead."

 

<hr>

 

Chapter 1

 

Alice paced the living room, her heart heavy with worry. The clock ticked ominously, each second echoing her anxiety. Edward had always been the anchor of their family, a beacon of strength and wisdom, but lately, he had become a shadow of his former self. The break-up with Bella had shaken him to his core, and Alice could feel the ripple effects of that emotional turmoil in the air around them.

She remembered the day she had seen the vision, the moment it struck her like a lightning bolt while she was buried in her closet, sorting through her clothes. The image of Edward's heart breaking had been so vivid, so raw, that she had gasped, nearly dropping a stack of sweaters. Jasper had rushed to her side, concern etched across his face. She had wanted to confide in him, to share the weight of her vision, but the fear of Edward reading Jasper's thoughts had silenced her. Instead, she had offered a vague explanation, and Jasper, ever the understanding husband, had accepted her silence without question.

But now, a month later, the silence was deafening. Edward had become increasingly withdrawn, often leaving for school without a word, his mind a fortress that Alice could no longer penetrate. She could sense the turmoil within him, the pain he was trying to hide, but every time she attempted to reach out, he would retreat further into himself. Esme, their mother, had noticed too. Her gentle heart ached for her favorite son, and Alice could see the worry etched on her face during their family time, where Edward would sit in silence, lost in his thoughts.

Carlisle, always the voice of reason, had tried to engage Edward in conversation, but it had been futile. Each attempt was met with a wall of resistance, and Alice could feel the tension in the air. It was as if the family was standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting for someone to take the leap and break the silence.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow through the windows, Alice decided she could no longer wait for Edward to come to them. She needed to confront him, to break through the barriers he had erected around himself. With determination, she made her way to his room, her heart pounding in her chest.

Knocking softly on the door, she heard a muffled response. "Come in."

As she stepped inside, she found Edward sitting on the edge of his bed that he bought for Bella, staring blankly at the wall. His usually vibrant golden eyes were dull, clouded with a sadness that twisted Alice's heart. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she needed to say.

"Edward," she began gently, "we need to talk."

He looked up, surprise flickering across his face, but it quickly faded into a mask of indifference. "About what?" he asked, his tone flat.

"About you," she replied, stepping closer. "I can feel your pain, and it's tearing me apart. You don’t have to go through this alone."

He shook his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "You don’t understand, Alice. I’m fine. I just need some time."

"Time?" she echoed, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior. "Time to do what? Hide from us? You’re not fine, Edward. You’re suffering, and we can help you if you let us."

He stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. "You don’t know what it’s like to feel this way, to have everything you thought you wanted slip through your fingers. Bella was everything to me, and now… now she’s..."

"Edward.."

"I know it's my fault," he said. "I left her and she found someone who loved her more. And ... I'm happy for that. But it's hurt.. it hurts so much," Edward glanced at the glasswall, greenary of Forks now looked black valvet blanket.

"She isn't your soulmate.." Alice started but Edward shook his head, then turned to look at her.

"Alice, we both know that my soulmate isn't alive. I've been looking at my soul mark last eighty years, there's no way that person is alive, and I thought.... I thought finally I've found someone to live my life with, to share my eternity with..."

Alice’s heart ached at the rawness of his words. She stepped forward, reaching out to him. "I know it hurts, but shutting us out won’t make it better. You’re not alone in this. We’re your family, and we love you."

For a moment, Edward’s facade cracked, and she saw the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. But just as quickly, he masked it again, retreating into his shell. "I can’t talk about it, Alice. I just can’t."

"Then let me help you," she pleaded, her voice softening. "You don’t have to carry this burden by yourself. We’re here for you, always."

He paused. Alice held her breath, hoping that he would finally let her in. But instead, he turned away, his back to her. "I need to be alone right now."

Defeated, Alice stepped back, feeling the weight of his rejection. She wanted to scream, to shake him until he understood that he didn’t have to suffer in silence. But she knew that pushing him would only drive him further away.

As she left the room, her heart heavy with concern, she vowed to keep trying. She would find a way to reach him, to break through the walls he had built around his heart. Because deep down, she believed that love could heal even the deepest wounds, and she was determined to prove it to Edward.

Alice slipped into the bedroom and closed the door as quietly as she could, but Jasper was already waiting for her under the pale glow of the bedside lamp. He looked up, concern in his golden eyes.

“Is Edward all right now?” he asked, voice hushed, as if tiptoeing around a restless storm.

Alice crossed the room with measured steps. Almost before she reached him, Jasper felt the storm of emotions pulsing from Edward through —despair, regret, a loneliness as vast as the night. He hated the consequence of his gift tonight.

She paused, touched her husband’s shoulder. “He’s… still away,” she whispered, sliding onto his lap and burying her face against his neck. If she could shed tears, they would have fallen now.

Jasper’s arms wrapped around her. They stayed like that for a long moment, listening to the quiet creak of the hallway as Edward slipped out into the night—another routine departure since Bella left him.

No sooner had Edward’s presence faded than Rosalie’s high-arched silhouette slipped through the door. “Honestly,” she began, crossing her arms, “I don’t understand it at all. Bella broke up with him because he tried to protect her from Victoria? What kind of logic is that?”

Jasper tightened his hold on Alice. “It makes no sense.”

Alice exhaled and lowered her head. A moment later, Emmett followed, his broad shoulders drooping. “Bella’s human,” he grumbled. “She’s human! How on earth could she fight a vampire like Victoria? That information would never have helped her.”

Alice shifted so Jasper could wrap his arms around her. She lifted her chin, voice steady despite a tremor in her heart. “It wasn’t only about Victoria. Edward left her in that forest months ago—out of fear, out of self-preservation. They drifted apart long before the Victoria incident. Bella finally sees it now. Edward’s overprotectiveness, our secrecy about Victoria’s attack, Bella sensing things she couldn’t explain—it all drove them apart." She closed her eyes, tasting the bitterness of regret.

Jasper’s lips tightened. He was always the most sensitive to Edward’s sorrow, and he trembled with it as though it were his own. “Our brother is suffering,” he said, voice raw. “I can feel it every moment I’m near him. He’s torn between guilt and grief.”

Alice took a shallow breath. “Jacob’s arrival shifted everything,” she said softly.

Rosalie sank onto the edge of the bed. “So now there’s Jacob, too? Of course. Just what Edward needed—another complication.”

“Mother is worried sick,” Emmett added. “He won’t even tell her whether he’s coming home.” He ran a hand through his hair. “We have to do something.”

“It’s not fair to him,” Jasper murmured, voice cracking with the weight of Edward’s sorrow. “He’s carrying it all alone.”

“I refuse to move again,” she said stubbornly. “I’ve finally built a life here—my home, my normal life. I won’t abandon it for Edward’s drama.”

Alice curled her fingers around Jasper’s. “We don’t have to,” she said softly. “None of us are leaving. But Edward’s path… it’s not clear. His future just shifted in ways we can’t predict.”

A soft whimper made them all look toward the door, and Esme entered, her eyes wide, expression stricken. “My son,” she whispered. “Is he leaving us?”

Jasper jerked to his feet and crossed the room to her. He gathered her into his arms; she leaned against him, small and trembling. “No, Mother,” Alice said, rising to join them. She placed a calm hand on Esme’s shoulder. “Edward isn’t leaving. He’s… uncertain. His future, the one he believed in, feels unstable. But he will always be ours.”

Esme drew a shaky breath. “How can I bring him back? How do we heal this wound in his heart?”

Alice met her gaze. “We stay,” she said firmly. “We send him hope every night—knowing a place at home, a family who loves him, waits for his return. That is our only task now: to be here, unchanging, until Edward believes again that he can come home.”

The room fell silent as the weight of Alice's words settled over them like a heavy fog. Each of them felt the gravity of the situation, the uncertainty that loomed over Edward like a dark cloud. Jasper tightened his grip around Alice, feeling her heartbeat quicken against him. The empath in him could sense the turmoil swirling within the room, a cacophony of emotions that threatened to overwhelm them all.

Esme’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, her motherly instincts kicking in as she searched for reassurance. “He needs us now more than ever,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “We can’t let him go through this alone.”

Alice nodded, her mind racing with possibilities. “We need to remind him of what he has,” she said softly. “He’s lost sight of the love that surrounds him. We can’t let him forget that he’s not alone.”

Rosalie crossed her arms, her expression a mix of frustration and concern. “But how do we do that? He’s pushing everyone away. He thinks he’s protecting us by isolating himself.”

Emmett, ever the optimist, chimed in, “Maybe we can plan something. A family gathering, something to bring everyone together. If Bella’s not in the picture, we need to show him that he still has us.”

Jasper considered this, the idea taking root in his mind. “We Could arrange a vacation. If he sees that he’s still part of a family, it might help him realize he doesn’t have to bear this burden alone.”

Alice’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Yes! That could work! We can create an atmosphere of love and support. It’s what he needs right now.”

As they plotted their plan, the door creaked open, and Edward stepped inside, his expression a mixture of weariness and confusion. The room fell silent again, all eyes on him. He looked at each of them, sensing the tension in the air. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice low.

Alice stood, stepping toward him with a gentle smile. “We were just talking about you,” she said softly, her tone inviting. “We want to help you, Edward. We’re worried about you.”

He hesitated, glancing at Jasper and then back at Alice. “I don’t need help,” he replied, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

“Of course you do,” Jasper interjected, stepping forward. “You’re not alone in this. We’re your family. We want to support you, but you have to let us in.”

Edward’s gaze flickered with uncertainty, the walls he had built around himself beginning to crack. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Esme moved closer, wrapping her arms around him in a comforting embrace. “You won’t hurt us, sweetheart. We love you, no matter what. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Alice stepped back, her heart swelling with hope. “We’re planning a family vacation,” she announced, her excitement palpable. “A chance for everyone to come together, to remind you of the love that surrounds you.”

Edward’s brow furrowed, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes. “A vacation?”

“Yes,” Rosalie chimed in, her voice brightening. “We’ll make it special. It’ll be a reminder that you’re not alone, that we’re all here for you.”

He took a deep breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll give it a try.” then he left before Jasper could feel his emotions.

Edward knew, reassurance was what mattered. Everyone was happy with his decision, and that’s what was needed. He was the anomaly, the disruption. Their peace was paramount.

No one, not even Carlisle knew what it truly felt like to be alone in a life of eternity. They had each other. Esme, Rosalie, Emmett, Alice, Jasper – a constellation bound tight against the endless night. Edward was an orbiting moon, always present, yet always just beyond their warmth.

He glanced down at his right arm, the snowflake symbol stark white against his cool, pale skin. It was the only tangible thing left of a connection that hadn't yet manifested (or never manifest), a silent promise to a soulmate he’d never found. The knowledge, the sparse, ancient texts and fragmented tales of its meaning, was carried solely by Carlisle, a burden of hope and regret they both shared.

As he walked away from the house, the faint glow of its windows a distant memory already, he absentmindedly traced the intricate pattern. It had been there, a silent, swirling frost, when he’d woken after his three days of agonizing transition, a searing reminder of the human life he’d lost and the immortal one he’d gained. It had been there his whole existence as a vampire, a curious, beautiful anomaly. Carlisle had told him, his voice laced with a rare, quiet wonder, that it was a mark of soulmates, carried by only a rare few in all of history.

He glanced down at his arm, his thumb automatically tracing the intricate, crystalline pattern of the snowflake etched into his skin. It shimmered faintly, bright and stark white, when he'd first awakened to this monstrous life, three days of agonizing transition behind him. Carlisle had explained it, a mark of the incredibly rare, a soulmate bond. Eighty years he’d walked the earth, searching. Eighty years of hoping to see that same symbol on another, only to be met with constant disappointment.

Bella. She had been a siren, a desperate grasp at something resembling normalcy, at a future that didn't feel so utterly empty. Carlisle had warned him – she was a singer, not a soulmate. But Edward, in his profound loneliness, had refused to listen. He had wanted her to be the one, wanted to feel what others seemed to feel so effortlessly. The thought now tasted like ash.

"Son?" Carlisle's voice, soft and resonant, broke the spell of Edward's thoughts. He appeared beside him, a silent, comforting presence. "Let's go for a hunt?"

Edward wanted to shake his head, to retreat further into his own dark thoughts. But a silent, gentle please pulsed in his mind from Carlisle, a plea born of concern and understanding. He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his head.

They moved as one, a blur through the ancient trees, the primal chase a temporary distraction from the gnawing emptiness. After an hour, fueled and settled, they found themselves perched on a mossy outcrop, watching the distant city lights once more.

"Carlisle," Edward said suddenly, his voice a low rumble, breaking the companionable quiet. "That night… when you found me. What really happened?"

Carlisle turned, his golden eyes filled with a familiar, ancient sorrow. "Edward, I've told you the story many times."

"Show me," Edward insisted, his gaze piercing. "Show me the memory. The raw one."

Carlisle hesitated for a long moment, then slowly nodded. He reached out, his cool hand settling gently on Edward's arm. Edward closed his eyes and then, he wasn't just hearing the story; he was there.

He saw himself, a young man, barely seventeen, crumpled in the cobblestone street. The yellow and silver robes of some kind of elegant uniform were torn and bloodied. The agony in his own memory-self was searing, a raw, desperate need to cling to life.

He was pleading, a choked, desperate sound. "...please... don't let me die... not yet... I have to find him... I have to see my lover again... my Harry... my soulmate... He is alone, he needs me," The memory-Edward's fingers clutched at the symbol on his arm even then, mirroring the present Edward's unconscious action. There was a name on his lips, whispered feverishly, almost a prayer: "Harry."

The memory faded, leaving Edward reeling, the imprint of that desperate plea searing through him. He knew that name. He had known that name, deep in the forgotten corners of his soul, a phantom ache he could never quite place. He had searched for Harry, unknowingly, subconsciously, his entire undead existence. But now, seeing himself, hearing that plea, the full, crushing weight of it settled upon him.

"Harry," Edward whispered, the name a foreign, yet intimately familiar taste on his tongue. Eighty years. Eighty years had passed, eighty years of an empty, aching eternity. Harry couldn't be alive that long. Not after eighty years. The realization was a cold, sharp blade to his chest, the final death knell for a hope he hadn't even consciously remembered holding.

Carlisle moved closer, his voice laced with profound empathy. "I'm so sorry, my son. There was nothing more I could do. He is already gone, or I wouldn't have… I would have tried to find him for you."

Edward looked at him, his golden eyes dull with a sorrow that predated his vampirism. "I know, Carlisle. I've known for eighty years now. I just… I didn't remember why." He looked down at the snowflake, tracing it with a finger that felt heavy, cold. "Just the mark. The knowledge that I carried. That's all that's left."

The silence returned, heavier this time, filled with the unspeakable anguish of a love lost before it truly began, and a loneliness destined to stretch for all eternity, a truth none of his family could ever truly comprehend.

Thousands miles away across the ocean, The perpetual twilight of Grimmauld Place felt heavier than usual tonight. Harry traced the frozen snowflake symbol on the back of his right hand, a stark white against his skin, mirroring the empty ache in his chest. Two years. Two years since Voldemort fell, since the cheers, since the quiet aftermath that only deepened his solitude.

Cedric. Always Cedric. The first to leave him, the first to turn that beautiful soulmark into a constant, chilling reminder.

He watched the stars through the grimy windowpane, distant and uncaring. They say he was cursed. They say he was the next Voldemort, power-hungry, immortal. Some whispers even claimed he was 'the curse,' destined to outlive and destroy anyone he loved. And the one that rang truest, the one he indulged daily: alcoholic.

He hadn’t aged a day since that final battle. His face was still that of a seventeen-year-old, while Ron and Hermione were starting to show the faint lines of adulthood, the wear of Ministry work and life. He watched them, and feared for them. He was going to live forever. He was going to watch everyone he loved disappear, one by one, like leaves in autumn. Why did they worry about him, then? He couldn't die. He couldn't escape this.

A sharp rap on the front door echoed through the silent house. Harry sighed, pushing away from the window seat. Only two people still bothered.

He opened the door. Sure enough, there they stood. Ron, still in his Auror uniform, looking tired but alert. Hermione, already peering past him into the gloom.

"Harry, honestly!" Hermione swept past him, her wand already out. "This place is a disaster zone! Have you even tried to clean it?" With a few precise flicks, the dust motes vanished, the oppressive shadows lightened, and the scattered magazines neatly stacked themselves. The house, in minutes, looked merely lived-in, not derelict.

"Thanks, Hermione," Harry mumbled, already retreating to his window seat. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one with a flick of his thumb, inhaling deeply.

Ron watched him, a familiar crease of worry between his brows. "You smoking again, mate?"

Hermione turned from admiring her handiwork, her expression softening with concern. "Harry, that's not good for you. And speaking of things that aren't good… there's talk again. About you. About your… peculiarity." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "People are noticing you're not… changing. The Ministry's starting to ask questions about why you never attend official functions, why you don't engage with the new Wizengamot."

Harry took another drag, letting the smoke curl from his lips. "Because I can't, Hermione. Everything I do, everything I am, ends up in the bloody Prophet. My 'heroic' survival from the Killing Curse – twice. My disastrous attempts at dates. My bloody soulmark," he gestured to his hand, "they even write about the fact it's a 'frozen snowflake' now. It's exhausting. And they're not just curious anymore, are they? They're turning… hostile."

Ron clenched his jaw. "Let them try. I'm an Auror, Harry. I'd protect you, no matter what."

Harry shook his head, a hollow laugh escaping him. "I don't need protection, Ron. I need to leave. I need to leave London. This whole bloody wizarding world."

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "I knew it! I just knew you'd say something like this!" Tears welled in her eyes.

Ron nodded slowly, his expression grim. "Yeah. It's getting out of hand. People are scared of what they don't understand, and they don't understand you, Harry. We have to do something before they force your hand."

Harry looked at his two best friends, the only constants in a life of constant loss. A sliver of warmth, of gratitude, pierced through his icy apathy. "I'm leaving. I'm going out of the country. Live among Muggles. Start new. A new name, a new… everything."

Hermione was openly crying now, her voice thick. "Oh, Harry! No one will know. We swear it. Ron and I… we'll keep your secret. Forever. We promise."

Ron put an arm around Hermione, his gaze meeting Harry's with fierce loyalty. "You're our brother, Harry. Whatever you need. Wherever you go."

Chapter Text

The polished asphalt of Forks High School glinted under a sky. Harry clutched the strap of his new backpack, the cheap canvas digging into his shoulder, a stark contrast to the dragonhide satchel he usually carried.

"Why am I here again?" he muttered, pulling his black hoodie higher, trying to sink deeper into its anonymity. Hermione's voice, ever-sensible, echoed in his mind: 'Harry, if you're going to live in a Muggle town, you need to blend in. People will ask fewer questions if you have a normal routine.'

Normal. Harry snorted. Nothing about his life had ever been normal. And he certainly hadn't asked for this.

Ron and Mr. Weasley, fascinated by Muggle life, had taken Hermione's suggestion and run with it, enrolling him before he'd even had a chance to properly argue.

Forks. A tiny speck on the map, nestled between dense forests and mist-shrouded mountains, miles from anything remotely magical. It was quiet, though. That much was true. The few people he'd encountered so far – like Charlie Swan, the police chief who'd patiently helped him with the motorcycle paperwork – had been surprisingly kind.

Harry still felt a thrill thinking about the motorcycle, a sleek black beast that Ron had declared "wicked cool" and Hermione had thoroughly chastised him for. 'Harry, honestly! A motorcycle? You're practically inviting danger!'
He'd just shrugged, reminding her, "Can't die, 'Mione." She'd thrown a book at him.

His messy bun, usually held by a simple hair-tie, felt out-of-place in this sea of clean-cut hair and ponytails. He adjusted his new sneakers – Ginny's going-away gift, insisting he needed something 'muggle fashion' – and pushed open the heavy double doors.

A sudden hush fell over the chatter-filled hallway. Every head swivelled. Harry felt the familiar prickle of being watched, but this wasn't the awe or fear he was used to. This was plain, simple curiosity. He kept his gaze on the scuffed linoleum, shoulders hunched.

A woman with a kind, crinkly face and bright glasses popped her head out of an office door. "Can I help you, dear?" she asked, her voice surprisingly warm.

Harry blinked, pulling his hoodie down just enough to reveal his chin. "Uh, yes. I'm... Harry Evan."

"Ah, the new student! Harry Evan from England, yes?" She beamed, stepping out and gesturing him inside. "I'm Mrs. Cope, the secretary. Welcome to Forks High. Come on, let's get you set up."

Harry followed her into the small, cluttered office, the scent of coffee and old paper assaulting his senses. She handed him a stapled packet of papers. "This is your schedule, a map of the school – don't worry, it's not too big to get lost – and a temporary locker assignment. Your first class is English with Mr. Banner, Room 102. It's just down that hall and to the left."

He took the papers, feeling a flicker of amusement. A map? After navigating Hogwarts for seven years, this felt insultingly simple. "Thank you, Mrs. Cope."

"No problem, dear. Any questions, just come back. And don't mind the stares, everyone's just excited to have someone new in town." She winked.

Harry managed a thin smile and retreated, clutching the schedule like a shield. He glanced at the map, then at the numbers above the doors. Room 102. Right.
"Hey, you alright there?"

A lanky guy with sandy blonde hair and a friendly, open face was standing next to him, a curious grin plastered on his features.

"Erm, yeah," Harry said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Just... looking for 102."

"English? With Banner? That's my class," the guy said, his grin widening. "I'm Mike Newton by the way. You're Harry, right? Harry Evan?"

"Yeah. Hi." Harry offered a brief nod. Small town worked fast to spread the gossips.

"Heard you moved here from England. That's pretty cool," Mike chattered, falling into step beside him. "What do you think of Forks so far? Bit different from London, I bet."

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. "It's... quiet."

"Yeah, that's Forks for you. Not much happens. Everyone knows everyone," Mike said, gesturing vaguely down the hall where students were starting to disperse into classrooms as a distant bell rang. "So, you gonna try out for any sports? We've got basketball, baseball, track..."

"Uh, I don't think so," Harry replied, trying to keep his voice even. He could fly, sure, but he doubted he could tryout for anything here. The less attention towards him, the better.

Mike shrugged good-naturedly. "Fair enough. Anyway, Banner's alright. Just don't mention grammar too much, he gets a bit intense." He stopped outside a door. "Here we are. English."

Harry felt a surge of something akin to relief that the interrogation was temporarily over, followed by a wave of apprehension.

He was really doing this. Being 'Harry Evan.' He took a deep breath, adjusted his backpack, and followed Mike into the classroom, acutely aware of the continued stares. This was going to be a long day.

His first class went surprisingly smoothly. The teacher had him introduce himself briefly. The murmurs of "The new kid" followed him to a desk at the back. He found himself sketching a snitch in the margins of his notebook, a habit he couldn't break.

Eric, a friendly, eager-looking boy leaned over to him after class.

"Hey, Harry! I'm Eric," he said, extending a hand. "That was pretty cool, you know, coming all the way from England."

Harry managed a polite smile. "Thanks."

"Come on, I'll introduce you to some people. This is Tyler," he gestured to a boy with dark hair and a wide grin, "and this is Jessica."

Jessica Stanley, a vivacious girl with an impressive amount of blonde hair and eyes that seemed to miss nothing, "Hi! So, I heard you have an accent? It's really cute! You must be freezing, it always rains here. Do you live alone? I heard you don't have any guardians. Do you play football? I mean, soccer?"

Harry felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Jessica’s rapid-fire questions and insatiable curiosity, combined with a definite flair for gossip, reminded him distinctly of Lavender Brown in her prime, albeit with less of an obsession with Ron’s love life. He answered as best he could, vaguely mentioning the weather and confirming he was indeed living alone.

Then, a quiet voice from beside Jessica cut in. "Hi, Harry. I'm Bella. Bella Swan. Your neighbour,"

Harry's eyes widened slightly. "Bella? You're Charlie's daughter?" Charlie had mentioned her, but seeing her here, in the flesh, was another surprise. She was a small girl, with dark hair, a pale complexion, and eyes that seemed to hold a vast amount of quiet observation. She offered a small, shy smile. "Yeah. Welcome to Forks."

"Why do you bought that forest cabin?" Eric asked but Harry didn't have to reply, Bella sighed and turned to Eric,
"Some people love to live in their own style, Eric," Jessica giggled.

"If looked so masculine to live in a cabin near a forest," Jessica said with an admiration in her voice.

"er.. yeah, it was nice near the the forest," Harry added.

Everyone was friendly enough, if a little intensely curious. It was a pleasant change from being the Boy Who Lived, but also a new kind of spotlight. maybe Hermione was right. He did need to blend in the muggle world.

His next class, Chemistry. The sterile lab, the acrid smell of various compounds, the precise measurements and the looming threat of things going spectacularly wrong without a handy incantation – it was Potions class, stripped of all its magic and charm. Harry found himself staring blankly at beakers and Bunsen burners, his mind drifting to bubbling cauldrons and Snape’s sneering face.

He barely followed the instructions, convinced he was moments away from setting something on fire, or worse, creating a noxious gas. He hated it. Hated it with a burning passion that only reinforced his appreciation for the subtlety of Felix Felicis.

Maths was, thankfully, quite alright. It wasn’t exciting, but at least it didn’t involve potentially explosive liquid. As he was packing up, a quiet voice spoke beside him.

"Hi, Harry. I'm Angela Weber."
He turned to see a tall girl with long, dark hair and kind, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She had a gentle, unassuming presence, a stark contrast to other's effervescence. "Angela. Nice to meet you."

"Are you heading to the cafeteria now?" she asked, her voice soft. "I can show you the way if you want. It's easy to get lost on the first day."

"That would be great, thanks," Harry replied politely. Angela led him through the bustling hallways, a quiet anchor in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

The cafeteria was full of noise and activity. But as Angela guided him towards a table, Harry felt every single eye in the room swivel to him. It was an intense open curiosity. Mike, Eric, and Jessica waved him over. Bella was seated away from them, looking down at her tray.

The cacophony of the Forks High cafeteria was like nothing Harry had ever experienced. It was louder than the Great Hall at its most boisterous, a raw, unmagical roar of hundreds of voices, clattering trays, and scraping chairs. He sat hunched over a greasy burger, trying to blend in with Mike, Jessica, Eric, and Angela, who were mostly ignoring their food in favour of conversation.

"So, tell me Harry, why you came all the way from England?" Jessica's voice was practically a shout over the din.

"Um.. my godfather used live here in vacations. So I thought I should visit," Harry replied, taking a gulp of lukewarm soda. He was still getting used to the taste of American fast food. It wasn't exactly Mrs. Weasley's cooking.

"That's so cool! I wish I had a vacation house!" Jessica gushed, then her eyes darted across the room. "Oh, look, there's Bella."

He noticed Bella Swan at a table across the room, not with their group, but with a different girl – small, with dark, pixie-cut hair and an almost ethereal grace. Bella was actually smiling, a rare sight from what Harry had observed so far.

"Who's she with?" Harry asked, because he should be asking that in a casual way (teenage boys do that right?)

Jessica leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially, though it was still loud enough for the table to hear. "That's Alice Cullen. They're still friends, even after... well, you know."

Harry arched an eyebrow, prompting and resigning himself to the inevitable gossip.

This is just like Lavender and Parvati when they got going, he thought, a familiar wave of mild irritation washing over him.

 

Jessica's eyes practically twinkling with gossip-lust, "Oh, Harry, you have no idea. So, Bella used to date Edward Cullen— that's Alice's brother. The gorgeous, mysterious one? You will see him in the school sometimes. They were like, the couple. Everyone thought they'd get married, move away, or whatever. Then they just… broke up. Noone knew the reason but it was messy. Edward and the rest of his family, except Alice, don't seem to talk to her anymore,"

"That sounds… complicated." Harry looked at Bella again. Charlie is a good man, and Bella seems nice too

Jessica nodded vigorously, "It is! And then, like, almost immediately after, Bella started dating Jacob Black. Billy Black's son. He’s only sixteen, can you believe it? And he practically lives at Charlie's house now. Honestly, Charlie must be thrilled. Jacob’s always been like a little puppy dog following Bella around. I can't believe Bella is dating a sixteen year old boy,"

Harry thought about telling her that he found his soulmate— a seventeen years old boy when he was just fourteen but that was another scenario— Cedric was his soulmate, his other half. And it's not like Harry got a chance to even kiss his soulmate before they were torn apart...

Jessica was too exited to see Harry's bored face, "It’s a whole soap opera, Harry. Forks style."

Mike, seeing Harry's slightly overwhelmed expression, stepped in, "Okay, Jess, maybe that's enough for his first day. Harry, you don't even know who the Cullens are yet."

"No, I don't. But I'm gathering they're… a big deal?" Harry asked, just distract himself from the pain of loosing Cedric, all over again. He couldn't breakdown infront of these teenagers. He hid his gloves covered hands under the table, leaning forward.

Mike, thinking he was too much interested, leaned forward conspiratorially, "Oh, they're a huge deal. The Cullens. Dr. Cullen, he's the town's surgeon, super respected. And his wife, Esme, she's amazing. And they have five adopted kids. All of them gorgeous. And rich. And really, really… different."

Harry could sense the jealousy here, "Different?"

"Yeah, well, they're all super pale, even for Forks. And they don't eat in the cafeteria. Ever— I think they are too rich for this plain foods, not special enough for their standerd, eh?"
Jessica laughed as though that was a great joke. Mike puffed up in proud and continued,

"They keep to themselves, mostly. Alice, the one Bella's with, she's the smallest, really bubbly. Then there's Jasper, he's usually a bit… intense. Rosalie and Emmett, they're the power couple, basically built like supermodels. And then Edward. He's the one Bella dated. He's… intense too. And really, really, really quiet. All of them are."

Harry was now bored, he wanted to leave but stayed there out of politeness, "So, they're… kind of private, then?"

Jessica snorted, "Private is one word for it. Creepy is another. But everyone just thinks they're weird and Goth or something. But they're definitely the most interesting thing in town."

Harry took a bite of his mystery-meat sandwich, eyes flickering towards the Cullen table where Alice and Bella were now laughing. Creepy, pale, fast, don't eat... I've heard worse. I've also lived with worse. And sometimes, 'worse' meant ‘supernatural'. Okay, Harry, don't jump to conclusions. It's just Forks.

Mike was saying, "Anyway, you'll see them around. They're hard to miss. What about you, Harry? Got any crazy exes or family drama we should know about?"

Harry swallowing hard, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips, "Believe me, Mike. You don't even want to know."

Harry followed Mike’s gaze, his eyes scanning the cafeteria. He found them then, sitting at a table in the corner, a distinct aura of otherworldliness clinging to them. There's three of them — Jasper, Rosalie and Emmett. Jessica told him that, after the breakup Edward stopped coming to the cafeteria.

As Harry stared, he realised, they were indeed striking. Too beautiful, too pale, their movements a little too graceful, their eyes a little too intense. He felt a faint tremor of suppressed magic within him, recognizing something profoundly different about them, something that wasn't quite right. It wasn't dark magic, not exactly, but it hummed with an unfamiliar power, a cold, ancient stillness that was utterly unlike anything he'd ever encountered in the wizarding world.

He shivered, despite the warmth of the cafeteria. This 'muggle' life in Forks was proving to be far more complicated, and perhaps, far more dangerous, than he could have ever imagined.

The familiar chime of the lunch bell pulled Harry from this huge bunch of eager teenagers to the dreary reality of his next class.

World history.

He stifled a groan. Advantage course or not, history was history, and in Harry's experience, history was synonymous with boring. Ron's reasoning – that it would be boring regardless, so why not get it over with faster? – had been less than comforting.

He ambled down the corridor. He had to blend in, and for that he had to talk to these people and be nice to them, so that over time he would become another faceless student in the corridor.

Absently, his gloved thumb traced the intricate, frosted snowflake pattern embossed on the back of his right hand. It was an unconscious habit, this seeking of the cool, raised lines of his soulmate mark. A grounding ritual for every emotion under the sun: nervous, excited, bored, angry, even the quiet ache of a lonely night. Today, it was just… boredom, mixed with a vague pre-class dread.

The history classroom was sparsely populated when he finally pushed the door open. Most students were still lingering over the last crumbs of their lunch, or perhaps just delaying the inevitable. The ma'am – a stern-faced woman with tightly pulled-back hair – was hunched over her desk, amidst a fortress of textbooks.

"Afternoon, Ma'am," Harry mumbled, already bracing himself for the quiet disapproval he seemed to inspire in most new teachers. For some reason, every teacher either glanced at his clothing choice and dismissed him or eyed his long hair in a messy bun with disapproval. It was practically a given at this point.

She looked up, her gaze sharp, then softened marginally. "Ah, Mr. Evans, isn't it? Take a seat. You're early." She gestured to the pile of books beside her. "Do you have your textbook?"

"No, Ma'am," Harry admitted. He hadn't bothered to pick one up yet; it was only the first day of the advantage course.

"Here." She pushed a rather battered, second-hand book across the desk. Its spine was cracked, and the cover bore the faint outline of a previous owner's doodle. "And you can sit over there." She pointed to a desk near the back, by the window. A single student already occupied the seat beside it, head bent low, absorbed in writing something in a thick copybook. He hadn't looked up, not even at Harry's entrance.

Harry nodded his thanks, took the book, and shuffled towards the designated spot. The desk creaked as he pulled out the chair and settled in. The room was quiet again, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant chatter from the hallway.

He placed his new-old textbook on the desk and glanced at the boy beside him. As if sensing Harry's gaze, the boy slowly lifted his head.

And then, everything happened at once.

A jolt, sharp and sudden—shot through Harry. It wasn't magic, not exactly, but a raw, undeniable presence, like a static charge in the air, a hum that vibrated deep in his bones. His breath hitched.

The boy's eyes, pair of molten gold, widened as they met Harry's. They were wide, filled with an unreadable mix of shock and something like… recognition? Grief?

Harry stared back, his own emerald green eyes locked with those burning golden pools. His mind reeled. The face. Oh, Merlin, the face.

Pale, beautiful, sculpted with an elegance Harry had only ever seen in one other person. The high cheekbones, the full lips, the sweep of light brown hair that fell across a finely sculpted brow.

Cedric Diggory...

It was Cedric. It was unmistakably, impossibly Cedric, his long forgotten soulmate Cedric Diggory. But at the same time, this boy wasn't Cedric at all, he was altered. Smoother, paler, the very essence of him sharpened to an unnerving, ethereal beauty.

"Ced…?" Harry's voice was a mere whisper, a disbelieving gasp.

The boy's golden eyes flickered, an almost imperceptible frown creasing his perfect brow. He looked down, breaking their intense connection, his gaze fixed on the open copybook before him, though Harry doubted he saw it.

Harry tore his eyes away, feeling a sudden heat rise in his cheeks, acutely aware that he was staring, making the other boy uncomfortable.

But he couldn't stop the racing thoughts. Cedric. It can't be. But it is. He was more beautiful than Harry remembered, a chilling, breathtaking beauty that made his heart ache with a familiar sorrow.

"I'm Edward, you are Harry right?" the boy said suddenly, his voice low, a soft, melodic rumble that startled Harry and drew his gaze back. Harry nodded and tried not to show his emotions.

Edward still wasn't looking at him, his focus still stubbornly on his page. "I'm not Ced."

"I know," Harry mumbled.

Why the world has to be so cruel? The thought was a raw, untamed thing, clawing at his insides. Edward wasn’t Cedric. Not his Cedric. But Harry was sitting beside… a ghost? A reincarnation? A cruel, cosmic joke?

He remembered that day, so vividly, so painfully. Fourteen years old, a whirlwind of confusion and a terrifying, exhilarating certainty he’d never experienced before. Cedric. He’d known, deep in his soul, that Cedric was more than a friend, more than a crush. He’d run to Hermione, breathless and bewildered, stammering about the strange, tingling connection that had bloomed between them.

Hermione had gently explained the concept of soulmates, a concept she herself was intimately familiar with. She’d shown him the delicate rose marking on her neck, a mirror image of the one she’d discovered on Ron’s sternum their first year. "It doesn't mean you have to be together right now, Harry," she'd said, her voice soft but firm. "You're both still so young. You can wait."

Harry, innocent and trusting, had believed her. He’d believed in the gentle promise of the future, in the slow burn of love that would surely find its way. He’d waited. And then, the Triwizard Tournament. The graveyard. The sickening thud of Cedric’s lifeless body hitting the ground and disappeared out of sight. The unbearable weight of loss that had crushed him, crushing any hope of a future he’d once held so dear.

He’d remembered Cedric’s face, of course. How could he not? The beautiful, kind face, the smile that could chase away any shadow, the laugh that was sunshine made audible. He’d remembered every whispered word, every accidental brush of hands, every promise made under the sky. And now, sitting beside him, was a damn echo.

Harry lowered his gaze, focusing on the worn grain of the desk, willing the tears that pricked at his eyes to retreat. He couldn't break down in front of the entire class, not now, not ever.

He felt a peculiar tingling sensation, a faint hum of power that prickled his skin. It was the same sensation he'd felt around supernatural beings, a subtle undercurrent of something extraordinary.

He looked up, catching Edward’s eye. The boy was watching him, a strange curiosity in his gaze, a mirroring of the very confusion that was swirling within Harry. “What are you thinking?” Edward asked, his voice a low rumble, eerily similar to the tones Harry remembered.

Harry forced himself to meet that gaze, to acknowledge the impossible reality before him. “Just about someone I know,” he replied, his voice sounding a little too rough. He looked forward, as their teacher'd droning voice began to fill the room, the familiar boredom a welcome distraction from the turmoil in his own head.

“Is he-" Edward started, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He stopped, as if catching himself.

Harry’s gaze darted sideways, a silent question hanging in the air. “Is he what?” he mumbled, his attention ostensibly on the blackboard where the history teacher was attempting to illustrate the finer points of some revolution.

Edward let out a soft sigh, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken things. “You looked… shocked when you saw me,” he said, his voice softer now, more hesitant. “And now you’re thinking about someone. Does he… look like me?”

The question hung in the air, thick with implications. Harry’s heart hammered against his ribs. He nodded, a small nod. “Yes,” he admitted, the word a whisper against the drone of the class. “Exactly the same. But that can’t be possible.” He felt a wave of despair wash over him, the cruel irony of it all. “He… he died a long time ago.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the monotonous murmur of history teacher that reminded Harry of Professor Binns. Edward’s gaze was fixed on Harry, no longer just curious, but searching, as if trying to decipher a riddle etched into Harry’s very soul. And Harry, staring at the face that was both so familiar and so alien, felt the cruel grip of the world tightening around him.

Chapter Text

The drizzle was less a rain and more a pervasive dampness, clinging to Edward’s shirt and seeping into his skin. Each drop was a cold although he couldn't feel that, a subtle reminder of the life he no longer truly lived.

He moved through the hushed forest, the only sound the soft padding of his feet on the wet leaves and the distant murmur of the human world he intentionally avoided.

Esme’s voice echoed in his mind, "…that boy is the answer." The words were a stray thread. That boy. Was she talking about him? The question was a low thrum beneath the surface of his thoughts, persistent and unsettling. What answer? To what question? He’d often felt like a question himself, an anomaly in a world that had forgotten him.

"Edward, honey, you're soaked!" Esme's voice that usually warm held a new urgency as he entered the front porch of the house. One single drop fall onto the polished wood floor.

He stopped, "Just a bit of rain, Mom," he responded, his voice rougher than usual. He could feel their collective attention, a heavy weight in the otherwise normal hum of their evening.

He’d heard snippets as he’d approached the house, Esme’s voice cutting through the drizzle, hushed, intense. "...that boy is the answer," she’d said, only to trail off as if a thought had been snatched away. Alice, he suspected. Always the early warning system.

He didn't wait for further discourse. The front door was too welcoming, too public. His room was a sanctuary, a place to shed the damp chill and the unwelcome attention.

The shower was a torrent, a cleansing both physical and mental. As the hot water cascaded over him, his mind, warming his body for a mere minutes. His mind immediately latched onto the conversation, the one he’d had with Carlisle earlier that day.

His mind drifted to the uniform, tucked away in the deepest corner of his closet, untouched for a century. Golden-silver, a fabric unlike any he’d seen since, adorned with a complex emblem. Four animals, intertwining with fluid grace, forming the letter ‘H’. A lion, regal and powerful; an eagle, eyes sharp with foresight; a serpent, coiled with ancient wisdom; and a badger, unyielding in its strength. Each creature seemed to pulsate with a silent energy he couldn't quite decipher. School? Competition? A contest of some kind? He’d held onto it, a sliver of his human past, a question mark he’d never answered. Another day had passed. Nothing changed.

Carlisle had said he'd found Edward near death, a victim of some unfortunate incident, but there had always been a gap, a hazy period, where fragments of memory shimmered just beyond his grasp.

After searching many years without a proper answer, Carlisle’s casually mentioned of a "secret society". It had always felt less like an unearthing of truth and more like a carefully placed breadcrumb, leading nowhere concrete.

Could it be that Carlisle knew more than he let on? Had his past been deliberately obscured, perhaps for his own protection, or for some other, more intricate reason? The thought was a disquieting chill that had nothing to do with his standing under the shower longer than necessary.

Edward wasn't searching for love, not anymore. Not after Bella, not after understanding that raw, primal attraction was merely a 'blood singer' phenomenon, a cruel trick of fate.

Jacob’s imprint was a clean break, a relief in its own way. He could move on, or rather, move through eternity alone. But this uniform, this whisper of a hidden life, hold him to a different kind of purpose. A mystery to unravel, a past to reclaim, a personal history to piece together that had nothing to do with fangs or immortality.

He stepped out of the shower, the droplets clinging to his skin. There was no need for a towel. Their senses were too acute. He knew Emmett was down below, absorbed in the commentary of a football match, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of plays and colorful curses. A frustrated grunt, followed by the mental image of a football game playing out on the TV, Emmett's thoughts a riot of tactical advice and curses.

Rosalie was in the garage, the metallic clang of her tools a familiar rhythm, her thoughts a scathing critique of anything and everything, including him. He's such an idiot. Always moping. Grow up, Edward.

Alice, a splash of vibrant energy was with Esme, their shared focus on the soft strokes of a paintbrush, Alice’s mind a swirling kaleidoscope of future possibilities and present visions. The whisper of a brush against canvas, then another, rhythmic and light. Alice's thoughts drift, a kaleidoscope of bright colors and future possibilities. Jasper... he'll love this. Esme's almost done.

And Esme… he could heard her worry, a gentle, persistent ache beneath the surface of her calm. A soft sigh, her thoughts a gentle hum of concern. My poor Edward. So lost.

He moved to the closet, his nakedness a non-issue. The choice was simple. Comfort. He reached for a pair of soft, charcoal jogging pants and a surprisingly expensive-looking grey hoodie. Practical, understated, a stark contrast to the extravagant house and the even more extravagant family he belonged to.

He descended the stairs, the quiet thump of his feet barely audible. Esme looked up from the painting she's collaborating on with Alice, her expression softening.

He approached Esme and placed a light kiss on her temple. "Going for a walk," he announced, his voice deliberately steady.

"A walk? Again?" Emmett’s voice boomed, laced with playful annoyance. "We haven't had a proper sparring match in ages, Eddy!"

Edward ignored the implied invitation. He wasn't in the mood for brute force, for the catharsis of throwing and catching. It wouldn't solve anything.

Alice must have seen the flicker of something in his eyes, or felt the subtle shift in his resolve. She rose from her seat beside Esme, her movements graceful and precise. She placed her hands on his face, her cool skin a stark contrast to his own.

"You're going to be all right, Edward," she said, her voice soft but certain. "Bella… she's going to be your best friend soon."

He managed a nod, a slight tilt of his head. He wouldn't correct her, wouldn't shatter the carefully constructed hope. He knew Bella and him were not meant to be. The intense attraction, the blood singer phenomenon – it was a chemical, biological imperative, not love. And with Jacob now imprinted, that particular, terrifying pull was finally dissipating, leaving behind a hollow ache that was surprisingly manageable. He could move on. He just had to figure out what ‘moving on’ looked like for an eternity.

The damp air filled his lungs, smelling of pine and damp earth. He picked up his pace, a restless energy coursing through him. He wouldn't just walk tonight; he would think. He would revisit every fragmented waking dream, every fleeting image he’d ever dismissed. The uniform wasn't just a relic; it was a key. And "that boy" – whether it was him or someone else – held a connection to it, that his family knew of.

The next day, cool morning air did little to temper Edward’s simmering frustration. He paced on the sidewalk in front of their imposing house, his gaze fixed on the end of the street, waiting.

Alice.

It had been going on for two days, a maddening, internal soundtrack. Every time Alice was near him, her mind would erupt into a cacophony of random songs, a bizarre, unsolicited playlist that grated on his nerves. It was like trying to have a conversation with someone whose internal radio was stuck on shuffle, playing everything from cheesy pop to ear-splitting opera at random intervals.

A low growl rumbled in his chest. He was waiting for his siblings to arrive. They were going to be late for the school today. Few minutes later one by one all get into the car.

His gaze immediately snapped to Alice, who was already humming a tinny, off-key rendition of a song he vaguely recognized as an old commercial jingle.

"Can you stop?" Edward’s voice was sharp, laced with an impatience that bordered on aggression. He glared at Alice, his eyes narrowing.

Jasper immediately shifted his attention from the passing scenery to Edward. His usually calm brow furrowed, a hint of protectiveness entering his gaze. "Can you stop glaring at my mate?" he asked, his tone deceptively soft, yet carrying an undercurrent of warning.

Edward scoffed, a wave of annoyance washing over him. He knew all of them were keeping secrets. But Alice’s constant internal singing was just… too much. He looked away, his jaw tight. "I know all of you are hiding something," he declared, his voice rough. "But stopped now."

Emmett, perched in the back seat, his usual boisterous energy momentarily subdued as he watched the exchange with a flicker of bemusement. He shook his head, his gaze drifting from Edward to Alice and back again. "I don't know anything!" he grumbled, his deep voice laced with a hint of genuine frustration. "Apparently, I'm too open to keep a secret."

Rosalie reached over and gently rubbed Emmett's arm. "Nothing interesting to know, darling," she assured him, her voice smooth as silk. "Just the usual Edward's squabbles."

At that exact moment, for the briefest fraction of a second, Alice's internal song abruptly ceased. It was as if a switch had been flipped. In that sliver of quiet, Edward’s mind was suddenly flooded with an image, a vision so clear it stole his breath.

The fluorescent lights of the history classroom hummed, a mundane sound that usually faded into the background. But today, Edward’s awareness was hyper-focused. Beside him sat a boy he’d never seen before. He had a mop of long, dark hair pulled back into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame his face. Round glasses perched on his nose, and his eyes, a vibrant green, met Edward's with what felt like an ancient curiosity.

The boy was a study in beautiful disarray. His black hoodie was soft with wear, and his black jeans looked comfortably lived-in.

There was nothing overtly striking about his attire, yet his face… his face was something else entirely. He was strikingly handsome— a raw, unpolished beauty. Young and innocent, yes, there was a vulnerability to his expression. But there was also a quiet strength, a depth that hinted at experiences lived, at trials overcome.

Edward’s throat felt tight. He turned his head, his gaze finding Alice. The internal singing was back, a soft, almost hesitant melody this time.

"Who is it?" Edward asked Alice, his voice a low murmur, barely audible above engine hum and Alice’s internal soundtrack.

Alice blinked, her vision momentarily clearing from the colorful, chaotic stream of her usual foresight. She shrugged, a small, almost apologetic gesture. "I don't know," she confessed, her voice tinged with a genuine bewilderment that echoed Edward's own. "I'm having this vision again and again. For the last two days."

Edward looked back at the vision again, at the the boy sitting beside him, the boy with the messy hair and the green eyes. The boy who, for a fleeting moment, had been the sole occupant of Alice's silenced mind. The boy who, Edward suddenly knew with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, was the answer to the secret he’d been searching for. And the secret, he suspected, was going to be far more complicated, and far more captivating, than he had ever imagined.

They were, as Alice had foreseen, late but not so late as to incur the wrath of the teachers. Edward slipped into his first class, the hum of lessons a comfortable backdrop to his existence.

The day unfolded with a peculiar undercurrent. Everywhere Edward looked, he saw the same pair of eyes, catching glimpses of them from different angles from the students mind— as the new navigated the school corridors. Forks High was abuzz, the whispers and sidelong glances all directed at the same subject: the new boy. His name, Edward learned through the grapevine of adolescent gossip, was Harry Evans.

Harry Evans. The name itself held a certain quiet resonance. Edward had heard snippets of his story throughout the day, piecing together a fragmented image. The boy had moved into a cabin on the outskirts of town, nestled by the forest, deliberately removed from the main settlement.

Edward recognized the cabin. He’d seen it before, its rustic, brown-log facade almost swallowed by the encroaching wilderness. It was too wild, too remote for a human to inhabit alone, he’d thought. Yet, here Harry Evans was, a seventeen-year-old living in what had clearly been an abandoned dwelling for years. It was a place built for solitude, for quiet evenings shielded from prying eyes. Why would Harry Evans choose such a place?

The girls, Edward saw through their mind, were smitten, their conversations laced with a desperate desire to know more about this enigmatic newcomer. Even some of the boys seemed captivated.

As the final bell before lunch break echoed through the halls, Edward found Bella waiting outside his classroom, a nervous energy radiating from her.

"Bella?" Edward asked, a touch of bewilderment in his voice. "Is everything alright?"

Bella nodded, then, with a quick dart of her eyes towards the stream of students hurrying to their next classes, she asked, "Do you hate me now?"

The question hung in the air, amplified by the curious glances of passing students. Edward sighed, the faint scent of her anxiety prickling his senses. "I don't hate you, Bella. Why would I do that?"

She shook her head, her gaze fixed on his. "Then why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not," Edward stated, though the evasion was a lie he felt necessary. "I don’t think Jacob would appreciate it if I talked to you on a regular basis."

Bella’s jaw tightened. "He can't decide who I talk to, Edward."

Edward shook his head, a subtle grimace touching his lips. "Yes, he can, Bella. There are… certain laws in society. And you can't change those laws."

Bella stared at him, a mixture of hurt and defiance in her eyes. "But I still want to talk to you."

A flicker of a smile graced Edward’s lips. "Then we will," he agreed. "But not now. Let this news of our breakup die down a little. You don't want to create more rumors, do you?"

Bella shuddered, the thought of more gossip clearly unappealing. "Did you hear?" she blurted out, her voice hushed. "There's a rumor going around the school that the new kid, Harry, is an orphan and he's living alone in the woods because he's some kind of hidden criminal."

Edward let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "I may have heard something along those lines," he admitted. "I also heard he's going to break a lot of hearts around this school."

Bella offered a small, weary smile. "At least," she murmured, "they'll be diverting their attention from us." The unspoken plea for his presence lingered between them.

"Please, talk to me if you want. Whenever you want," Bella said suddenly, "I know you are feeling too much. If need an ear, I'm here. I'm always here, Edward,"

Edward nodded and Bella left for her next class.

Edward wasn't sure what he was expecting when the lunch break ended. Alice's vision had shown him the new kid's face clear as day, a snapshot of dark, untidy hair and startling green eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. But in reality, nothing, not even Alice's infallible foresight, truly prepared him for meeting Harry Evans for the first time.

The fluorescent hum of the history classroom felt amplified, the ticking of the wall clock, a relentless.

Edward sat, waiting, a thick textbook open to a page he wasn't truly seeing. His senses, however, were elsewhere, splayed across the bustling corridors of Forks High. He felt the collective hum of adolescent anticipation for the coming classes, the lingering scent of cafeteria pizza, and the impatient tapping of a girl's foot three hallways down. But more importantly, he was pinpointing Harry.

Through the adolescent thoughts, Edward tracked the new boy. Harry wasn't alone. He was with the popular group – the giggling, preening cohort that always managed to congregate by the lockers.

Jessica Stanley's mind was an open book, a whirlwind of gossip and self-importance. “And then Mike said, can you believe what she wore? Like, totally trashy.”

Mike Newton’s thoughts were equally shallow, preoccupied with his own perceived coolness and the latest sports scores. They were giving Harry all the dirty laundry of the town, painting a picture of Forks that was entirely superficial and, to Edward, utterly tiresome.

Edward tried to read Harry's mind directly, to cut through the chatter and get a clear sense of the boy himself, but it was all fussy and not clear. Unlike the precise, sometimes painful clarity of other minds, Harry’s was a hazy static, a radio dial stuck between stations.

There were fractions, fleeting images and emotions that would surface for a microsecond before dissolving back into the fog. He caught a distinct wave of annoyance, bordering on boredom, as Harry listened to Jessica’s theatrical recounting of some high school drama. Then, like a sudden cold splash, a wave of profound sadness washed over Edward, emanating from Harry’s direction. It was sharp, poignant, and clearly centered around some boy, but Edward couldn't grasp the details, couldn't put a name or face to the sorrow. It was frustrating, a tantalizing whisper he couldn't quite decipher.

Bella's mind was, as always, a comforting blankness. Her thoughts were unreadable to him, which was good in a way. He didn’t have to sift through bits and fractions and contemplate them, as he was doing now with Harry's tantalizingly obscured mind. There was a relief in not knowing, a peaceful respite from the constant influx of others’ inner worlds.

After what felt like an eternity, the bell shrieked Students shuffled into the classroom, their minds a renewed flurry of end-of-lunch thoughts. Then, Edward heard it – a new set of footsteps, hesitant and unfamiliar, approaching the history classroom. Harry had finally arrived.

Edward tried not to make the boy nervous. He hunched slightly over his textbook, feigning deep concentration, but every fiber of his being was attuned.

He heard the slight hesitation as Harry approached Mrs. Harrison’s desk, the low murmur of their conversation. “No books? Well, we can’t have that. Here, take this one, been through a few hands, mind.” Edward picked up Harry’s immediate, almost imperceptible thought: a skeptical frown regarding the well-worn condition of the second-hand textbook. A small quirk of amusement flickered in Edward’s own mind.

Then came the inevitable. Mrs. Harrison directed Harry to a seat. "Plenty of room over by Mr. Cullen, Mr. Evans. You two can share the space." There were, indeed, plenty of other seats in the room, empty desks scattered strategically, but Alice’s vision had been precise. It was going to be Edward.

Harry approached him, the footsteps firm now, no hesitation this time, but a distinct wave of relief. Edward felt the faint brush of his presence, the soft scent of rain and something else, something subtly floral and utterly unique.

Harry slid into the desk beside him, the old chair groaning softly in protest. There was a brief rustle of papers, a gentle thump as the worn textbook hit the desk. Edward gave him a minute to adjust, to settle into his new space, before he slowly, deliberately, glanced up.

And it happened.

The world tilted from its axis of rotation, with a visceral, dizzying lurch. The familiar stability of Forks, of his own existence, dissolved.

Was that how Jacob felt when he imprinted on Bella?

This wasn't a mere attraction, not the familiar pull of a human heart, but a cataclysmic shift in his very core. Edward was falling, rapidly, irrevocably. There was no gravitational pull to hold him up, no solid ground beneath his feet. He couldn't control the descent; it was smooth and beautiful and terrifying, and for the first time in his long, immortal life, he wanted to fall.

He stared. He stared into the pair of the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen, the vivid emeralds framed by long, dark lashes, and in that moment, the entire universe snapped into perfect, devastating focus.

Everything else faded, dissolved into meaningless noise. There was only the dizzying, glorious sensation of falling, and those eyes, twin pools of an unknown, irresistible destiny.

He’d looked away, just for a second, a fleeting moment stolen from the drone of their history teacher’s lecture on ancient Mesopotamian pottery. And in that second, Harry had… gasped.

It was barely a sound, a tiny hitch in his breath, but it struck Edward with the force of a physical blow. He’d snapped his head back, his gaze locking with Harry’s. The boy’s eyes, wide and startled, had met his for a breath-stopping instant before flitting away as if the contact burned. It was so quick, so subtle, that Edward was sure he hadn’t heard it, hadn’t seen it. But he had. And in that brief exchange, he’d seen it – a profound, suffocating sadness blooming in Harry’s mind, a premonition of an imminent breakdown.

Sitting beside him, the proximity suddenly charged with an unknown energy, Edward could feel it. Harry was unraveling, precariously close to shattering in the sterile environment of the classroom. And Edward, inexplicably, couldn’t let it happen. He felt a surge of protectiveness, fierce and absolute, that left him reeling.

This boy, Harry, was destined for him? The thought was alien, yet it felt undeniably true. He had to shield him, to care for him. Where did this impulse come from? Why did he suddenly want to shield this boy with every fiber of his being?

And then there was “Ced.” Who was Ced? Was that the name that had flashed through Harry’s mind, the source of that abyssal sorrow he’d fleetingly glimpsed?

“I’m Edward,” he said, the words a deliberate anchor thrown into the turbulent waters of Harry’s emotions. “You’re Harry, right?” He hoped the simple, direct question would be enough to pull Harry back from the edge.

Harry’s gaze flickered towards him, a hesitant nod confirming his name. “I’m not Ced,” Edward added.

“I know,” Harry replied, his voice a low murmur that barely carried over the professor’s lecture.

Edward’s mind raced. He wanted to understand, to delve into the depths of Harry’s sorrow and somehow, impossibly, dissipate it. He felt a strange helplessness, a yearning to soothe a pain he didn’t understand. He glanced at this boy beside him, his mate? The word echoed in his thoughts, a new, bewildering concept that felt both terrifying and strangely right.

“You looked… shocked, when you saw me,” Edward ventured, his voice softer now, tinged with an unfamiliar hesitation. “And now you’re thinking about someone. Does he… look like me?” The question hung in the air, weighted with a desperate hope he couldn't articulate.

Harry remained silent, his eyes fixed on the teacher’s animated gestures across the room, his attention seemingly absorbed by the ancient artifacts. But Edward felt the subtle shift, the almost imperceptible tension that tightened in Harry’s shoulders.

“Yes,” Harry admitted, the word a fragile whisper against the monotonous drone of the class, the confession costing him a visible effort. “Exactly the same. But that can’t be possible.” A wave of despair radiated from him, so palpable that Edward felt it like a chill. “He… he died a long time ago.”

 

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Edward said because that was what he supposed to say. Inside, his heart stopped. His mate lost his love of his life.

How old might be Harry? Edward wondered, 16? 17? Harry Evans was small, fragile human being. Edward wanted to reach out and tucked Harry in his chest and hold him until all his sorrows disappear. The sheer agony radiating off the boy was enough to make Edward’s teeth ache, a bitter taste of grief that wasn't Edward’s own, yet felt tragically intimate.

Harry was now looking at the front of the classroom, frowning lightly. He had thick, dark hair that looked perpetually untidy, and eyes the color of a rare, intense green stone. They looked tired, but remarkably steady. Harry’s hands were hidden under thick gloves, even indoors on a warm autumn day, but Edward could see the slight movement beneath the leather as he was tracing a pattern on his right hand—a comfort mechanism, maybe, or something else entirely.

“I might be wrong, but there’s something different about you?” Harry asked, his eyes fixed on the blackboard, avoiding Edward’s gaze, but the question was direct and lethal.
Edward didn't answer. It wasn't his place to plant a seed on someone's mind who was already thinking about their different behaviour. He had been so careful in this small Washington town, blending into the quiet background.

“I don’t know what you are talking about?” Edward asked, feigning confusion. “Am I giving you an unfriendly vibe?”

Harry glanced at him for a second, a quick flash of intense intelligence, and scoffed. “No, you aren’t.”

Edward was about to ask something else—to inquire about the loss, or perhaps about the gloves—but the history teacher, who generally disliked Edward’s unnatural quietude, saw him leaning in and seized the opportunity.

“Mr. Cullen, while you are enjoying your conversation, perhaps you could enlighten us on the significance of the Ziggurat of Ur in Mesopotamian history?”

Edward barely had to think. The answer, along with dates, architectural facts, and a comprehensive analysis of the surrounding culture, was instantly accessible. “It was a primary temple structure dedicated to the moon god Nanna during the Neo-Sumerian Empire, crucial for legitimizing the king’s power through religious authority. It was constructed primarily by Ur-Nammu around the 21st century BC.”

The teacher scowled at him before moving on, clearly annoyed that Edward hadn't hesitated.

Harry chuckled, a low, breathy sound that vibrated through Edward. “You are good at this.”

Edward was confused. “Good at what?” He asked.

Harry sighed and finally looked at him. The green eyes met Edward’s golden ones, and Edward flinched internally at the faint, residual pain he saw reflected there. Harry winched a little as though looking at Edward hurt him, or maybe it was just the effort of maintaining focus.

“I know you can see in people’s mind,” he said lowly, pitching his voice just below the drone of the teacher’s lecture. Edward froze, the sudden drop in temperature in the air around him barely noticeable to anyone else.

“You are doing that to others and tried to read my mind too. I can feel your touch there,” Harry said and pointed dismissively at his temple. “I’m not expert in occulomency. That’s why you are able to get some glimpses. But I would prefer if you stop doing that.”

Edward sat there gaping at Harry. The way Harry just told him that nonchalantly, as though discussing the weather or homework, was astounding. He thought he was subtle; he thought he was untouchable. And yet this small, grieving human—or supposedly human—boy had not only detected him but named his intrusion.

“Sorry,” Edward said after a moment, the word rasping. “I can’t help it. There’s no way I can stop reading minds.” He told Harry the truth, the core constraint of his existence.

Harry nodded and looked away again, his gaze settling back on the blackboard, though Edward knew he wasn't processing the history lesson anymore.

“What are you?” He asked, the question impossibly simple and devastatingly complex.

Edward sighed. “I can’t talk about it here.”

Harry nodded again, a gesture of deep, weary understanding. “I can understand. I am in the same situation here.”

Edward glanced at Harry time to time as the class progressed. He studied the sharp angles of his jaw and the way his shoulders were held rigid, fighting against the crushing weight of sorrow Edward could still taste. He tried to keep his guard up, but the pull was undeniable. Every instinct screamed protect, claim, heal.

After a moment, Harry glanced at him again. “What are you watching?” Harry asked.

Instead of answering the direct question, Edward pressed his own curiosity. “How do you know that I’m different? Most people just think I’m weird, or quiet.”

Harry shook his head. A small, genuine, weary smile touched his face, and Edward thought Harry looked so handsome when he smiled, a fleeting moment of light in the shadow he currently inhabited.

“Because I’m different too,” Harry replied, the smile fading quickly but leaving a warm echo. “I feel your energy from distance. The same core energy is running through your siblings. I’m not sure what you are, but I know there’s different energy in your body than normal humans.” Harry paused, his green eyes boring into Edward's, now revealing a shared knowledge.

Chapter Text

Harry was sure there's something different about Edward Cullen and his siblings. When the school day ended and Harry was no longer in the centre of attention. He went to his motorcycle and lightening a cigerette.

As Harry leaned in and waited of the line to clear up before going his new home. He glanced at the parking lot — everyone was so excited and so busy. They had something to hope for, to looking forward to life... Harry on the other hand didn't know what he was doing on a gloomy town like Forks.

"Cigarette isn't good for health," a voice said from behind and Harry replied instantly before turning back, "and you aren't my mother," he said and turned to see it was Edward.

His siblings along with Bella was standing in the distance watching. As though they could hear his answer two of them chuckled and shook their head. Edward frowned and glared at his siblings.

"What are they thinking?" Harry asked Edward, and the siblings stop smiling and frozen up.

"Nothing important to share," Edward replied with a sigh, "They don't know that you are aware of our ... Condition," Edward clarify. Harry nodded and proceeded to smoke.

Edward didn’t try to read his siblings, but he felt their shock radiating across the damp tarmac. Bella, whose confusion had curdled into deep concern, took a hesitant step forward, but Alice subtly put a hand on her arm, stopping her intrusion.

"It's really is not good," Edward pointed out, "Your health..." He stared but Harry stopped him,
"I'm immune to health injuries just like you are,..or I think you are," Harry told him.

At that all the siblings— except Bella, who was now more confused of what was happening here, looked back and forth.

Edward growled at them and say something so low that Harry only saw his lips moving. One by one of his siblings left. Bella was also dragged away by that Pixie girl Alice.

"Can we talk. I like to ... Know you better." Edward told him as soon as they were alone. "My father would love to meet you," Edward said.

Harry shook his head, "I'm not sure I'm ready. Don't mind, but I'm here to take a vacation from all these other-world's... Activities," Harry told him.

Edward nodded in understanding, "I understand. But— would you like... I mean, I would like to know you more," Edward didn't know how to say that he was Harry's mate without scaring him of.

Harry glanced at him and frowned, "Don't take it personally, but I don't date, Edward," Harry told him.

"No, no it's okay. I'm Just—" Edward started but Harry sighed.

"Edward, you have to understand that my soulmate died when I was fourteen. In my world that's the only person destined to be with me. And he— he left me so soon that I am... I think I'll never be able to date anyone,"

Edward’s golden eyes widened, the instinctive, possessive desire that had drawn him in the history classroom and into this parking lot warred violently with a sudden, crushing empathy. His mind was terrifyingly silent around Harry, which made the quiet finality of the young man’s confession echo louder than any scream.

“Harry,” Edward breathed, the name a reverence and a plea.

“Fourteen,” Harry repeated, taking a deep drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling up toward the overcast sky. “It was sudden. Violent. And in my world, when the bond snaps, it rarely mends. I came here for quiet, Edward. For mundane.”

He felt the cold shock of loss, vividly, as if it were his own, the unfairness of a bond severed too soon, the desolation of a future stolen.

The concept of a "soulmate" in Harry's world, a singular, destined connection, resonated deeply with his own understanding of vampire mates – an equally unique and immutable bond. The thought that he was Harry's mate, yet Harry believed his one true connection was irrevocably lost, was a cruel irony that twisted in Edward's gut.

"I... I am so sorry, Harry," Edward managed, his voice uncharacteristically soft, husky with genuine empathy. He took a hesitant step closer, then stopped, respecting the invisible barrier Harry had erected around his pain. "To lose someone like that... especially so young. It's an unbearable weight."

“And you think that bond… that connection,” Edward started, his voice rough, “is the only one possible?”

Harry gave a short, humourless laugh and flicked the ash onto the ground. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it was my connection. My destiny. And I watched it bleed out of the world before I was old enough to know what to do with it. So, forgive me if I’m not keen on replacing the irreplaceable.”

Edward stood utterly still, his perfect features etched with a complex of emotions. His mind-reading ability, usually a cacophony, was focused entirely on Harry, not on specific thoughts, but on the raw, aching grief that emanated from him.

"I am not here to replace," Edward said.

Harry finally turned his head, his gaze meeting Edward's. "He was brilliant. Brave. Reckless, sometimes, but always so kind," Harry said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. "It was... a war. Many died. He just happened to be one of them, protecting me, as always."

He felt an intense, primal urge to comfort, to protect, to somehow heal the wound that clearly still festered beneath Harry's composed exterior. But he knew, with chilling certainty, that he couldn't simply declare himself. Not now. Not when Harry's heart was so irrevocably tied to a past he couldn't change.

"I understand why you feel that way," Edward said, choosing his words with immense care. "And I would never... I wouldn't presume to try and replace such a person, or such a bond."

Harry just nodded slowly, taking another drag from his cigarette. The gesture, usually one of casual defiance, seemed to now convey a deep-seated resignation. "It's not about replacing, Edward. It's about... understanding that some things only happen once. And when they're gone, you just... exist." He flicked the cigarette butt into a nearby bin, a faint plume of smoke still rising. "Well, I should get going. Kreacher will be having a fit if I'm late for dinner. He worries."

Edward watched him, a silent plea in his eyes, but he knew better than to press. Harry was not ready, and Edward, for all his urgency, would not be the cause of further pain. "Will you... will you be at school tomorrow?" he asked, the question in hope.

Harry managed a small, tired smile. "Where else would I be? Forks isn't exactly brimming with other worlds to conquer. See you, Cullen."

He swung a leg over his gleaming motorcycle, the engine roaring to life with a deep rumble that seemed to momentarily scatter the lingering melancholy. As Harry sped off, disappearing around the bend, Edward remained standing in the empty parking lot, the fading scent of tobacco and grief clinging to the air. His siblings and Bella were long gone, but he was acutely aware of what he'd heard, what he'd felt.

Edward realised that the path ahead was going to be far more complicated, and far more heartbreaking, than he could have ever imagined. He had found his other half, only to discover that half of Harry's heart was already buried.

The air in the Cullen home was thick, not with the usual scent of pine and polished wood, but with anticipation and a low, resonant frequency of anxiety that only centuries of shared experience could generate.

Edward crossed the threshold of the house and felt the familiar, instantaneous rush of his family’s thoughts—a cacophony of worry focused entirely on him. He moved toward the main meeting room, his steps soundless on the Italian marble.

He didn't need to ask where Bella was. He dipped briefly into Alice’s mind, finding the carefully constructed lie she had fed her friend: Edward needs to speak to the family alone about the situation with the pack. It’s better if you go straight to Charlie’s.

A sharp pang of regret mixed with the exhaustion of the day settled in his chest. Bella was fighting the familiar sting of exclusion. "I technically am an outsider again," she said miserably. "It was only Edward that tethered me here. Now that I belong to Jacob, I have no right to interfere with Cullen business or pack laws. Right?"

Edward pushed the thought away. Bella’s relationship with Jacob and the resulting treaty complications were now secondary. The universe had delivered a complication far more profound.

He reached the door of the meeting room. Carlisle was already seated, precise and attentive, while his siblings were spread around the room, their posture ranging from Esme’s acute distress to Rosalie’s guarded annoyance.

Before Edward could even speak, Esme was on her feet, gliding toward him. Her hands cupped his icy cheeks, her golden eyes wide with maternal concern. "Oh, Edward, darling. Are you alright? We were so worried about you."

He managed a small, genuine smile. "I’m fine, Esme. Perfectly fine." He gently disengaged, his emotions too brittle to sustain such close comfort, and turned to Carlisle.

He did not waste time with preamble. "His name is Harry," Edward announced.

Carlisle’s expression, usually immutable, shifted subtly, acknowledging an ancient weight. He didn't ask who Harry was, but if he was.

"Are you sure, son?" Carlisle asked, his voice low and cautious. "There are plenty of Harrys around the world."

Edward shook his head, the movement definitive. "No, Carlisle. He is the one."

The others exchanged confused glances. Carlisle had only ever shared fragments of the specific, esoteric prophecies that occasionally attached themselves to certain immortal lives—vague notions of balance and destiny. None of the siblings fully grasped the history Edward and Carlisle shared in this regard.

Rosalie frowned, her arms crossed tight against her chest as if this were just another one of Edward’s complicated human attachments. Why is this my problem? her silent thought echoed. Esme, meanwhile, simply looked more worried, her concentration fixed entirely on her son’s drawn face.

Edward sighed, recognizing the need for clarity. He turned to the room.

"Harry is my mate," he told them.

The silence that followed was absolute, filled only by the rustle of Jasper adjusting his weight on the sofa.

Jasper and Emmett watched him as though he had just declared some impossible, weird shit—like turning into a unicorn. Emmett let out a low, disbelieving whistle.

But Rosalie, whose face had been set in a mask of judgment, suddenly stopped frowning. Slowly, a blinding smile spread across her features, as if Christmas had arrived sooner than expected. Edward’s release from the messy, complex entanglement with Bella was clearly a cause for celebration in her mind.

Alice’s eyes flashed wide, brilliant gold, and then went instantly blank.

In the sudden stillness of her trance, Edward saw it too: A warm, sunlit living room he didn't recognize. He and Harry were sitting close, laughing at some shared secret, their shoulders touching. Harry reached out, a long, slender finger moving to stroke the corner of Edward’s face, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw. Edward leaned into the touch, closing his eyes, utter contentment radiating off him like heat.

Then, the vision shattered.

Alice blinked, reeling slightly from the abrupt end of the thread.

"Harry lost his love a few years back," Edward continued, retrieving the thread of the narrative as he recovered from the warmth of Alice’s glimpse. "And he isn't ready to move on. He’s grieving."

He met Rosalie’s eyes, his expression granite. "But it is not going to change that he is my mate. And that fact solidifies that no one will hurt him."

Rosalie nodded sharply, accepting the unspoken command far more readily than she ever had when discussing Bella.

"But he knows too much," Rosalie pointed out, her concern shifting from Edward’s happiness to the Masquerade. "You are so blind in love that within two, three hours you told him you can read minds."

Carlisle looked sharply at Edward, his pale brow furrowing. "Is that true, son? You confessed to him immediately?"

"Yes, it’s true. We all heard him saying that in the parking lot," Rosalie confirmed, referring to the sudden surge of shock in Edward’s mind when he’d been with Harry earlier.

Edward shook his head, frustration tightening his jaw. "I didn’t say that. Harry is genuinely talented and knew stuff already. He also knows that we are different. He mentioned it to me in the classroom. He spoke about seeing something different in our core energy."

A spark of genuine scientific interest lit in Carlisle’s eyes. "Interesting."

"I also found his emotions quite different than all humans," Jasper said suddenly, his voice quiet but intense. His ability to sense and manipulate emotions gave him deep insight into psychic frequencies. "Harry’s emotional orbit was more ground level—incredibly stable, almost rooted. And I tried, briefly, to alter his emotions just to test the response. I can't. They won't shift."

Alice nodded vigorously. "He definitely is different. My visions regarding him are either through Edward’s presence or through Bella’s interactions. I can’t see his future directly; it’s blocked."

Carlisle leaned back, his mind racing through possibilities—shifters, psychics, something completely new. "A grounded emotional core?" he mused. "And an intrinsic knowledge of our nature. Edward, I need to know more." He looked up, his gaze steady. "Can we meet him?"

Edward gripped the edge of the nearest armchair, his protective instinct rising. "Not now, Carlisle. Harry wants to stay away from any supernatural being right now. He said he is in vacation here. He is here to be human and alone."

Few miles away, the guttural rumble of the motorcycle faded into the hushed symphony of the Forks forest, leaving Harry in a profound quiet.

The small, two-bedroom cabin, with its open living area, was a stark contrast to the bustling halls of Hogwarts, a sanctuary he’d sought after the whirlwind of his recent encounters. He swung his leg over the bike, the worn leather of his jacket creaking, and dismounted. Slipping off his helmet, he ran a hand through his perpetually messy bun, the cool forest air a welcome balm.

Inside, the air was thick with the comforting aroma of simmering herbs and something rich and savory. Kreacher, his perpetually disgruntled house-elf, was humming tunelessly from the kitchen, a sound that, despite the elf’s usual grumbling, held a certain domesticity.

Harry dropped his helmet and backpack onto the designated racks in the corner, the worn leather and scuffed metal a testament to his travels. He savored the stillness, the potent peace that emanated from the dense woods surrounding the cabin.

He sank into the plush embrace of the new sofa, a deep navy blue that Hermione had insisted upon. A scattering of off-white pillows added a touch of comfort, and draped artfully across the ensemble was a vibrant, multi-colored crochet blanket, a gift from Mrs. Weasley, its loops and stitches a tangible with magical warmth and affection. Harry let out a long, shaky sigh, closing his eyes.

The weight of his recent decision pressed down on him. He had, in no uncertain terms, rejected Edward Cullen. And yet, the lingering unease, the gnawing feeling of having done something wrong, something he shouldn't have, was a persistent shadow. Why? The question echoed in the quiet space of his mind, as insistent as the drip of dew from the eaves.

"Harry!" Kreacher's voice cut through Harry's reverie. "Master Harry, the stew is ready. Kreacher has made it to your liking."

Harry's eyes flickered open, the plush sofa cushioning his head. He took a moment to truly absorb the sight around him. The small cabin, nestled at the edge of the woods. A stark contrast to the clamor of his old life, and even to the subtle, unnerving buzz that had filled Forks since he’d arrived.

He pushed himself up, the springs of the sofa sighing softly. "Coming, Kreacher," he called back, his voice a little hoarse. He walked into the kitchen, the aroma of savory stew filling the air. Kreacher stood by the stove, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon.

Harry sat down at the small, worn wooden table, his gaze drifting back to the window, where the dense, dark green of the forest pressed in. His rejection of Edward Cullen still felt like a raw wound, not from injury, but from something far more confusing. Why did it feel wrong? Like he’d turned his back on something vital, something he absolutely shouldn't have.

"Edward Cullen," he muttered under his breath, picking at a loose thread on the table. The words echoed in his mind, the strange cadence of the boy's voice, the unsettling stillness of his gaze. "He isn't human," Harry thought, the realization still a heavy stone in his stomach. Not normal human. Not like the other muggles he’d encountered here in Forks. There was a pull, a magnetic force that drew him to Edward, a force he couldn't explain.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. He knew that feeling, that inexplicable pull. He’d felt it with Cedric. But Cedric… Cedric had been his soulmate. And Cedric was gone. In the wizarding world, there were no second chances for soulmates. It was a one-and-done deal, a destined connection.

So why? Why this unsettling flutter in his chest when he thought of Edward? It couldn’t be. Edward wasn’t his soulmate. He couldn’t be. The idea was preposterous, a dangerous deviation from everything he understood.

"Master Harry?" Kreacher nudged a steaming bowl of stew towards him. "Is Master Harry unwell?"

Harry blinked, forcing a smile. "No, Kreacher. I'm fine. Just… thinking." He picked up his spoon, the familiar scent of the stew a grounding presence amidst his swirling thoughts. He needed to eat. He needed to focus on the tangible, on the here and now. The forest, the quiet cabin, the warm stew. And the lingering, disturbing mystery of Edward Cullen.

After that, Harry Potter found himself yearning for solitude away from his constant emotions.

The Forks forest called to him, promising an adventure that was both unfamiliar and new. With a sturdy pair of boots laced tightly, he set off towards the Forest.

As he entered the cool embrace of the trees, the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and pine, invigorating his senses. Harry felt a sense of freedom wash over him, a stark contrast to the weight of he always felt. Here, he could be just Harry, a young man seeking peace and clarity.

The path wound deeper into the woods, and with each step, the sounds of the outside world faded away. He could hear the rustle of leaves, the distant chirping of birds, and the soft crunch of twigs underfoot. As he walked, he allowed his mind to wander, reflecting on the events of the past years—the battles fought, the friendships forged, and the losses endured. The forest felt like a sanctuary, a place to heal and gather his thoughts.

It was either this or him sitting in his new cabin with Firewhisky in one hand and cigarette in the other.

After a while, Harry stumbled upon a small clearing, bathed in sunlight. In the center stood a magnificent oak tree, its gnarled branches stretching towards the sky.

Drawn to its ancient presence, he approached and placed a hand on its rough bark. It was as if the tree had witnessed countless stories, much like his own. He closed his eyes, feeling a connection to the magic that thrummed within the forest.

Suddenly, a rustling sound broke the tranquility. Harry opened his eyes, heart racing, and turned to see a curious creature peering at him from behind a bush. It was a small, fluffy creature with large, expressive eyes—a Niffler, perhaps, drawn by the glint of his watch. Harry chuckled softly, remembering the mischief these creatures could cause. He knelt down, extending a hand, and the Niffler cautiously approached, sniffing the air before nuzzling against his palm.

In that moment, Harry felt a wave of joy. Here was a creature that sought comfort and connection, much like himself. He spent a few moments playing with the Niffler, forgetting his eternal sorrows.

They rolled in the leaves, the Niffler’s playful antics bringing laughter to Harry’s lips. It was a reminder that even in the darkest of times, joy could be found in the simplest of moments.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over the forest, Harry knew it was time to return. He stood, brushing off the leaves that clung to his jeans, and gave the Niffler a gentle farewell.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, shaking his head and swatting at a persistent mosquito. "This beats staring at the ceiling with a bottle any day."

The damp earth beneath his worn hiking boots was a welcome sensation, a tangible anchor after the swirling fog of his thoughts. The scent of pine needles and damp wood filled his lungs, a sharp, clean contrast to the stale smoke and artificial burn of firewhiskey. He'd almost gone down that path, the familiar, self-destructive road. But the sheer, overwhelming aliveness of the forest had pulled him away.

He pushed through a thicket of ferns, the leaves brushing damply against his arms. The trees thinned, and a brighter light filtered through. He heard the distant, rhythmic crash of waves.

"Right then," he breathed, a smile finally touching his lips. "Sea it is."

He emerged from the dense woods onto a rocky outcrop overlooking a vast expanse of shimmering blue. The Pacific. It stretched out before him, seemingly infinite, a comforting, indifferent presence. The salty spray kissed his face, and he felt a knot of tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying begin to loosen.

Without a second thought, he stripped off his damp shirt and boots, the rough fabric catching on buttons. He was about to dive in when a chorus of excited shouts erupted from further down the beach.

"Hey! You gonna swim?"

Harry looked up to see a few kids, probably teenagers, already splashing in the shallows. Standing near them, looking remarkably at ease, were two larger figures. One was a lean, muscular young man with dark hair, a friendly smile already forming on his face. The other was broader, with a powerful build and an equally warm expression. They looked…solid. Grounded.

Harry hesitated for a moment, a flicker of his old wariness surfacing. But the openness of their calls, the genuine curiosity in their eyes, chipped away at it.

"Yeah, I was just about to," he called back, his voice rough from disuse.

The muscular one, the one with the easy smile, jogged over. "Cool. Name's Sam. This is Jacob," he gestured to his companion. "You new around here?"

Harry walked down to meet them, the pebbles crunching underfoot. "Something like that. I'm Harry." He offered a tentative hand to Sam, then to Jacob. Their grips were firm and respectful.

"Welcome to Forks, Harry," Jacob said, his voice a low rumble. "Don't get many new faces, especially ones who look like they've been wrestling a bear." He gestured to Harry's slightly disheveled appearance, and the kids giggled.

Harry managed a genuine laugh. "Just… clearing my head."

"This is the place for it," Sam agreed, nodding towards the sea. "Nothing beats a dip in the Pacific when you need to really feel something. Or forget something."

Harry felt a surprising sense of relief wash over him. These people, these locals, weren't judging him. They were just… welcoming.

"You should come join us," one of the kids called out, a girl with bright, curious eyes. "It's cold, but it's amazing!"

Harry looked at Sam and Jacob, a question in his eyes.

Sam grinned. "They're right. It's pretty damn refreshing. You're welcome to join us anytime, Harry. Seriously. We're usually out here a few times a week when the weather's good. Just swim whenever you're free."

Jacob added, his gaze steady, "Don't be a stranger. We're not as scary as we look."

Harry felt a warmth spread through him, a different kind of warmth than the firewhiskey offered. It was genuine. It was… human.

"Thanks," he said, the word feeling a little rusty. "Thanks, I… I might just do that." He looked out at the welcoming waves, then back at the friendly faces.

The exhaustion clung to Harry like a damp cloak. The journey back to his cabin had been long and arduous, a trail of hurried departures and lingering goodbyes. By the time he’d stumbled through the worn wooden door, the thought of food had been an abstract concept. Sleep, however, was an immediate. He’d fallen into his new bedroom, the unfamiliar silence of the cabin a stark contrast to the cacophony of recent events, and the night had swallowed him whole.

The next morning, the sun, a pale, watery disc through the forest canopy, did little to rouse him. Harry overslept. Not by a little, but by a significant, panic-inducing margin.

The sudden realization jolted him upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. He scrambled out of bed, a whirlwind of disheveled limbs and frantic energy.

He yanked open his trunk, rummaging through clothes with a desperate urgency. He found his black shirt, crumpled and hopelessly wrinkled from its hasty burial. A sigh of resignation escaped him. There was no time for a proper ironing charm, no chance for the usual meticulous preparation. With a flick of his wand, a few muttered incantations, the fabric smoothed itself out, albeit with a slightly unnatural sheen. Jeans, his only concession to casual attire, were pulled on. Finally, he reached for the worn, familiar comfort of his Godfather’s leather jacket. It felt like a piece of armor, a silent promise of protection.

His hair, unruly and perpetually rebellious, remained untouched. He couldn’t spare the seconds to tame it, so it cascaded, a dark curtain brushing against his shoulders. On autopilot, he moved to the small table where Kreacher, with his usual quiet efficiency, had left a plate of steaming food.

A quick, almost swallow-it-down breakfast was all he managed, the taste a blur of sustenance. Then, the dragonhide boots, sturdy and built for endurance, were laced on. There was no lingering, no checking of pockets. He was already late.

He burst out of the cabin and into the cool morning air, his motorcycle. The engine roared to life, and speed that cut through the otherwise peaceful stillness. The ride to Forks High was a blur of winding roads and fleeting trees. As he skidded to a halt outside the imposing brick building, the bell was already ringing its final, definitive note.

He pushed through the doors, the polished linoleum cool beneath his boots. His English teacher was already at the front of the classroom, his glare sharp and accusatory.

"Mr. Evans, You're late!"
Harry blinked, his head still foggy from the interrupted sleep. His English teacher stood by the door, arms crossed, a glare fixed on him... Or rather, on his bird nest of hair.

"Sorry, Mr. Banner," Harry mumbled, his voice still raspy. He glanced at the clock. Only thirty seconds past the bell. He didn't bother arguing. He just wanted to get to his seat.

He slipped into the back row. Mike Newton was already staring at him. Harry caught his eye and saw the usual mixture of awe and a hint of something he couldn't quite place. Across the aisle, half a dozen girls were whispering and giggling, their eyes darting towards him.

Harry almost growled. It was going to be same every day. He didn't understand it. He was just... Harry. He pulled his worn leather jacket closer. His hair, still damp from a hurried shower, brushed his shoulders. He'd given up on trying to tame it, just like he'd given up on breakfast, settling for the half-eaten plate Kreacher had, blessedly, left out for him.

He sank into the chair, trying to ignore the whispers and the stares. He opened his textbook, the words blurring slightly. Another day. He hoped it would pass quickly. He had a feeling it wouldn't.

The fluorescent lights of the history classroom hummed, doing little to combat the exhaustion clinging to Harry. He dropped into the seat beside Edward, letting his bag slide dramatically to the floor.

Harry mumbled, dropping his head, "I hate Tuesdays,"

Edward chuckled, "Were you sleeping late today?"

Harry pushed his wild, dark hair back from his face—a futile gesture, as it immediately sprang forward again. He felt Edward’s gaze studying him with an intensity.

"You look like you lost a fight with a dryer sheet, but somehow... it works," Edward pointed out.

Sighing, Harry pulled out his textbook, "If you’re trying to say I look disheveled, I’m aware. I was up late," he said.

"No, I wasn't going to say you look disheveled. I was going to say you look… otherworldly." Edward said and looked away as though he wasn't meant to say that.

The teacher started rattling off dates at the front of the room, oblivious to the bubble surrounding the two students. Harry finally turned, meeting Edward’s gaze squarely.

"Seriously, Edward, what is it? Why are you staring at me like I’m about to solve the meaning of life?" Harry asked, his eyes fixed on the blackboard.

Edward blinked, shaking his head slightly, a playful grin touching his lips, "Nothing. Just thinking how good your hair looks open like that. You should do it more often,"

Harry snorted, running a hand through the mess on his head. "My wild, impossible hair? You're just saying that because you hope I’ll finally agree to go out with you,"

Leaning forward, Edward chuckled. "Guilty. It’s certainly a contributing factor. Why not? You look fantastic, Harry." Edward said instead.

Harry rolled his eyes, but a faint smile touched his mouth, "Smooth. Very smooth," Harry noted down all the information that the teacher was saying.

"I try. Now, about Friday night..." Edward rolled up his shirt sleeves, and started to write.

"Maybe if you promise to stop staring at my cheekbones like they hold the secrets of the universe, I’ll—" Harry was saying but stopped.

His eyes had drifted away from Edward’s teasing face, landing instead on the forearm resting near the edge of the desk.

The pattern —It wasn't a tattoo. It looked like crystalline scarring—a perfect, delicate, six-pointed snowflake woven into his skin. It shimmered faintly, catching the classroom light.

Harry's voice became rough, as he whispered, "What is that?"

Edward frowned at Harry's sudden change of words, "What is what? Are you alright? You look horrified,"

Harry didn't answer. He reached out his right hand, the one he habitually kept covered by the cuff of his shirt and his gloves, but today he forgot to put on his gloves. Harry reached out and grabbed Edward’s arm—a firm, sudden grip just above the mark.

The moment Harry’s fingers closed around Edward’s forearm, everything happened simultaneously.

Edward’s eyes widened, dropping instantly to where Harry’s hand was gripping him. Harry’s right wrist was exposed just enough, revealing not only the precise, frosted snowflake pattern identical to the one on Edward’s arm, but also the fine, silvery script woven beneath it—a permanent, thin scar that read: I mustn't tell lies.

A blinding jolt, sharp and cold like pure electricity, shot through both their bodies, starting where their skin met. It wasn't painful, but it was utterly consuming and shocking.

They both went rigid. Edward’s breath hitched, his eyes locked on the impossible similarity of their marks. Harry’s entire focus narrowed down to the vibrating connection between them, the world fading to a silent, humming void.

They remained frozen, hand on arm, caught in the blinding realization that they were linked by something terrifyingly magical.

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.

Chapter Text

The morning light, a stark contrast to the dim glow of the previous night, filtered through unfamiliar curtains. Then came the faint, clean scent of lavender and something else… something subtly metallic, like old coins. His eyes fluttered open, and his breath hitched. This was not his cabin. Not his room.

Harry blinked, the rough texture of a quilt instead of his usual worn blanket beneath his cheek. A dark, polished wood dresser stood against one wall, a vase of fresh flowers on top. Sunlight streamed through a large window draped in heavy velvet curtains. A low groan escaped him, and he buried his face deeper into the plush surface of a pillow.

Yesterday.

The memories flooded back, a sudden, overwhelming tide. Edward’s family. The introductions. A matriarch with eyes like melted amber, a stern-faced man with silver hair and his wife, then there's four younger faces, all impossibly beautiful and unnervingly still. And Edward, always Edward, his hand a steady presence at Harry's back.

The scent of roasted chicken and something herbaceous— likely rosemary, filled Edward's tastefully decorated living room last night. Harry found himself amidst of introductions. Edward’s parents, Carlisle and Esme.

Then there were the siblings: Rosalie, breathtakingly beautiful and coolly observant; Emmett, a mountain of muscle with a booming laugh; Alice, tiny and effervescent, her eyes darting with an almost frantic energy; and Jasper, quiet and pensive, a faint aura of unease clinging to him.

"It's so lovely to finally meet you, Harry," Esme said, her smile genuine as she clasped his hand. "We've heard so much about you."

Harry managed a polite smile, feeling a strange mix of awe and awkwardness. These were… vampires. And they were… nice.

"Thank you for having me," he replied, his voice a little hoarser than usual.

Emmett clapped him heartily on the shoulder, a gesture that sent a jolt through Harry. "Edward’s pretty lucky, isn't he? You've got a good handshake, mate."

Alice bounced on the balls of her feet. "Oh, you have such interesting future, I can see you through Edward's future! So many bright colours around you both and it's solidifying,"

Jasper offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze lingering on Harry with an intensity that made him shift slightly.

"Please, have dinner here," Carlisle said, his voice a smooth baritone. "Esme has outdone herself tonight."

Harry felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't meant to intrude. "Oh, I really don't want to impose. I should probably be getting back."

"Nonsense!" Esme insisted, her gentle firmness unwavering. "We insist. It's not every day Edward brings someone home to meet the family."

Edward, who had been standing quietly beside Harry, gave him a reassuring squeeze of his hand. Harry found himself nodding, unable to resist Esme’s maternal charm.

Dinner was surprisingly… normal. The conversation flowed, the siblings teasing Edward about his newfound clinginess, and Harry finding himself relaxing into the surprisingly comfortable atmosphere.

He even managed to keep his magical abilities under wraps, though he felt a constant hum of awareness around all those vampires, specifically from Jasper that kept him on his toes.

After the meal, Carlisle gestured towards a study, its walls lined with books. "Harry, would you mind joining me for a moment? Edward tells me you have a rather… unique background."

Harry followed him, Edward trailing behind. Edward’s father settled into a plush armchair, his golden eyes fixed on Harry.

"Edward has been… different since he met you," Carlisle began, his tone thoughtful. "He speaks of a connection, a… completeness he's never felt. And he's been unusually discreet about certain aspects of your life." He paused, his brow furrowed slightly. "I’m a doctor of medicine, Harry. I understand the human body, its complexities. But there's a certain… energy about you that defies conventional explanation."

Harry took a deep breath. He’d known this moment might come. He looked at Edward, who offered a small, encouraging smile.
"You're right, Dr. Cullen," Harry said, his voice steady. "There is something different about me because I'm not other humans here in Forks. My full name is Harry James Potter."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Carlisle’s face. Edward, however, remained calm, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Carlisle tilted his head. "Potter? But you are here as Evans? Why the secrecy? Potter doesn't ring any immediate bells in my studies of human history or notable individuals."

"Because I'm not just… human," Harry continued, the words feeling heavy and significant as he uttered them. "I'm a wizard."

The words hung in the air. Carlisle’s expression shifted, his eyes widening just a fraction. The calm, rational veneer cracked revealing a flicker of profound surprise.

From the living room, a sudden gasp cut through the quiet. Edward’s siblings, who had clearly been eavesdropping, were now visible in the doorway, their faces a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"A… wizard?" Rosalie finally breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

Emmett let out a disbelieving chuckle. "You're pulling our legs, right, Harry?"

Alice, however was already buzzing with a new kind of excitement. "Oh! Oh, this is incredible! So that’s why your future shimmer sometimes! And the way I can't properly see your future!"

Edward finally spoke, his voice a low murmur that cut through the stunned silence. "I told you he is extraordinary."

Carlisle, recovering his composure with remarkable speed, looked from Harry to his stunned family, a slow, intrigued smile spreading across his face. "Well, Harry James Potter," he said, his eyes glinting with a new curiosity, "it seems we have a great deal more to discuss."

Harry groaned, remembering the conversation and burrowed his face deeper into the impossibly soft pillow. He could still feel the echo of their surprised whispers when he’d admitted it. Wizard.

He’d fallen asleep, exhausted, after what felt like an eternity of talking. Their smiles were genuine, their voices melodious, and for a fleeting moment, Harry had almost felt like he belonged.

He rolled over, the pillow a flimsy shield against the dawning reality of his current situation. He’d fallen asleep talking to Edward, leaning against his cool shoulder, the late-night conversation.

He remembered Edward guiding him up the stairs, talking about how he couldn't possibly let Harry travel back so late. He hadn't even realized he’d drifted off until he’d woken up here, in Edward's elegant room. He might have fallen asleep mid-sentence, his mind too foggy with exhaustion.

A soft click echoed from the doorway. Harry flinched, pulling the pillow even tighter around his head.

“Good morning, Harry,” a warm voice said, carrying a hint of amusement.

He peeked out from under the fabric, his heart giving a nervous lurch. Edward stood there, leaning against the doorframe, a gentle smile on his face. His eyes held no judgment, only a deep, abiding affection.

“Sleep well?” Edward asked, walking further into the room.

Harry managed a weak nod, still half-hidden. “I’m… I’m sorry I fell asleep on you.”

Edward chuckled. “Don’t be. You looked like you needed it.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, his movements fluid and silent. Harry could feel the subtle presence from him, a comforting contrast to the cool air of the room.

“They’re still… processing,” Edward admitted, his gaze flicking towards somewhere beyond Harry’s line of sight. “My family, I mean. It’s not every day they meet a wizard.” Edward chuckled. "Did you sleep well?"

Harry managed a weak smile. "As well as one can in a… rather luxurious bed." He gestured vaguely around the room. "Why exactly am I sleeping in your bed?"

Edward chuckled, that low pleasing sound. "I don't sleep, so it is a great use. And I thought you'd be more comfortable here than back at your cabin after… everything."

"They… they were quite taken aback, weren't they?" Harry said, picking at a loose thread on the duvet. "The wizard bit."

He reached out, his cool fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from Harry’s forehead. The touch sent a shiver through him. Something that felt surprisingly like… hope.

“They like you, Harry,” Edward assured him, his voice gentle. “They were charmed by your… unique brand of magic.” He paused, his golden eyes meeting Harry’s. “And I, of course, am utterly enchanted.”

Harry finally lowered the pillow. The awkwardness was still there, a lingering shadow of his revelation, but Edward’s presence, his unwavering acceptance was all he needed.

Harry swallowed, the lump in his throat making it difficult. He looked around again, the room no longer feeling quite so alien. The scent of lavender still lingered. And the quiet hum of eternity that seemed to emanate from Edward and his family.

He sighed, a genuine sigh this time, devoid of dread. "So, uh… breakfast?"

Edward's smile reached his eyes. "Esme has prepared something. And I suspect she would be delighted to hear you'll stay for breakfast. Especially now that she knows you can, you know," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "make things float."

Harry chuckled, a slightly shaky sound. "Yeah. I suppose that would be a good conversation starter." He swung his legs out of bed, the cool wood of the floor a grounding sensation. He still felt a knot of anxiety in his stomach, but it was tempered by something new. This was going to be a very interesting day.

 

After breakfast, Harry took Edward directly to his small, wooden cabin.

“Sorry, I need about five minutes, maximum,” Harry offered, gesturing toward the bathroom door. “I need to take a shower first and clean clothes,”

Edward simply nodded, taking in the cozy, slightly mismatched furniture of the living room, his gaze lingering on the odd clutter and the fireplace with odd items hanging there, that hinted at a life lived in magical world. He settled onto the worn, comfortable sofa.

Before Harry could fully disappear in the bathroom, there was a soft pop and a very old, grumpy-looking creature materialized beside the stone hearth.

“The Master is home. Kreacher has laid out Master’s school clothes,” the house-elf intoned, his voice a low and gravelly rasp.

He paused, his large eyes fixing on Edward. Instead of the usual barrage of insults Harry had braced for, Kreacher offered a startlingly civil, if strained, addition: “Kreacher hopes the vampire guest is comfortable.”

Harry stopped dead in the doorway, staring at the house-elf. Edward shot a look that clearly communicated: Did you just see that?

Edward’s reaction was exactly what Harry had hoped for. He stared at Kreacher with an expression of pure bewilderment, his eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline. “What in the world are you?” he murmured, leaning forward slightly.

Kreacher huffed, straightening his tiny, patched tunic with dignity. “Kreacher is a house-elf of legendary house of Black and now Kreacher is serving his life to Great Master Harry Potter. And Kreacher is busy,” he sniffed before vanishing in another soft pop.

Harry couldn’t help it; he started laughing, that echoed lightly in the cabin. The magic of the moment—Edward’s complete failure to process the existence of a talking, teleporting creature—was surprisingly grounding.

"So, Great Master Harry Potter?" Edward asked.

“Never mind. Kreacher like to exaggerated. Right. Five minutes,” Harry repeated, still chuckling, and finally retreated to the bathroom for his shower.

The spray was immediate and hot, washing away the lingering stiffness of the night and the emotional whirlwind.

He was quick and felt instantly renewed. He changed into a soft, faded blue t-shirt, pulling a clean, dark grey hoodie over it against the morning chill. He wrestled his perpetually untidy hair into a neat bun—or rather, as close to a bun as his wild mane would allow, managing to secure the majority of it at the nape of his neck.

When Harry emerged, running a hand over the damp skin of his neck, Edward stood up from the sofa, moving toward him with an almost magnetic pull.

Edward didn’t speak. He simply took Harry’s hand in his, linking their fingers, and pulled him gently but firmly closer until Harry’s chest was brushing against his own. Edward lowered his head slightly, burying his face momentarily in Harry’s neck, right where the scent of warm skin, soap, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke lingered. He took a deep, deliberate inhale.

Harry, caught completely off guard by the sheer possessiveness of the gesture, felt a powerful, undeniable heat rise to his face. He blushed, feeling the heat creep right up to the tips of his ears.

This simple, intoxicating closeness solidified what Harry had been desperately trying to process. This powerful, protective being, smelling of rain and earth, who looked at him with such unwavering devotion—this was him. This was the impossible, the miraculous. This was the boy who had waited, who had endured, and who was finally, gloriously, here. They were together.

The realization swept away any residual awkwardness. Harry lifted his free hand, cupping Edward’s sharp jaw, his thumb smoothing over the elegant curve of his cheekbone. He drew Edward’s gaze up to meet his own, and without further thought, Harry placed his lips firmly onto Edward’s.

Edward responded instantly, a low sound of pure relief rumbling in his throat. His arms wrapped around Harry’s waist, pulling him flush against him until there was no space left between them. The kiss deepened rapidly, moving past gentle greeting into urgent, desperate exploration.

This wasn't merely a peck; it was the collision of two long-delayed destinies, a passionate reassurance that the wait was over. Edward tilted his head, giving access, and Harry responded with equal hunger, gripping the soft material of Edward’s shirt.

They melted together in the middle of the living room, the world outside the cabin shrinking down to the warmth of their bodies and the satisfying pressure of their mouths. It was only the sudden, sharp, mental image of the tardy bell ringing at the school gates, jarring them back to reality, that forced them to break apart.

Edward rested his forehead against Harry’s, breathing heavily, his eyes dark and intense.
“We have to go,” Harry finally managed, his voice a breathless whisper.

Edward nodded, a wry smile gracing his lips. “A disappointing necessity, Potter.” He squeezed Harry’s hand once more before they reluctantly untangled themselves, grabbing their bags and stepping out of the small cabin, ready to face the world—now a significantly less lonely place.

The roar of the customized vintage Norton cut through the damp Forks morning, silencing the usual chatter of students spilling out of their cars. Every head snapped toward the sound as the black beast of a motorcycle pulled into the senior lot.

Driving was Harry, clad in worn leather and denim, his unruly dark hair slightly lifted by the wind, his vibrant green eyes hidden behind dark shades. Seating behind him, radiating an unnerving stillness, was Edward, the usual picture of perfectly tailored comfort, now draped casually against Harry’s back.

Harry killed the engine with a click. The silence was punctuated by the scrape of boots on concrete as they dismounted. The parking lot had instantly transformed into an amphitheater for whispered judgment and outright envy. All eyes were on the way Edward’s hand stayed settled on Harry’s hip as they moved.

Ignoring the deluge of curious, irritated, and lustful mental chatter aimed their way, Harry and Edward walked toward the dark corner of the lot where the rest of the Cullen family waited.

As soon as they were within a few feet, Alice exploded into motion. She launched herself at Harry with the force of a tiny, kinetic missile.

“Oh, I'm so so much happy for you two. I can't wait to see all about your future!” she squeaked, clinging tightly. Harry laughed, returning the hug easily before Alice spun around with equal, almost overwhelming, happiness toward Edward.

Jasper offered a small, genuine smile. “Good morning, Edward, Harry. I’m genuinely happy for you both.” The sentiment was a profound relief for Harry.

“Now,” Alice chirped, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she assessed Harry with a critical, sparkling gaze. “We need to talk about your wardrobe. I’ve envisioned it—a dark green three-piece suit, custom tailored. We could put a subtle design in the lining—”

Harry immediately held up a hand, a look of polite refusal crossing his face. “Alice, I'm sorry but, Absolutely not. I appreciate the thought, but I hate suits.”

Emmett roared with laughter, slapping his knee as Alice deflated dramatically, pouting like a child who had been denied dessert.

It was in that moment, as Harry rolled his eyes at Emmett, that Edward’s composure fractured. He abruptly pulled Harry tightly to his side, his arm wrapping around Harry’s waist with a fierce, almost possessive intensity.

Harry looked up, mildly confused by the sudden, tight squeeze. “Edward, what was that for?”

Edward didn't answer Harry, but his gaze was fixed across the lot, where Jessica Stanley stood with her friends, not bothering to hide the blatant, speculative admiration in her stare.

Harry followed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. “Honestly, Edward. Must you read everyone’s mind? Just ignore her. They’re just looking.”

Edward bristled, the frustration clear on his perfect features. “I can’t help it, Harry. It’s loud. It’s always loud, and right now, her mental commentary is deeply offensive.”

Harry smiled, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. He reached up, his fingers briefly brushing against Edward’s temples—a touch so light it was almost imperceptible. A low thrum, like the distant vibration of a tuning fork, pulsed once, surrounding Edward’s mind with a silver-green barrier visible only to Harry.

For the first time since Edward had awakened as a vampire, the world went silent.

The endless, rushing current of thoughts—the anxieties of every student, the calculus problems rattling in a geometry major’s head, Jessica’s commentary, Alice’s constant planning—vanished. The noise was gone.

Edward blinked, stunned. He felt light, untethered. He could hear the wind in the pines, the subtle rush of his own internal metabolism, the sound of Harry’s heart beating steady and strong right beside him. He could finally breathe easily, truly easily, without the suffocating weight of three hundred external brains pressing in.

The realization struck him: Harry had done this for him.

Overwhelmed by gratitude and the sheer, exquisite novelty of the silence, Edward felt a sudden, fierce urge to capture this moment, to kiss Harry right here, right now, in the middle of the crowded parking lot. To devour him with his hunger and thirst....

Alice started giggling, clapping her hands over her mouth and shaking her head rapidly. “Oh, dear. Very soon, Edward. Very soon. That will be quite the scene.”

Jasper stepped forward, his expression severe. “Edward Anthony Masen Cullen,” he admonished, his voice low but firm. “Control yourself. Such intense lustful emotions are highly inappropriate for a high school parking lot.”

Edward froze, realizing that his overwhelming emotions were still loud enough for an empath like Jasper to read clearly.

Harry, his cheeks coloring deeply at Jasper’s blunt assessment, buried his face in his hand before looking up at Edward. He pulled him closer and mumbled against the fabric of Edward’s jacket, “See? This is why you shouldn’t pull me into unnecessary public displays.”

Edward merely held him tighter, the desire momentarily overridden by sweet, silent contentment. He didn't care about the gossip anymore.

The air around Edward and Harry had possessed a strange, hollow quality—a perfect, silent bubble in the normally oppressive noise of Forks High's Parking lot.

Edward hadn't realized how reliant he was on the constant psychic hum of the world until Harry had effortlessly drawn a veil around them, a spell so finely tuned it didn't just mute sound, it temporarily severed Edward's connection to the minds of everyone around him.

He was looking only at Harry, studying the faint dusting of residual magic around the tips of his surprisingly sharp cheekbones, when the bubble abruptly popped.

“When did that happen?” Bella asked from behind.

The question was flat, laced with a familiar mix of confusion and hurt, and it was the only sound Edward registered for a split second. Edward and Harry glanced at her simultaneously.

Bella had arrived with Jacob. The momentary shock—the realization that he had been so completely cut off, so vulnerable that he couldn't be alert to their approach—stiffened Edward's spine.

Edward turned to Harry, his eyes silently asking. Harry offered a nod, a spark of emerald magic retreating inward, like water pulled back from the shore.

At once, Edward was assaulted. The world went from silent clarity to a screaming, chaotic flood.

The thoughts hit him like a physical blow, dozens of simultaneous, contradictory voices tearing through the fragile calm Harry had enforced. Edward braced himself mentally, fighting the urge to clutch his head.

They were totally holding hands five minutes ago. Did they kiss yet?

Look at Edward, smiling. I’ve literally never seen him look like that with Bella.

The speculation was immediate and widespread. It was an overwhelming chorus of gossip, poorly contained lust, and cheap judgment.

So the gay thing was the reason of Bella being distance with him. That’s probably why Bella finally broke up with him, she just couldn’t handle it.

Edward instantly filtered the source of that cruel thought—a small, insecure girl hiding behind a textbook—and pushed her noise out of his immediate awareness.

Then came a thought so visceral and inappropriate it shocked Edward into a sudden, icy stillness: ...how good they would look having sex, the pale skin against the tan, I wonder if Edward is a top or a bottom...

Edward’s eyes snapped up, a lethal edge hardening his gaze. He located the source—a junior girl leaning against the wall, already blushing—and skewered her with a glare so intense she instinctively looked down at her feet, her thought abruptly stuttering into panic. Edward left that mind instantly, repulsed.

Below the surface, anchoring the crowd’s noise, was the thick, unpleasant rumble of Mike Newton’s internal monologue. Mike was saying some furious internal monologue about unnatural acts, twisting the concept into a moral failure. The blatant homophobia was so toxic, so casually hateful, that a low, predatory growl built in Edward’s chest. He wanted to crash Mike’s throat for daring to think so lowly of Harry—or anyone, for that matter.

He fought the lethal urge, focusing on the two newcomers standing directly in front of him.

Bella looked fragile, her brow furrowed. Jacob, standing just behind her, was a confusing mix of external calm and internal smugness.

Edward glanced at Jacob, whose external smirk was mirrored by a startlingly pragmatic interior monologue: Finally. Glad he moved on from Bella after all. Maybe now he’ll stop hovering.

Harry, completely unmoved by the psychic chaos Edward was enduring, remained the calm center of the storm. He gave Edward a small, knowing look that communicated: Welcome back to the noise.

Edward clamped down on every stray thought, every piece of gossip, forcing his mind into a disciplined. He allowed only his own voice to function.

Harry put a casual hand on Edward’s forearm, ignoring the blatant tension. “Bella,” he greeted, his voice even.

Edward met Bella’s eyes, noting the faint sheen of tears he hadn't detected a minute ago. He finally processed her question, the one that had been lost in the instant flood of the Parking lot's collective mind.

“If you are referring to the fact that Harry and I are dating, Bella,” Edward said, his voice flat, but perfectly controlled, “it happened quite recently.” He paused, allowing the sentence to hang. “Yesterday, actually.”

Bella stood rigid, hands clasped tightly in front of her, her gaze fixed on Edward.

He looked… conflicted, relieved that her anger hadn't materialized, but now seeing the deeper wound. Harry stood beside Edward, his eyes watching Bella with a flicker of understanding.

"I don't understand," Bella whispered, her voice barely audible, but vibrating with a pain that cut deeper than any shout. "Why didn't you just tell me?" She looked from Edward to Harry, then back again. "Edward, you should have just told me you were gay."

 

Edward flinched, a low growl rumbling in his chest, not of anger, but of distress. "Bella, it's not—"

Alice stepped forward, her pixie face serious. "Bella, our world doesn't work like that. We don't categorize our mates by gender, or anything else for that matter. There's no judgment, no 'straight' or 'gay' in the way humans understand it. A mate is a mate. If Harry is Edward's mate, then that's it. It’s a primal connection, predestined. Their genders are irrelevant to that bond."

"Irrelevant to you," Rosalie scoffed from where she stood, her arms crossed, a disdainful smirk playing on her lips. She looked at Bella, "You were just a singer to him, Bella. A fascination. A challenge. There was no physical attraction, not the kind that binds mates. He found your blood intoxicating, yes, but not you."

Edward's head snapped towards Rosalie, his eyes blazing. "Rosalie, stop." His voice was a low, dangerous growl.

Harry, however, stepped forward, his gaze gentle as he met Bella’s watery eyes. "She is right, to an extent, Bella," he said softly, his voice carrying a strange, almost ancient wisdom. "Edward and I… we were predestined to each other. We have been waiting, in different lives, in different forms, for a very, very long time. Our souls recognized each other. It was never about a superficial attraction."

Bella stared, feeling like her entire world had just changed and now it reassembled into a shape she didn't recognize. The tears finally welled, blurring her vision. "But… all this time… I'm.. I need time to process this..."

Before she could finish, Jacob stopped directly in front of Harry, who met his gaze steadily. Jacob's posture was powerful, protective, and unmistakably possessive.

"I'm Jacob Black, we have met before but now that you know about them and... this situation. I like to introduce myself," he stated, his voice deep and resonant, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. He didn't offer a hand, didn't smile. His eyes, however, burned with an intensity that left no room for doubt. "...And I'm Bella's mate."

"So, you are Jacob? I've heard about you two from other kids," Harry asked, his voice a blend of curiosity and mild surprise. He'd heard the name in the halls, knew he was Bella's childhood friend and now, apparently, more. But it was only now, seeing him up close with Bella, that the pieces clicked together. This was the same Jacob who’d been such a boisterous presence at the sea a few days prior.

Jacob shot him a wary glance, his dark eyes flickering between Harry and the gleaming pale figures of the Cullens. "Yeah, that's me. You're... Harry, right? New kid." He nodded, then a shadow crossed his face as he looked at Bella. "And yeah, I'm Bella's boyfriend. Imprinted on her." He said it with a bluntness that brooked no argument, a slight possessiveness in his tone.

"...now that I'm paying attention, you seem different from other muggles," Harry said. There's something in his aura that giving him supernatural power.

"Werewolf," Jacob said proudly.

"Huh," Harry shook his head. "I've seen them. My father's bestfriend is one of them. But you are.... I don't think I'm getting that core energy here," Harry mumbled to himself.

"I can show you, if you want. Let go to the nearby forest," Jacob shrugged.

Edward's grip tightened around Harry. "He isn't going anywhere," he growled.

"Calm down, Mr. Fangs," Harry rolled his eyes, yet his hand rubbing Edward's. Emmett looked comical as he was conflicted whether to laugh at the name or glare at Jacob.

"So, you can show me whether it's true or not just by your will? It's not even full moon?" Harry turned to look at Jacob.

"That's myths," Jacob clarified, pulling Bella to his side.

Is there some kind of competition going on here? 'look! I also have a girlfriend! You aren't the only one with mate!' Harry scoffed at his own thought.

"It's not a myth. I told you, I've a uncle who's a werewolf. He isn't alive now but his son is my godson. And they can't shift at their will. There's has to be full moon around the time. So, I don't think you are a werewolf....maybe shapeshifters?" Harry suggested.

"We can discuss this later with my father's presence," Jacob said. Harry nodded and glanced at Edward and frowned.
"...and why the hell are you all look like— you just smell the trashcan?"

Beside them, Edward Cullen and his siblings – Alice, Jasper, Emmett, and Rosalie – stood as if they're assaulted by a particularly foul odour. Their perfectly sculpted features were drawn, a collective wrinkle of disgust marring their impossibly beautiful faces. Harry quirked an eyebrow at Edward.

Edward offered a tight-lipped apology. "Forgive us, Harry. It's just... his kind has a very... distinctive aroma." His tone was polite, but the subtle tremor in his voice spoke volumes about his distaste.

Jacob scoffed, a deep rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the ground. "Yeah, well, you bloodsuckers don't exactly smell like a bed of roses to us either, pal. More like death and mothballs."

Harry couldn't help it. A bark of laughter escaped him, loud and startling in the sudden tension. It was so unapologetically irreverent, so refreshingly honest, that he found himself genuinely amused.

Just as the sound died down, the shrill, insistent wail of the final bell tore through the air, signalling that the classes would start soon. Everyone jumped, the spell broken. With hurried goodbyes and lingering glares, they parted to their respective, very different classes.

Harry's first class was English, a droning lecture that normally would have him scribbling idle doodles in his notebook. Today, however, his mind was miles away, or rather, inches away, fixed firmly on the consciousness of Edward Cullen.

He’d never truly tried Occlumency to push out thoughts, only to shield them. But the surge of energy, the unexpected meeting, and a potent, unfamiliar pull had made him desperate to try something new. He focused, pushing his thoughts, his very presence, towards Edward, a subtle, almost imperceptible hum against the edges of the vampire's mind.

Edward, in a different classroom across the hall, was utterly blindsided. A foreign presence had suddenly flickered into his mind. It was tentative at first, like a shy brush of fingertips, then a clear, if fractured, thought:

Can you hear me? Shock rippled through him, so profound it nearly made him drop his pen. He clutched his desk, forcing his expression to remain impassive, but inside he was exploding. Harry, His mate...And he was in his head.

Harry? Yes. I can hear you. Your mental presence is… startlingly clear. It’s like standing next to a loud radio.

Sorry. I’m new at this. It’s just…I want to talk to you, Harry thought.

I am used to constant noise. Your voice is a welcome change. What are you learning about? Edward replied through his head.

Something Boring. Tell me something interesting. What’s your favorite song?

By the time the single class ended, Edward had, remarkably, grown somewhat accustomed to the intermittent bursts of Harry’s nascent mind-link. Harry’s communication wasn't constant, breaking down sometimes into enthusiastic but incoherent surges of feeling, but Edward was on edge, a pleasant hum beneath his skin, through the entire day.

They talked. Harry poured out his thoughts. He asked about Edward’s favourite songs – a surprising mix of classical and indie rock. Edward asked about Harry’s favourite colour – green, of course.

Harry described his brief, terrifying flight on a broomstick, while Edward recounted his early twentieth-century travels through Chicago and the smoky jazz clubs of Philadelphia.

Harry found himself sharing the raw truth of his orphanhood, of being left behind by a world he barely remembered, abandoned to the cruel mercies of his aunt and uncle, who were, to put it mildly, "not very nice people." He told Edward about his best friends, Ron and Hermione, their unwavering loyalty and their endless capacity for adventure.

Edward, in turn, shared snippets of his own existence – the rebellious years in New York, the endless search for meaning, the quiet, profound love for his family.

By the time their last class before lunch break arrive, Harry recounted tales of their Hogwarts caretaker, the perpetually grumpy Mr. Filch, and his beloved cat, Mrs. Norris— She looked exactly like him, cranky and judgmental. Mr. Filch would patrol the halls with her, looking for reasons to put us in detention. —whose shrill meows could strike fear into the hearts of the students and how all the students greatest ambition was to give a good kick to her.

Edward burst out laughing, —a full, booming sound that echoed through the quiet math classroom and made his siblings flinch. His Biology teacher stop mid-sentence and every head in the room turn. He quickly offered a murmured apology, but the image of Filch chasing students with Mrs. Norris hot on his heels was too vivid.

By the time the lunch bell screamed, the air between their minds had crackled with not just lighthearted banter but also some truly heavy stuff – fears whispered, vulnerabilities laid bare.

Harry found himself desperate. Desperate to see Edward again, to bridge the physical gap that separated them, to put a face to the voice that had woven itself into the fabric of his mind.

 

Harry walked with purpose, the anticipation of seeing that familiar, severe profile soften into a genuine smile overriding the usual school stress. He was almost there—he could already smell the dreadful pizza—when a figure materialized directly in his path, hands twisting nervously at her sides.

Bella.

“Harry, wait up,” she said, her voice low and slightly breathless, possessing a strange mixture of intensity and fragility that Harry found suspicious.

He stopped, a polite neutrality into his tone as he asked. “Bella. Is everything okay?”

She nodded rapidly, but the movement only emphasized the tension in her jaw. “Yes. No. Look, I just wanted to say… I’m really happy that you and Edward found each other.”

The words were correct—perfectly supportive—but they were delivered with a visible edge, a tightness around her eyes that suggested anxiety rather than genuine congratulations.

Harry frowned. He knew Edward cared for Bella, but Harry had no patience for unnecessary drama. He decided to bypass the small talk.

“That’s good to hear,” Harry said, and about to leave but Bella stopped him. There's a hesitation in her mouth as she tried to say something.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a serious undertone. “You’re Jacob’s mate now, Bella. You built a whole life for yourself. So why are you so interested in who Edward dates?”

The question was direct and exactly the catalyst Bella needed to shatter.

To Harry’s profound confusion, Bella’s chin instantly buckled, and her eyes welled up with large, glittering tears. She blinked rapidly, trying to catch them before they fell down her pale cheeks. It was a reaction so disproportionate to his simple question that Harry felt a fresh wave of bewildered annoyance.

Why is she crying? Did I hurt her feelings? About what? Edward?

“Bella, look, if this is about residual feelings—”

She shook her head viciously, sniffing hard. “No! It’s not about that. I don’t… I don’t love Edward like that anymore. I love Jake. I do.”

“Then what is this about?” Harry asked, his patience beginning to wear thin. He was losing precious moments of pre-lunch Edward time.

Bella glanced around the hall, dropping her voice to a desperate whisper, as if someone might overhear her secret.

“It’s about the narrative, Harry,” she insisted, her voice thick with swallowed emotion. “Think about what the school knows. Edward and I were the thing. Then we broke up because, and everyone knows I chose Jacob over him. That’s the story, that's a mature choice, right?”

Harry watched her, waiting for the inevitable, self-centered punchline.

“But.... if... suddenly, after only a few weeks, Edward is with you—everyone would think,” she whispered, the tears finally tracking paths through the unshed dust on her face. “They’d realize that Edward only broke up with me because he was gay. They’ll realize he tolerated me until he found a man. And then… then I’m just funny. I’m the girl who was the placeholder for the guy Edward actually wanted.”

She looked at him, utterly mortified. “Harry, I can’t be the laughing topic of the school. They’ll think I’m stupid. They’ll think I was just a phase to cover for him.”

As Harry listened, a slow, hot tide of anger rose up his throat, seizing him with a force that momentarily paralyzed his ability to speak. The sheer, overwhelming triviality of her concern was staggering. All this distress, all this forced drama and actual tears, was not about lost love, or spiritual connection, or fear for Edward’s happiness—it was about protecting her public image in the narrow confines of a small-town high school hallway.

All she can think about is herself and the silly reputation of a teenage girl.

Harry’s blood positively boiled with rage, but he held it in. He held it in for Edward. Edward deserved peace, and Harry knew that if he exploded, the resulting scene would only complicate Edward’s life further.

He took a slow, deep breath, maintaining a quiet, dangerous composure.

“Bella, I understand that high school feels like the whole world right now,” Harry said, his voice clipped and low. “But you need to think out of the box. There is so much more in the world than who laughed at whom in the lunch line. Edward is happy. I am happy. Your reputation with people whose opinions will cease to matter the second you graduate should be the least of your concerns.”

Bella recoiled as if slapped. Her own indignation flared, momentarily overriding her self-pity.

“That’s not right! You are wrong to judge me, Harry. That's unfair! I am mature,” she protested, wiping the back of her hand across her wet eyes. “I took care of my mother my whole life, and I take care of my dad, too. I deal with adult things. This isn't just silly drama!”

Harry shook his head slowly, sadly. He didn’t bother arguing about the definition of maturity. Logistical responsibility did not equal emotional perspective.

He had nothing left to say to her. He simply looked her over once more—her tear-streaked face, obsessed with the fleeting approval of her peers—and knew he could not bridge the gap between their priorities.

“I have to go, Bella. Edward is waiting.”

He stepped around her rigid form and continued his walk toward the cafeteria. As he walked, Harry muttered under his breath, “Silly girl. I will never understand women… or teen girls for that matter.”

"Which woman you are trying to understand?" Edward materialized out of nowhere, hugging him from behind.

"Your ex-girl friend, apparently," Harry shook his head and glanced at the kids side-passing them with mouth open in shock.

"You are trying to understand Bella?" Edward was confused. "What happened?"

Harry sighed and turned to look at his mate. His heart skipped a beat when he looked at Edward, this man is created for him only
He would never going to tired of seeing that angelic face...

"Harry? You are saying something," Edward asked.

"Right," Harry mumbled. Then he told Edward how Bella stopped him and told him about not to out their relationship in the school because it would make her look like a fool.

Edward frowned at him. "But, she shouldn't be concern about who I date,"

"Don't worry about it, Bitey," Harry touched his face, smirking when Edward grimace at the name.

"You know I was missing you the whole day," Edward told him.

"Ditto," Harry replied, still holding his face. Harry wanted kiss him so badly.

"Will you two stop thinking to get into each other's pants for one moment? I'm here enduring all those lusty feelings all day from you both," a voice said from behind them, and a peaceful feeling washed over them.

Edward growled looking back at his brother, "Never manipulate my emotions, Jasper!" He said.

Jasper shrugged, "I'm just making sure you two remain pg-13, in school campus," he said and Alice giggled. Rosalie scoffed before going inside cafeteria, ignoring Emmett's booming laughter.

Edward’s eyes, which had softened moments before in affection for Harry, hardened into an intense glare as Jasper’s words echoed. But his focus wasn’t on his brother for long. It snapped back to Harry, the earlier confusion replaced by a clearer, more dangerous anger. He pulled Harry closer, a possessive arm wrapping around his waist, oblivious to the lingering sensation of Jasper’s calming touch.

“She said what?” Edward’s voice was low, a rumble deep in his chest that Harry felt more than heard. “Made her look like a fool? By us simply… existing?”

Harry leaned into the embrace, a small smile playing on his lips despite the underlying tension. “Apparently, our relationship being public would be a direct assault on her ego. Heaven forbid she look like she wasn’t the sole centre of the universe, or that you might actually be happy with someone else.” He rolled his eyes, He could feel Edward’s growing agitation, the subtle tightening of his muscles.

“That’s ridiculous,” Edward growled, his gaze sweeping over the remaining students spilling into the cafeteria, as if searching for a certain brunette. “Our relationship is our own. It has nothing to do with her or what she thinks she looks like. We’re not hiding anything, and we’re certainly not going to start because of her vanity.”

Jasper, now leaning casually against a locker nearby, gave a small shake of his head. “Her emotions are quite… volatile around all day today, Edward. A blend of embarrassment, jealousy, and a strong sense of entitlement, if I’m not mistaken.”

"She foresaw herself as the tragic heroine, you know. Not the one who was… replaced" Rosalie who was still waiting for them in the cafeteria return again with a plate full of lunch.

Alice, who had stopped her giggling, said seriously, "Give her some time. She is a teen girl afterall,"

Rosalie scoffed, "You can tell her that in her face. She thinks herself a mature one, a tragic princess,"

Harry smirked. “Well, tell her to write a different story. This one’s already taken.” He gently touched Edward’s cheek again, urging him to meet his gaze. “Don’t worry about it, Edward. She’s not worth the anger. We’re not going to let her dictate how we live our lives, or how we feel about each other.”

Edward’s jaw remained tight, but the anger in his eyes softened as he looked at Harry. He pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. “I just hate the idea of her trying to make you uncomfortable, or trying to diminish what we have.”

“She failed, then,” Harry said simply, his voice firm. “Completely.” He glanced at the cafeteria door, “Speaking of which, I am starving. And I have a feeling Emmett might be eating all the pizza if we don’t get in there.” he said loudly when a group of students passed them.

Edward let out a low chuckle, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. “Right. Food.” He tightened his arm around Harry, guiding him towards the cafeteria entrance. As they passed Jasper and Alice, who now walked side-by-side, Jasper gave Edward a significant look.

“Just remember, brother,” Jasper thought, “some people’s self-worth is so self centric that it becomes fragile, Our joy shouldn’t be a sacrifice for their delusion.”

Edward nodded, a new understanding settling in his gaze. “It won’t be.” He said, squeezing Harry’s hand.

Chapter Text

The worn bricks of the fireplace pulsed with a familiar green luminescence. Harry settled back into the armchair, a sigh escaping his lips.

It had been another week without his bestfriends by his side. He sat curled in his favorite armchair, a half-finished book resting on his lap, his gaze fixed on the hearth. It was monday, their designated time for the weekly Floo call.

An incoming call, always. Outgoing calls were too risky, a potential information in the wizarding world that Harry Potter now lived in another country and was still very much alive and in contact with the outside.

The sheer volume of foreign calls to Ronald Weasley after Harry's abrupt disappearance had been a problem, but Ron, bless his many brothers scattered across the globe, had managed to chalk it up to his sprawling family network. Harry, in a strange twist of fate, had become another one of those distant Weasley brothers in the eyes of their world.

He checked the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Right on time.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice, bright and clear, was the first to pierce the silence. Her head, framed by a halo of unruly brown hair, popped into the fireplace, her face wreathed in a wide infectious smile. “I’ve missed you so much!”

Almost immediately, Ron's familiar, cheerful voice chimed in, "Make room for me too, 'Mione! Oh, Harry! Mate, missed you, you git!" Ron’s head appeared beside Hermione’s, his red hair a stark contrast to her brown, his own grin as warm as ever.
Harry’s own smile spread across his face, a genuine warmth blooming in his chest. The loneliness that had been a constant companion since their departure seemed to recede, pushed back by the sheer presence of his two best friends. “You know,” he cleared his throat, “-school doesn’t feel the same without you two.” he admitted, his voice a little softer than usual.

Ron chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “Well, tell you what, I’m keeping busy. Auror Department’s been swamped. Solved a rather nasty bit of curse-breaking this week, and a surprisingly resilient garden shed.” He winked.

Hermione chimed in before Ron could launch into further detail. “And I’ve been diving deep into advanced Charms theory for that new course I was telling you about. Trying to untangle the complexities of trans-dimensional spatial manipulation. Fascinating stuff, truly.”

Harry listened, a sense of contentedness washing over him. It was good to hear their voices, to know they were thriving, living their lives. Harry was content to hear the rhythm of their normal lives, a stark contrast to the unsettling quiet that had enveloped him since... well, since everything changed.

He then hesitated, a knot forming in his stomach. He’d been mulling this over for days, and it was difficult to articulate.
“There’s… something else,” he began, his gaze dropping to his clasped hands. “I met some people at school. A family. The Cullens.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, her investigative instincts immediately kicking in.

"They are... They are different..." Harry continued. "And not muggle so, I wanted to tell you two about them,"

Hermione tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “The Cullens? I’ve checked the town, Harry. There's no mention of wizards there. What are they? There’s no mention of witches and wizards, no magical activity whatsoever in any of the historical records or contemporary surveys. What are they? Why are they in such a remote, unmagical place?”

Harry took a deep breath. “They’re…not wizards, 'mione. They... they are vampires.” "And there's also a shapeshifter community."

Ron's cheerful demeanor shifted to concern. "Vampires? Harry, that's… not ideal. You should be more careful. Maybe it would be wise if you moved to a different place?"

Harry shook his head, his gaze dropping to his hands, the hesitation returning, thicker this time. "I can't,It’s… it’s more complicated than that," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He hesitated again, then forced himself to continue. "I think... I think I found my mate."

The green flames in the fireplace seemed to flicker, mirroring the sudden stillness that descended upon the call. Hermione and Ron exchanged a loaded glance, a shared understanding passing between them. They knew the weight of those words.

Hermione’s voice, when it came, was soft, measured, as if treading on delicate ground, as if approaching a wounded creature. "Harry," she began, carefully choosing her words, "you know there's only one chance to find a soulmate in the wizarding world. One...it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event. It’s incredibly rare.."

Harry nodded, the ache in his chest as present as ever. “I know. But Edward… he has the soulmark. Just like Cedric did. And I’m feeling… everything. All the emotions a soulmate is supposed to feel.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them that conveyed a mixture of worry and disbelief. Ron started to say, "Harry, mate, you can't be serious..."

But Harry held up a hand, cutting him off. "I know it sounds crazy," he admitted, “I need you to hear me out. There are similarities between Cedric and Edward. The soulmark… it’s in the exact same place.” He paused, gathering his courage. “I have a theory. What if… what if Cedric wasn’t killed that night? What if he was sent away… to a different timeline? And what if… what if Cedric is Edward? We didn't saw...his body that night. I didn't saw it,”

Hermione let out a sharp gasp. "A different timeline? Harry, I've never heard of such a thing! It's... it's a wild theory." Yet, despite her initial shock, a flicker of curiosity ignited in her eyes.

"There's... Edward also have the uniform," Harry told them. "The triwizard tornament uniform. The one Cedric was wearing. He told me - he was wearing that when his father found him and transform him into vampire.... because he pleaded to live and wait for someone name ‘Harry’... I don't know if it's possible, but I think he is Cedric,"

"If you want me to look into it, I will. I'll find any possible explanation." Hermione agreed at once. "But Harry you have to understand that even if he is Cedric, there's a huge difference between them. After turning into vampire...a person looses their human nature and most of the time they forget their past.... completely,"

Harry nodded, he realised that after talking Edward. "I know...and I... I see the difference already, 'mione. He isn't like Cedric at all... maybe hundred years make the difference here. But I like Edward the way he is. And I'm not looking for Cedric in him."

Hermione smiled at that, "Okay, I'll look for any information I get on spells that send people back in time,"

"Thankyou," Harry rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "Edward... He also wants to know his past. He told me that he doesn't remember anything of his past life." He told them, then added,"He ...he is so different from Cedric and yet so similar,"

"Harry..." Hermione's voice was soft.

Ron sighed, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “Harry, if you’ve found someone new, I… I want you to be happy. Truly. But please, you can’t get stuck in the past. You can’t let this… theory… overshadow your present.” He looked at Harry, his gaze earnest. “You deserve to move forward, mate.”

Harry met their worried gazes, a flicker of hope mingling with the lingering doubt. He had their attention. They ended the floo-network and Harry warded his house entrance before he closed his eyes.
It's been a long day, and he wasn't sure what to do to avoid wasting another day in useless stuffs.

The small, isolated cabin smelled of pine sap and aged leather. Edward and his brothers had departed at dawn for a hunt. Harry had watched them go, settling afterwards into the slow, grateful rhythm of solitude.

He was alone, save for Kreacher, who had vanished hours ago. Harry knew the likely destination: the tree house. It was an odd rustic structure—a large, heavy oak platform built into the tallest tree near the clearing, silent and utterly unused by anyone since they arrived.

He took a slow, searing gulp of Firewhisky, the liquid fire spreading warmth through his chest, a sensation he found eternally comforting. He leaned back in the worn armchair, letting his eyes close against the low lamplight.

Was that it?

This was the question that haunted his eternal existence. His new life. It was comfortable, loving, and deeply strange. It was a life lived outside the frantic, fragile rush of human time, surrounded by creatures who viewed centuries the way men viewed months.

He was still seeking the answer for his immortality. Not the mechanism—he knew the price of defeating Voldemort and the consequence of uniting the Hallows—but the purpose. Why was he given this endless stretch when the soul he knew best, the one he was supposed to keep pace with, had been cruelly snatched away?

The answer, he was now absolutely certain, lay right here.

Edward.

He took another long draught of the spirit and exhaled slowly. Edward was Cedric. He didn't need complicated runes or Hermione’s meticulously researched confirmation of time-slippage or wild theories.

Harry knew it in the marrow of his endless bones— his soul knew that, it felt that. That deep, comforting smile that managed to be both wry and gentle. The casual, protective touch. The feeling of belonging that Harry hadn’t experienced since before the Final Battle—a sense of home that transcended species and mortality. Cedric hadn't died; he had merely stepped off the mortal treadmill to wait for Harry in a form that could keep up. A creature that lived hundreds of years. A soulmate that transcended death itself.

Harry lit a cigarette, the sulfurous strike of the match momentarily startling the silence. He watched the smoke curl and dissipate, mimicking the ephemeral nature of the lives he had left behind.

His eyes drifted on the heavy oak cabinet set against the far wall. Inside, displayed simply on velvet cloth, were his three prized possessions.

For an outsider, it was an eccentric collection: a beautiful, grime-streaked silver sword; a small, dented golden toy; and a folded piece of ancient, heavy grey fabric.
They were the relics of his mastery.

Harry scoffed, a dry, bitter sound. Death was now his companion, a silent presence that often sat waiting on the edge of his perception, a friend who never spoke, merely watched. Sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, Harry would whisper, "Why me?"

The answer was always the same, resonating like the deep ring of a bell in his mind: "You earned it."

That was the difference between him and the other recorded Masters. Most stole the Hallows, fought for them, or searched relentlessly to possess them. Harry never wanted them; he never sought them out. He just wanted to live, to save others, and to finish the fight. The reward was an eternity he hadn't asked for.

What a hellish, magnificent prize it was—watching his friends grow older, their hair thinning, their magic dimming, until one by one, they would be gone.

It had become an unspoken rule in the house. Whenever Harry Floo-call hear Hermione's story, Ron’s booming laugh—Kreacher would quietly and immediately vacate the premises.

He needed no instructions. The gruff little elf understood the specific quality of Harry’s mourning: the grief of the permanently left behind.

Harry finished the Firewhisky and stubbed out the cigarette. The cabin was utterly silent. Edward would not return until moonrise.

Harry had signed up for a muggle school out of sheer boredom, fully anticipating a mundane experience. However, he quickly realized that this place held surprises he had not anticipated.

 

The Forks High cafeteria was always a riot of noise, but today, it felt particularly oppressive to Harry. Girl's choice dance!!

He was practically glued to Edward’s side, using his unapproachable vampire as a human shield against the relentless onslaught of dance proposals. Harry had already politely declined two, offering vague excuses about "settling in" and "I don't dance" His head throbbed, and he let out a long, weary sigh, slumping further against Edward.

"It's like Hogwarts all over again!" Harry groaned, rubbing his eyes. Only Jasper was sitting beside him, reading a wizards book that Harry gave him previous day. Jasper hummed and turned a page rather slowly.

"You have lots of dance date in your last school then?" Alice asked placing a tray full of lunch infront of him. Rosalie and Emmett followed her and sat down beside them.

"I love dances," Rosalie declared. "It's fine time to explore new fashions and being admired by the whole school!" She smirked.

"Being admired? No thank you very much," Harry bite an apple and looked away.

"So, about your dance date? Did you have same situation in your last school?" Alice asked again and Edward, who was silent the whole time growled at her.

"Alice,"

Harry scoffed, patting Edward's arm, "Don't ask me, a lot of girls and boys asked me to Yule Ball... a girl asked me out and she was two years younger! Can you believe it?" He said, "And there's Romilda Vane. She tried to give me love potion,"

Emmett arched an eyebrow at that, "And what is a love potion?" He asked. Edward glanced at him too.

Harry sighed, somehow slumping further into Edward, "That's a potion, some kind of ... Liquid that make you fall in love with the person who gave you that. It is illigal to use in a great extent but for minimal time it is acceptable,"

"Did you drink it?" Edward asked suddenly so seriously that Harry laughed.

"Of course not. Hermione warned me before hand. But Ron didn't know, so he ate the chocolate that had the potion in it,"

"You seem like a sought after heartthrob in your school," Jasper said chuckling and shaking his head. "How many boyfriends and girlfriends did you date Harry?"

Edward stiffened imperceptibly beside him. Harry followed Edward's unblinking gaze and saw Jessica Stanley weaving her way through the crowded tables. Edward's mood, already a low hum of irritation since the first girl had approached Harry, plummeted several noticeable degrees. Harry could almost feel the temperature drop.

"Here we go again," Harry mumbled, not even bothering to lift his head. "Third one."

Edward offered no verbal response, but his jaw tightened, and his hand, resting casually on the table, clenched into a fist.

Jessica arrived with a flourish, her perfectly styled hair swaying. She beamed, a dazzlingly bright smile that didn't quite reach her assessing eyes. "Harry! There you are! I was starting to think you were avoiding me." Her voice was sweet, but there was an underlying current of entitlement.

Harry managed a strained smile. "Hey, Jessica. Just, uh, trying to finish my lunch." He gestured vaguely at his almost untouched tray.

"Oh, right!" Jessica chuckled a little too loudly, tucking her hair in her ear then glancing at others in the table. "Anyway, I know everyone is buzzing about the dance this weekend, and I wanted to make sure I got to you first. I mean, new guy, from another country? You're practically the hottest topic in Forks right now! You have to go with me." She leaned in conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret though her voice carried easily.

Harry blinked. Have to? His polite façade cracked slightly. He felt a low rumble in Edward’s chest, a sound only Harry could discern.

"That's really nice of you, Jessica," Harry began, trying to sound genuinely appreciative, "but I'm actually really busy this weekend. Lot of adjustment with the new environment, you know, getting settled in—"

Jessica’s smile didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed, "Busy? Harry, come on. It's Friday night! You can settle down with the environment later. This is your chance to really make a splash! I know everyone, I'll introduce you around, make sure you have the best time. You should go with me." She gestured grandly, as if bestowing a great honour upon him.

Harry sighed, that seemed to pull all the air from his lungs. He ran a hand through his already messy black hair. "Jessica, I appreciate the offer, I really do. But my answer is no. I won't be going to the dance with you."

The confident smile finally, evaporated from Jessica’s face. Her eyes flashed with disbelief, then indignation. "No? What do you mean, no? Everybody wants to go with me! Are you... are you gay or something? Is that why you're saying no?" She said glancing at Edward's direction for a second before looking away. Her voice, rising in volume, cut through the cafeteria, drawing curious glances from nearby tables.

The noise dropped several decibels. A ripple of whispers spread. Harry felt Edward beside him go completely rigid, his whole body tensing like a coiled spring.

Harry's breath caught. He'd been patient, he'd been polite, he'd given lame excuses. But Jessica’s last comment, laced with such casual judgment and arrogance, snapped something inside him. All the exhaustion, the pressure, the constant feeling of being under a microscope – it all boiled over in a spectacular rush of temper. He pushed himself off the bench, his voice ringing out, clear and loud, across the stunned cafeteria.

"No, Jessica, I am not just gay!" Harry declared, his voice echoing. Edward flinched at the volume but remained frozen, his gaze locked on Harry. "For your information, I am bisexual! And even if I were straight, and even if I had no plans at all, I still wouldn't go with you! Not after that arrogant display! You don't get to tell me who I should go with, and you certainly don't get to question my sexuality just because I turned you down!"

A stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by the clatter of a dropped fork from a distant table. Then next to them, a booming unrestrained laugh shattered the quiet.

It was Emmett. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, his shoulders shaking with mirth. Rosalie, usually so aloof, had a genuine, if fleeting, smirk on her lips. Alice giggled, covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes sparkling, while Jasper looked a mix of amused and slightly overwhelmed by the raw emotion Harry was projecting.

Jessica's face now burned a furious, mortified scarlet. She looked around, seeing the stares, the whispers, the open laughter from Emmett. Humiliation washed over her in a visible wave. Harry, breathing heavily, glared back.

Without another word, Jessica spun on her heel and practically sprinted out of the cafeteria, leaving a stunned, lingering silence in her wake.

Harry sank back onto the bench beside Edward, who hadn't moved an inch throughout the entire outburst.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, a shaky laugh escaping him. "Well," he muttered, "that was... effective, I guess." He rubbed his temples. "I think I need a nap, or maybe a very large, very strong cup of tea."

Edward slowly turned his head to look at Harry, his golden eyes wide and unreadable. Harry could feel the chill radiating from him; Edward's mood had plummeted past frosty into something akin to a glacial abyss. He hadn't said a word, but his silence was more profound than any shout.

Emmett, still chortling, leaned over. "Way to go, Harry! You really told her off!"

Rosalie rolled her eyes at her brother, but a ghost of a smile lingered on her face as she looked at Harry. "A bit dramatic, but certainly effective."

Harry just groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I'm never going to live that down."

Edward's hand, cold against Harry's arm gave a light imperceptible squeeze. His voice, when it finally came, was a low strained whisper, "Are you… alright?" The question was simple, but laden with a hidden complexity of feeling that Harry couldn't begin to dissect. It sounded like direct concern for Harry's well-being after the outburst.

"Harry?" Edward’s voice was a low murmur, barely audible above the sudden, charged silence that had descended upon the cafeteria. He squeezed Harry’s hand, the touch a frantic question. Are you okay? Did you mean to declare that?

Harry met his gaze, his eyes blazing with a mixture of defiance and something softer, something that Edward couldn’t quite decipher in the storm of thoughts swirling around them. Harry gave his hand a reassuring squeeze back. I'm fine.

But Edward couldn't shake the gnawing unease. The cafeteria of teenage gossip and clattering trays, was now a silent, staring gallery. The thoughts, raw and unfiltered, assaulted Edward’s mind.

Bisexual? Harry Evans? No way!
I knew it. He’s always been a little… different.

What’s his parents gonna say? Is that why he alone?

This is gonna be all over town by tonight.

Poor guy. It’s a small town, this is gonna be tough.

The weight of those collective thoughts pressed down on Edward. He could feel the curiosity curdling into something more judgmental, the whispers of gossip already forming in the minds of his classmates.

He glanced at Harry again, searching for a flicker of something, a hint of regret. Harry’s jaw was set, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held a determined spark.

Edward’s own thoughts were a chaotic mix of concern for Harry and a primal urge to shield him. They’re all thinking it. They’re all talking about you in their heads. Are you sure you’re okay with this, Harry? Really sure? He could feel the ripple of Harry’s acknowledgment through their joined hands. Yes. I’m sure.

“Harry,” Edward tried again, his voice a little steadier this time, though still laced with worry. “Are you… you know. Are you sure? About… all of this?” He gestured vaguely to the cafeteria.

Harry finally broke his intense gaze, looking around the cafeteria with a small smirk. He didn't flinch under the weight of their scrutiny. “They’re thinking it, aren’t they?” he said, his voice low but clear, cutting through the lingering stillness. It was less a question and more a statement of fact. He looked back at Edward, his expression softening slightly. “And yeah, Edward. I’m sure.” He squeezed Edward's hand again, a firmer grip this time, a silent reassurance that transcended the noise in their heads. “More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.”

Jasper shrugged and restarted the conversation as if nothing had happened. "So, you dated a lot before coming here?" He waved his power subtly toward both Harry and Edward as he asked.

Harry exhaled quietly, relaxing a little under Jasper’s influence. "Thanks," he muttered silently before answering. "Not really, no. I had a boyfriend when I was fourteen, but..." He trailed off, exchanging a quick glance with Edward. They hadn’t shared much about their pasts yet.

Alice and Rosalie, however, were already leaning in, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Oh? Do tell," Alice urged, grinning.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "It wasn’t for long. We parted ways after a while. Then I had a girlfriend for a bit in my fifth year, and... well, there was Ginny. My best friend’s sister."

Emmett barked a laugh. "Daring move, dating the best friend’s sister! How’d that go?"

Harry winced. "Ron threatened to hex us both into next week. It didn’t exactly... last."

Rosalie arched a brow. "And after Hogwarts?"

"Uh—" Harry hesitated, then shrugged. "Mostly one-night stands, if I'm being honest. I dated a Hogwarts bloke for a few months, but he moved to France. After that, nothing serious."

The room was quiet for a moment. All the while, Edward had remained silent, watching Harry with an unreadable expression.
Harry finally turned to him, lips quirking. "Your turn. A hundred years—who’d you date?"

Edward chuckled softly before looking away, a faint smile playing on his lips. "No one," he murmured. "I was waiting for you."

"Bloody hell," Harry was shock, "that would make me look like a total git,"

"No, it's not." Edward replied taking his hand.
The table collectively froze. Then Emmett groaned, throwing his hands up. "Oh, come on! That’s disgustingly romantic."

Harry flushed, but Edward just smirked, gaze never leaving Harry’s.

The lunch break came to a close, and the students returned to their classrooms. The day unfolded like any other, but the weather took a turn for the worse. A looming cloud hinted at a night filled with heavy rain and possibly a thunderstorm. Harry found himself torn between feelings of happiness and sadness, uncertain about how to react, especially since he had no plans for the evening ahead.

The Cullen family and Harry were standing near the lockers just before the bell rang for the final classes of the day.

Clapping his hands together with the force of a small earthquake, Emmett grinned broadly at them, "Perfect! Absolutely perfect timing,"

"Timing for what?" Harry asked, eyes looking for a particular bronze hair vampire. Edward was late. It was just him Emmett and Alice— Jasper approaching them from other side of the hall.

Alice's head tilting slightly as she watched a rapidly shifting vision, "Oh, yes! Tonight is shaping up beautifully. The timing is immaculate, Em."

"Is 'immaculate timing' code or something? Because it looks like a perfectly normal Tuesday to me." Harry asked again.

Edward appeared in time to see Alice's vision, A small, amused smile playing on his lips, "It’s code for a severe weather warning, Harry,"

"...What?"

"Baseball, Potter! Tonight! The whole clan!" Jasper said.

"You’re going to play baseball… in a thunderstorm? That sounds less like a game and more like a trip to the hospital," Harry shook his head.

"We require the lightning, and more importantly, the thunder." Edward replied.

"Why?"

Edward leaned in closer, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry past their group, "When we play, it gets intense. We hit the ball with... significant force. If we played on a quiet, clear night, the sound of the collision would carry for miles. The thunder masks the noise. It lets us play without drawing undue attention."

Blinking slowly, Harry said, "So, your favorite sport is entirely dependent on meteorological disaster. That is… truly bizarre,"

Jasper stepping up behind Harry, a faint wave of good-natured challenge radiating off him, "Bizarre, but necessary. Think you can handle it, Harry? Or is the pace too fast for a wizard?"

Harry chuckled, "I might manage. Though you should know, I’ve never actually played baseball. Not a single inning,"

Emmett was shocked, "What?!"

"I only know one sport that involves hitting things, and that’s Quidditch. I imagine it’s a bit different than running around a diamond. I usually prefer to play several hundred feet in the air," Harry explained.

Emmett's eyes widen in excitement. "Flying sports?! Tell me everything! Does it require wings? How fast do you go?"

Alice stopped him before he say more, "Ask him during dinner, Em. The bell is about to ring, and you have Calculus,"

Placing a guiding hand on Harry’s shoulder, Edward started to steer him toward their shared history class, "Come on, Harry. We need to go before Emmett completely hijacks your life story,"

"We’ll see you at the field. Don’t sprain your ankle on the way," Jasper said, nodding to Harry with a dry grin.

Edward and Harry broke off from the others, walking down the crowded corridor toward their classroom.

"So, this Quidditch. I heard you mention a hitting something, but I assume the rules diverge sharply from anything we’re familiar with," Edward said as they entered the classroom.

"Sharply is an understatement. Imagine baseball, except there are four massive balls flying around, seven players per team, and most of them are suspended hundreds of feet above the ground," Harry replied. Their history teacher was fixing tv in the middle of the room.

"Four balls? That sounds unnecessarily complicated. Are they all used for scoring?" Edward was now curious.

"No, only one—the Quaffle. That’s what the Chasers use. There are three Chasers on each team, and they try to throw the Quaffle through one of three hoops at the end of the pitch. That scores ten points," Harry said, frowning when their history teacher announced that they were going to watch a historical documentary.

"Understood. And the other three balls?" Edward glanced at him, leaning forward slightly so that no-one else would hear them.

Harry shifted to mindlink instead, Two of them are the Bludgers. Those are the dangerous ones. They fly around trying to knock players off their brooms. They’re heavy and enchanted to cause maximum damage.

Edward thought, That does sound like something Emmett would invent if he were a wizard.

Harry laughed. The room went dark as their history teacher started the documentary. Exactly. That’s where the two Beaters come in—they have bats. Their entire job is to patrol the field and smash the Bludgers away from their teammates, ideally sending them toward the other team.

Fascinating. So, scoring and defense accounted for. What is the fourth, and presumably most important, ball? Edward replied.

The Golden Snitch. It's tiny, winged, and almost impossible to spot. It just zips around the whole game. Whoever catches the Snitch ends the game immediately and earns their team 150 points. Harry explained.

Edward shook his head, reaching out to take Harry's hand. I can see why you were confused about our plans for tonight. Flying, enchanted bats, and deadly projectiles—it certainly makes our version of "extreme" baseball seem rather pedestrian by comparison.

After school they went straight to Cullen house. The roar of Harry's motorcycle was a familiar comfort, a vibration that resonated deep in Edward's chest. He leaned into Harry, the scent of the cool air and something uniquely Harry filling his senses.

Back at Cullen House, the usual boisterous energy was amplified. Emmett and Jasper were already a blur of motion, their excitement for their impromptu baseball game practically vibrating off them as they headed for the garage.

Edward’s gaze swept over his siblings for a fleeting moment before he turned his full attention back to Harry. He gently tugged on Harry’s hand, a silent invitation.

Harry’s smile widened, a bright infectious thing that made Edward’s heart – or what passed for it these days – do a strange little flutter. The simple touch of their hands sent a warm, insistent tingle, a soulmark’s whisper, through Edward’s entire being.

Once inside Edward's room, the door clicked shut behind them. Edward began to move towards Harry, his intentions clear in his glazed eyes. "Edward," Harry's voice, though soft, cut through Edward's focused desire. Edward paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

"What is it?" he murmured.

Harry chuckled, a low, warm sound. He moved to the door, his hand resting on its surface. "It's just… with six of you, with your… enhanced hearing," he gestured vaguely, "I don't think this is going to be very private."

Someone laughed downstairs, probably Emmett.

Edward tilted his head, still not quite grasping Harry's meaning. Harry then reached out, his fingers brushing against the wood of the door. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, a barely perceptible hum in the air. Edward watched, a question forming in his mind. Harry then turned back to him, a playful glint in his eyes.

"I locked it," Harry said, a grin spreading across his face, "and put a little charm on it. So, no one can hear us. It's wandless and non-verbal magic." He then pulled Edward towards the bed, his earlier explanation dissolving into a satisfied sigh as he finally gave in to the kiss Edward was so eager to give.

Edward returned the kiss with his own brand of intense yearning, but his mind was already buzzing with a new curiosity. He pulled back, his gaze falling on Harry. "Can I see your Wand?" he breathed, the word foreign and intriguing.

Harry’s hand found his wand in his front pocket. The smooth wood feeling familiar and powerful in his grasp, he gave it to Edward. He then turned his attention back to Edward, his lips finding the sensitive skin of Edward’s neck. "This," he murmured, his voice a velvet rumble against Edward's skin, "is my wand."

Edward traced the intricate carvings on the wooden stick with a fascinated finger, his vampiric eyes taking in every minute detail. "It's… remarkable," he whispered, his voice laced with awe. "How does it… what does it do?"

Harry answered with kisses and hushed explanations, his hands working at the buttons of Edward’s shirt. "It channels magic," he managed between a kiss to Edward’s jaw and a nuzzle against his ear. "It helps focus the intent. Like this…" His fingers fumbled slightly, and then Edward chuckled, realizing the front of his own shirt was suddenly open.

"You are such a desperate," he mumbled but his eyes were shut. Harry took the wand from his hand, tracing the pattern of his elder-wand. He doesn't want to think about it right now

Harry finally laid his wand down on the bedside table. He then took Edward’s arm, his strength surprising Edward. With a fluid movement, he flipped them, so that Edward was now the one beneath him, straddling him. The look in Harry’s eyes was pure desire, amplified by the thrill of their newfound privacy.

Edward's breath hitched as he felt the weight of Harry's body pressing down on him, the hard planes of Harry's chest against his own.

Harry smirked, leaning forward, his voice dripping with theatrical mockery. "Well, you mentioned in the cafeteria that you have been... You know waiting for me?"

Edward didn't move, merely tilting his chin in easy challenge. "Hardly. I’ve been practicing patience, darling,"

"A hundred years," Harry repeated softly, he could look up into Edward's face, his hands resting lightly on his arms. "Tell me, in that vast stretch of time, have you ever actually tried to find someone, Edward? Have you ever known anyone... intimately? Sexually? Were there others who shared your history that way?"

Edward’s composure fractured. He slowly shook his head. The playfulness was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet honesty that always humbled Harry.

"No," Edward admitted, his voice barely a breath. "No one. Not like that. It’s always felt precious, something reserved. A line I never crossed until I saw you standing on the other side of it."

Harry’s thumb traced the delicate curve of Edward’s jawbone. "May I ask Why?"

Edward looked away. "Because its easier to manage than the truth. The truth is, I’m afraid I’m a terrible romantic cliché, Harry. And, right now, if I’m honest—terribly, shamefully honest—I am a bit jealous."

Harry frowned, waiting patiently.

"That there are others who knew you that way," Edward finished, turning back, his eyes meeting Harry's with a flash of uncomfortable vulnerability. "People whose memories occupy space in your history that I didn't get to be a part of. Others who knew you that way, helped to write physical history before I appeared. They knew you in a fundamental way that I was only recently allowed to grasp. And I hate that I’m playing catch-up."

The admission was far deeper than Harry had anticipated. It wasn't about competitive physicality; it was about Edward’s fear of being secondary, of their connection being merely Harry’s latest, rather than his defining one.

Harry pulled him closer, holding him intensely, chest to chest.

"Listen to me, you beautifully complicated idiot," Harry murmured, his voice husky with sudden emotion. "You are not playing catch-up. You are not a footnote. The past is nothing but context, Edward. Dry theory. You are the definitive work. You are my destiny,"

He leaned back just enough to hold Edward's gaze, his hands cupping Edward's face firmly, a silent promise burning in his eyes.

"I can’t erase those memories, no. But I can make them utterly irrelevant. They knew my body, perhaps, but they did not know this." Harry dropped his hands, spreading them wide, indicating their connection, the gravity that pulled them together. "They didn't know the way your gaze melts me, or the precise moment your control snaps. They certainly didn't know the hundred years of future I want to spend with you."

He looked at Edward’s face—open, hesitant, and trusting—and knew that proof wouldn't be found in fervor, but in reverence.

"I need you to understand that what we have is singular. It’s an arrival, not a stopover," Harry whispered, his mouth descending.

The kiss was slow, deep, and deliberate. It started with nothing but reassurance, a breath-sharing exercise that confirmed connection before desire.

He began to undress Edward's remaining clothes with excruciating slowness, making every movement a declaration. There was no rush, no sudden need for release; only the methodical, careful learning of a landscape he was intent on exploring as if for the first time.

 

Harry's hands were everywhere, exploring every inch of Edward's body with a hunger that was almost feral. Edward could feel the heat radiating from Harry's skin, the scent of him intoxicating and familiar.

Harry's lips found Edward's neck, his teeth grazing the pale skin as he left a trail of kisses down to his collarbone.

Edward moaned, his hips bucking involuntarily as Harry's hand travel below, fingers tracing the lines of his abs before moving lower. Harry's touch was electric, sending shivers of pleasure through Edward's body.

He could feel the hardness pressing against his thigh, the heat of it searing through the fabric of Harry's clothes.

Harry made sure the focus remained entirely and intimately on Edward. Harry took his time exploring the quiet, often-guarded places that only true intimacy unlocks. He proved Edward’s value not by comparison, but by uniqueness—by treating him as an object of exquisite, irreplaceable wonder.

Harry's mouth was on his again, kissing him deeply, his tongue exploring every inch of Edward's mouth before slowly kissing his way down. Then He moved lower, his tongue tracing a path down Edward's chest, his abs.

He kissed the faint, old scar high on Edward's ribs, a mark Edward never spoke about. "Did anyone else notice this?" Harry asked against his skin. "Did anyone ever wonder where it came from?"

Edward gasped, a small, choked sound, his fingers clutching Harry’s shoulders. "No... no one," he managed. Harry poured out the devotion to every inch of him.

"Then I know you better," Harry declared, moving his lips to the south. "They only saw the surface. I see the history."

Edward was feeling so much, he was blinded by the desires, "Harry, please," he moaned.

"Please, what, love?" Harry asked as he took him in his palm before moving lower, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin behind them.

"More, please..." Edward's voice was soft but out of breath.

There was a depth to their union that Harry had never achieved, a profound, almost spiritual intimacy born from the necessity of banishing doubt. Harry didn't just feel Edward's pleasure; he felt the emotional release, the breaking down of a century's worth of guarded isolation.

"Edward?" Harry asked for permission, the boy beneath him was lost in his desires and looked so raw, wild and... beautiful, Harry couldn't believe this precious creature was made for him and him only.

Edward only managed to say "please," but Harry wanted to be sure, it's Edward's first time afterall, and he didn't want to rush it.

"Love, are you sure?" Harry asked, placing small kisses in his thigh.

"Yes," Edward gasped, his body arching off the bed as Harry's finger slipped inside him, the intrusion both shocking and pleasurable.

Harry's eyes met Edward's, the intensity in them almost too much to bear. "Fuck, Edward, love.." Harry growled, his voice low and husky. "You feel so good." Edward could only nod, his body trembling with need.

Harry's finger moved and Edward could feel the something building in his body, the pressure was almost unbearable. Edward's hips bucked, the sensation almost too much to bear.

Edward's hands gripped the sheets, his body writhing beneath Harry as he felt the orgasm building in his body.
"Harry," he called out one last time before he reached that place he was searching.

 

Afterwards, lying tangled together, breathing the soft, smoky air, Edward ran his hand over the curve of Harry’s spine.

"That was," Edward finally murmured, tracing the faint outline of a mole on Harry’s shoulder, "....extraordinary,"

Harry smiled, pulling Edward closer until their foreheads touched.

"Only because it's you and me," Harry confirmed quietly. "And you, you waited a hundred years... to see me again. Well, I’m right on time, darling. And from now on, I promise I will make damn sure you are the only one who matters."

Harry and Edward emerged from Edward's room hand in hand and smiling ear to ear. Their steps were light, their shoulders relaxed, and a shared secret sparkled in their eyes.

The rest of the family was scattered around the living room. Alice, as usual, was absorbed in a frantic fashion show on the massive flatscreen TV, occasionally muttering critiques under her breath. Emmett was deeply entrenched in a video game, the sounds of explosions and enthusiastic shouts echoing from his headset.

"The game night is cancelled, the weather is going good, but tomorrow is a confirmation thunderstorm night," Alice announced seeing them arrived.

Esme and Carlisle’s voices, hushed and melodic, drifted faintly from the study, deep in conversation. No one seemed aware of the quiet revolution that had just unfolded, the newfound happiness that now anchored Harry and Edward.

No one, that is, but Jasper.

He looked up from the magazine he was idly flipping through, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips. His golden eyes, usually so serious, twinkled with a mischievous light as they met Harry’s. Harry’s face, already flushed, deepened to a brilliant crimson. Edward stiffened, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he instantly read the full, unvarnished details of Jasper’s mental commentary.

Rosalie, hearing the faint growl and the sudden tension that snapped into the air, glanced up from her own magazine. Her eyes swept from Jasper’s amused expression to Edward’s simmering annoyance, and finally to Harry, who was trying to merge with the wall.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice calm but curious.

Edward, Harry, and even Jasper – in a silent, collective decision to avoid Rosalie's questions and Edward's immediate reprisal – merely shook their heads. Rosalie raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but letting it go for now.

Harry, still bright red, extracted his hand from Edward’s and navigated quickly towards the sofa where Emmett was battling virtual foes. He dropped down beside him, trying to appear nonchalant, though his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Emmett, oblivious, merely grunted in acknowledgment, his focus unwavering.

Edward followed, taking the empty seat beside Harry. The moment his backside touched the cushion, Jasper’s voice cut through the air, deceptively casual.

"It was a nice trick, Potter," he drawled, not even looking up from his magazine, though his mental presence was firmly fixed on them. "Putting a silencing...magic on the room so no one can hear your… talk."

Harry nodded curtly, refusing to take the bait, his jaw tight. He kept his gaze fixed on Emmett’s furious button-mashing.

"But you should be more careful than that," Jasper continued, his voice softer now, almost a warning. "You know there's an empath in the house, right?"

Harry’s breath hitched. He had been so focused on the silencing charm, on the walls, that he hadn't considered the sheer overwhelming feeling of their shared moment, a wave of powerful emotion that would be impossible to shield from an empath like Jasper.

"I'm decided, Edward." He said suddenly, then, turned his head, "I hate one of your siblings," he announced, "And that's Jasper."