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Chapter Text

Harry watched Dumbledore’s mouth move around words, glimpses of his teeth catching the candlelight and one sneaky hair seeming to inch to its way ever closer to his left nostril. The man seemed to feel all of his one hundred and twelve years of age weigh on him that day, with the lines engraved in his face digging deeper than usual and his eyes no longer shining their usual warmth and playfulness. His frown had only deepened since the conversation had begun and the man was still talking, perhaps sharing details or offering platitudes to Harry. His professor could have been confessing his undying love for the dark lord, and Harry would have been unfazed. None of it reached him. He couldn’t stop replaying the news he’d been greeted with upon entering the headmaster’s office at McGonagall’s firm but gentle urging. 

“Your family had an accident, Harry,” Dumbledore’s voice kept echoing in his head. “I’m sorry to tell you the Dursleys didn’t make it.”

The Dursleys, dead? 

What an absurd idea.

Yes, Uncle Vernon may have looked a few meals away from a heart attack, and Harry had often seen Aunt Petunia sway alarmingly when standing up during her “Get skinny today!” diets, and Dudley couldn’t have told his right from his left if the words had been tattooed on his very hands, but that didn’t mean anything. They couldn’t just up and die! 

Death could have knocked at Four Privet Drive and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t have bothered ungluing himself from the couch to yell, “We don’t want what you’re selling!” Aunt Petunia would have looked through the peephole and sniffed disdainfully at the audacity of anyone and anything bothering them on a fine Sunday morning. 

They’d never just die. What a hassle it would be!

Who would win the Most Beautiful Garden competition? Who would make sure to protect all those lovely normal people from any queerness abound? Who would keep Harry locked up?

The Dursleys couldn’t be dead. If they were–

If they were dead–

Didn’t that mean they could have died at any time? Some mugger on a backstreet could have ambushed Aunt Petunia on her way back from the shops and left her bleeding out from a stab wound. Uncle Vernon could have dozed off at the wheel after one too many drinks and totalled his car on the neighbourhood’s brick wall. Dudley could have tripped down the stairs (Harry could’ve pushed Dudley down the stairs) and broke his neck. 

If the Dursleys were dead, weren’t they as normal as they’d always claimed to be? No more permanent than the rats Aunt Petunia had Harry kill, no more durable than the innumerable toys destroyed by Dudley’s tantrums, merely mortals outlasted by rock and wood, outlived by the foundation of their own home. 

They couldn’t be. 

Because if they were, dead , if they were just normal people, no more special than the average human, then–

why couldn’t Harry have protected himself from them?

“Are you even listening, Potter?” A voice cut through the static in his head. Snape was looming a little off to the side of Dumbledore’s desk, his face set in his usual sneer reserved for dunderheads, and his dark eyes roamed Harry’s face as if to better observe how pathetic he was. 

Harry felt his lips twist automatically at the sight of his most hated professor and the confusing jumble of emotions (shock, dread, alarm, satisfaction ) going through him receded under his sudden anger so quickly it left him lightheaded. Just as he was about to snap back at the man, probably with an expletive or five, Dumbledore intervened. 

“Severus,” the fossil scolded, “Mr Potter is allowed to feel distressed.” He turned back to the teenager, and his lips quirked up imperceptibly. “And I’m afraid, my boy, that cursing your professors is still not allowed.” He lowered his eyes pointedly towards Harry’s waist, whose hand had reflexively reached for his wand. 

He painstakingly unclenched each of his fingers from his wand and pressed his hands together in his lap, resolving to set Snape on fire with the force of his glare alone. 

“As I was saying, it will be difficult to settle in with your family but–” Harry whipped his head back to his headmaster at those words. Surely, he had misheard?

“Professor,” he cut in, “you said the Dursleys were dead .” … did he sound appropriately sad about that? 

Probably not.

Snape scoffed, but Dumbledore didn’t bother looking at him. “Yes, such a tragic event. The loss of innocent life caused by the disasters of this world will always be something to mourn.” Harry thought he heard a cracking sound. His teeth, perhaps, from how hard he was grounding his jaw. “The Lewises have kindly agreed to take you in for the summer until you graduate. They, however, know nothing about our world and I should hope it will stay that way,” Dumbledore said with a meaningful look. 

Who the bloody hell were the Lewises? Why was Harry being sent to stay with strangers who didn’t even know of magic? There had to be other options. He could stay with the Weasleys for the whole summer instead of only the last few weeks as usual. He could go on the run with Sirius and they’d be able to live together like his godfather had said. 

“It is fortunate indeed that the familial relation is close enough to allow the blood wards to function. Now, more than ever, that protection will be needed. With Voldemort having regained a body, he will turn his attention towards other matters. His efforts to eliminate you will increase, my boy.”

Apparently, Harry wasn’t as family less as he thought. Those people could make the wards work as well. 

Those people … could make the blood wards work as well.

People other than Aunt Petunia. 

Glass shattered and exploded around the room, and oh, the noise hadn’t been from his teeth after all. He stood up and slammed his hands on the headmaster’s desk, shaking from his rage. 

“Why did you leave me at the Dursleys then,” he snarled, “if I had other family! Why did no one tell me?” The thick wood started splintering under his palms as his voice rose. “It’s my family! It’s my life!” he yelled. 

Snape’s voice emerged from somewhere behind Harry where the man had moved to stand at a safe distance. “Always with the demands, Potter. The world doesn’t revolve around you,” the bat wannabe spat out. Harry whirled around to face him and, overwhelmed by his ire and all the nasty words stuck at the tip of his tongue fighting to be let out, hissed savagely at him. The dreary black robes promptly burst into flames, making their owner stumble backwards in his haste to put out the fire. 

If there’s one good thing about today, Harry thought viciously, it’s getting to barbecue Snape. 

_____

Ron and Hermione had descended on him the moment he’d stepped in the common room, wanting to know why their Head of House had fetched him earlier. They weren’t the only curious ones, however; it seemed over half the Gryffindors were there, some poorly pretending to have a conversation as they looked at each other in silence, others not even bothering with the pretence and blatantly staring at him. It had been that way ever since the Third Task and Harry was sick of it. The whole of the student body was always watching him, whispering, but no one talked to him. Unable to stand all the eyes boring into him any longer, he’d ended up dragging his best friends throughout the school to finally settle outside, a few ways off the Whomping Willow where no one liked to sit.

He’d been ignoring Hermione’s pestering and Ron’s quips, which had devolved into bickering behind him, while he strode ahead. Now he turned around and, without bothering to try separating them, announced:

“The Dursleys are dead.”

That effectively silenced the squabble. Ron looked at him blankly for a moment before his face paled impressively and his mouth opened slightly in shock. Hermione gasped and clasped her hands. “Harry…” she trailed off seemingly wordless for once. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry,” her voice wavered a little as she edged closer and raised her arms. Harry let himself be drawn into the hug and felt Ron’s arms encircle them. The red-haired wasn’t that much taller than them both but Harry had the feeling he’d soon be shooting up to match his long limbs. 

They stood unmoving, the breeze of the Scottish Highlands and the summer sun shining down on them feeling almost wrong during such a heavy moment, and Harry felt himself go boneless surrounded by the warmth of his two favourite people in the world. They separated after a while, though Ron slung an arm over his shoulders and Hermione laced her fingers with his. 

“Let’s sit down,” Ron said, still looking a bit stunned, and practically dragging the dark-haired boy down with him as he decided to do just that without waiting for an answer. The trio sat in a circle, their knees knocking against each other’s, as each tried to figure out what to say. Harry felt perfectly content, resting outside with the great weather and distracted from how miserable he’d been feeling the past few days unable to stop thinking about the graveyard, and had no problem remaining silent. Of course, it did not last very long, as he could hardly drop such a bombshell on his friends and expect them not to ask questions. 

Hermione squeezed his hand and asked, “What happened, Harry? What did Professor Dumbledore say?”

Harry pulled his eyes away from where he’d been watching an either very brave or very stupid (probably the latter, and didn’t that feel familiar?) bird try to perch on the Whomping Willow and met his friend’s gaze. He felt more real, more present, than he had in days and every point of contact with his friends was like an anchor. This was what gave him the fortitude to take a deep breath and launch into his explanations. 

“There was a gas leak on Privet Drive. An explosion. The Dursleys’ house was, er … in the middle of it. They–the explosion killed them, and two of the neighbours too. Dumbledore said it was just a regular accident, nothing to do with magic or Death Eaters.” 

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but Harry continued before she could say anything. He wasn’t sure he’d be able he could manage being interrupted at the moment and at any rate, he thought he knew what she wanted to ask about. 

“The blood wards were just for wizards, for Voldemort’s followers. It didn’t protect from anything else, so … that’s why they died. They weren’t destroyed though–the blood wards–well, not entirely. Dumbledore thinks he can repair them and make them functional if a little bit weaker.” And this. This was the hard part. His earlier anger concerning his supposed estranged family had burned out, leaving him feeling vaguely cold and empty, not unlike how he’d felt after dementor attacks. “The blood wards wouldn’t be as strong as with the Dursleys, because Aunt Petunia was my mum’s sister and Elaine is only her cousin, but it should work–” 

He was cut off by Ron’s squawk, “What!” He looked shocked. “You have family?” he exclaimed incredulously. 

Hermione gasped in outrage at the words and turned to him, her eyes flashing the kind of indignation that usually preceded an extremely long and brutally worded rant. “I. Cannot. Believe. You just said that!” she punctuated her reprimand with whacks of her ‘light reading’ book of the day. The witch had at least one book on her person at all times, thanks to her skill at making expanded spaces, and her definition of light reading was definitely not the same as the rest of the world. From the size of that book, the redhead would probably have a bruise on his shoulder by nighttime. “Ronald Weasley,” she fumed. “You apologize to Harry right this instant!”

Harry had turned to bury his face in Ron’s unharmed shoulder, shaking from the effort of trying to hold in his feelings. He didn’t want his friends to judge him. 

“Mate?” Ron’s voice said from above, sounding immensely uncomfortable. “I’m sorry.” Harry tightened his hold on the other’s shirt and shook his head. “I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “Harry,” Hermione called out to him uncertainly. He couldn’t let his friends be worried about something like this. He raised his head, planning to say it was fine, to just forget it, but a giggle escaped his lips against his will. Slapping a hand over his mouth, as if that could fix his mistake, with dismay turning his stomach upside down and making the grounding touch from his friends feel restraining, he sneaked a look at their faces. What if they were disgusted with him for laughing about his family being dead of all things?

Ron looked at him for a moment and then he sniggered, closing his mouth as he started chuckling quietly. The dismay changed to confusion before blooming into realization. Ron wasn’t laughing at him, and he wasn’t leaving, and he wasn’t calling him a freak. The taller boy continued to laugh under his breath as he grinned at him. Harry felt an answering tug from his own lips as his earlier fear melted away and his fierce love for his friends mixed with his–almost hysteric–morbid amusement at the situation. Even Hermione, serious and concerned Hermione, was smiling now despite herself. 

Harry let himself laugh and laugh and laugh until he was choking on his own breath and his torso ached at the unfamiliar, violent reaction. His vision slowly cleared as he calmed his breathing and he rubbed a hand to his chest to relieve the soreness that had crept from his cramped stomach all the way to his shoulders. 

With the surge of emotions over, it wasn’t all that funny any more. ‘You have family?’ Ron’s shocked outburst had echoed his own. The Boy-Who-Lived, who’d grown up with people that would sooner swallow glass than speak of their shared blood, who was famous for his dead parents, whose godfather had supposedly betrayed him; the idea of him suddenly having family had seemed hilarious.

“Yes, apparently I do,” he returned to his explanations. “My grandmother had a brother who moved to the United States. So this Elaine Lewis is my mum’s cousin and apparently they never met, but they exchanged letters when they were young. She agreed to take me in. Dumbledore is making me stay with them because they can hold up the wards.”

“You’re moving to America?” Hermione asked worriedly.

He shook his head. “Only for the summer.” 

“I’m not sure Pig can handle that kind of distance, never mind Errol,” groaned Ron.

Hermione bit her lip in thought, “There are specialized birds for regular international exchanges and the Floo, with a Ministry licence, can connect anywhere. There are also specific artefacts for communication … oh! Harry, are the Lewises muggles? We could use the phone or Internet! I can’t believe I almost didn’t think of that.”

“They’re muggle and they don’t know about magic. I’m not allowed to tell them, either,” he grimaced. He didn’t particularly want to tell them considering the Dursleys’ attitude towards ‘all that freaky stuff’, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he were losing something. It was stupid, he knew it was ridiculous, and yet he couldn’t entirely stop thinking about having a family with whom he could talk of magic, of Hogwarts and every wonderful thing in it. 

“Nothing?” Ron frowned. “Muggleborns are allowed to tell their family, though.”

“Since I’m only staying with them for the summer and we’ve never even met before…” he trailed off, not sure how to explain his own thoughts about the subject. “Also, Dumbledore doesn’t want to involve the American ministry, er… MACUSA. It would complicate things and he said the, uh, ‘risk is too great’ and that there could be ‘information leaks’ from sympathizers or something.”

“I … don’t think that’s legal. Dad’s always going on about bleeding MACUSA and their nutty protocols, and Percy thinks their bureaucracy’s the greatest thing since summoning charms,” he rolled his eyes. “They’re really paranoid.”

Hermione huffed, “Well, if Dumbledore decided not to involve them, he must have a good reason.” 

“Oh come off it, he can’t just send Harry packing off to sodding America,” Ron said heatedly. 

“It’s for his safety!”

Harry zoned out as the two descended into squabbling again. Surrey, being right next to London, wasn’t close to Hogwarts. It took many hours to get to Scotland and riding the train every year was the most traveling Harry had ever done. The United States were...really far. Really, really far. A whole ocean away. 

What was he going to do?

Things would be very different. For one, he knew Americans drove on the wrong side of the road. For the rest, he only knew what he’d heard Aunt Petunia complain about, and he was inclined to disbelieve anything she said on principle. She approved of very little and would not hesitate to make her opinions known whether based on facts or on her own lies. She’d be ecstatic to be getting rid of him and have the occasion to poison more people towards Harry–well, she would have been, except she was dead . 

Merlin, the whole situation felt unreal. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about their passing and he was certainly not up to figuring that out just yet. He needed to focus on the problem at hand: the Lewises. He did not know them and, though they were technically family, that meant very little in his experience. Would they be decent? Would they let him contact his friends? He wanted to believe no one could be as awful as the Dursleys; but with the Potter luck, if things could get worse, they probably would. Even his professors, who were truly nice (apart from Snape, but the bitter man was in a category of his own) weren’t really… Well, Harry trusted them to teach him to the best of their abilities but he wouldn’t rely on them for safety or trust. People, especially adults, just weren’t trustworthy. 

And now he was moving to live with strangers, abroad, where there could be no quick rescue from the Weasleys and he couldn’t use the threat of magic (not that it would be a very strong threat what with the restrictions on underage magic, but it had worked well to keep his oh so loving family in line before the Dobby incident) to be left alone because he wasn’t allowed to tell them. He wouldn’t even be able to see Sirius, despite being out of reach of the Dementors and the British Aurors because the man was apparently in some special safe house, and when Harry questioned why he couldn’t stay at the supposed safe house too, he was only told he couldn’t. Why? Because. He just couldn’t. 

What a great answer. 

As unsurprised as he was by it, the dismissal from Dumbledore still stung a bit (but it was Sirius’s betrayal that truly cut deep to his heart. His godfather had promised they would live together one day and yet he was letting him be shipped away to another country. Sirius, who’d promised to protect him, whom he’d trusted– ) 

Ron’s voice cut abruptly through his thoughts. “Then, you’ll be living with just your aunt?”

“First cousin once removed,” corrected Hermione. 

Ron gave him an exasperated and slightly helpless look. No doubt he was trying to change the subject and stop bickering after either losing interest or the argument.

“She has two children but only the son is staying with her. He’s a little older.”

“That’s nice. You might become friends,” Hermione said speculatively.

Harry shrugged and looked away. He wouldn’t be getting his hopes up.

“What’s his name?”

“Simon,” the bespectacled boy answered. “Simon Lewis.”

Chapter Text

The train ride had been nice. It seemed that, without even needing to consult one another, they were all of the same mind as none of them had brought up any of the darker topics that weighed on their mind. Hermione had started talking about one of the latest books she had read and the moral questions it raised about animal transfiguration, and Ron had dragged Harry into a game of chess, which had turned into hours of Harry being continuously trounced while his best friend despaired over his lacking strategic capability. 

However, it was nearing the halfway point of the trip and Hermione was very visibly, and at great cost to her composure, trying to keep herself from jumping the erumpent in the room. She didn’t want to ruin the easygoing atmosphere of the carriage, especially after how somber the past few days had been. First with Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s resurrection, then with the Dursleys’s death, and now with the move to America, Harry had been in a foul mood the whole week, justifiably so, and both Hermione and Ron hadn’t had much success in bringing him out of the morose silence he’d retreated to. 

Still, they truly needed to talk about this, even though none of them would enjoy it; it was, quite literally, a matter of life and death. 

“You look like you have something on your mind,” Harry said, peering at her. He may have been shutting them out, but it didn’t stop him from looking out for them. Of course he had noticed her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes, actually, I do. I’m glad you asked.” She really was. She hadn’t been sure how to broach the subject. “With the conflicts that are to come because of You-Know-Who’s resurrection, I think it’s very important that we start preparing ourselves.” She stopped and narrowed her eyes at Ron who had yet to look up from the board. “It’s very important,” she repeated, to no effect. She cleared her throat to grab his attention at the same moment Ron finally reached a conclusion and moved one of his pieces, his knight. She saw Harry kicking him under the table and Ron jerked back, looking rather miffed. His eyes were drawn to Hermione’s and he immediately straightened up under the intensity of her stare.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. You are right. Totally right,” he babbled while nodding earnestly, having absolutely no idea what he was saying. 

Hermione nodded, satisfied. He obviously hadn’t listened, but that was alright. She was just starting. “Thank you, Ron. As I was saying, we need to be ready to fight Voldemort.” The girl stumbled lightly over the name, unused to saying it, but marched on. She wouldn’t be cowed by a name; not when the man himself, if he could even be called as such, had come back to life and people would soon have to face much greater threats than his reputation. Harry, who had long since reached first name basis with the Dark Lord, was unmoved, unlike Ron who blanched at the name. “Now, it’s really… unfortunate , that Harry has to leave for the summer, but,” she looked at them intently, “this gives us an opportunity!”

“... it does?”

“Yes, Harry, it does,” she repeated patiently. “America’s laws are very different. There are all these semi-autonomous isolated communities hidden throughout the United States that have very little to do with the country as it currently is. MACUSA keeps an eye on things in general but it only really controls the urban communities. They’re very isolationist, much more than here, and their dark magic laws are considerably more lax because they view it differently. I read that in ‘Modern Magical Communities: A Brief Overview’, which I found in this nice little bookshop in Dijon last summer, but the book was in french–” she was rambling now, she knew she was, except it truly had taken her a long time to translate the book without resorting to magic and the whole project had been fascinating, both the translation and the content of the book itself. She’d learned so much !

“Hermione,” Ron interrupted her through her speech on French rural wizarding spaces, “what’s your point? What’s the opportunity?”

“Right. Sorry,” she took a deep breath to center herself. “So. Dark magic.” She looked at Harry. “You’ll have to buy books about dark magic.”

Ron reacted immediately while Harry just raised his eyebrows, stunned. “Are you bloody mad?” he exclaimed. “You want him to–dark magic–you–just,” he sputtered. “Dark magic!” he shouted in disbelief, his face rapidly reddening. 

She’d expected this kind of reaction but she nevertheless felt a little embarrassed. It did sound pretty bad. 

“Not dark dark magic. Just… dark-ish,” she said, waving her hands around for emphasis. She was right, she just needed to explain! “In any case, dark arts books are age-restricted and you need a permit for the darker books, which is very curious when you consider the Dark Arts laws here–” Ron did not look convinced and Harry was frowning now. She needed to make them understand now; the history lessons could wait for later. She cut herself off this time, “Anyhow. It would probably be grey magic at most.”

“And that’s better?” Ron said incredulously. 

She sighed but Harry jumped back in the conversation before she could clarify. “Hermione, just … why, exactly, should I buy not-really-dark arts books?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

Ron was ready for that question. “You shouldn’t! There’s never a good reason, my mum said–”

“Oh, honestly Ronald,” Hermione snapped. “we’re not children anymore! We can’t not know what’s going on, not when there’s a war coming. Just think about everything we’ve already been through! And it will only get worse. Knowing your enemy is the very basis to be able to defeat him. We should–we need to learn about this, about the Dark Arts and the kind of spells we may have to face one day if we are to stand a chance at winning.” She tried to curb her agitation before it messed up her hair too much. She really did not want to waste her time brushing her hair. 

The tall boy was quiet for a moment. “... we?”

And there went that attempt at calm. “Yes, we. As in Harry, you and I, because you are not doing this on your own,” she said to Harry before he could get any martyrish idea. She turned back to Ron. “Unless you don’t want to fight You-Know-Who,” she accused, crossing her arms. 

“No way,” he scowled. “The noseless bastard killed my uncles, almost sucked out my little sister’s soul and tried to kill my best mate multiple times.” He looked truly angry at Hermione’s remark. “Not to mention the bloody spiders,” he shuddered. 

Now she just felt bad. Of course Ron would fight too. 

“I’m just asking: are we really doing this?”

The trio looked at each other. Harry wouldn’t be saying anything, not convinced as he was that every bad thing that happened to them was somehow his fault, and neither would Ron, who needed some reassurance. This was on her.

“Yes,” she said decisively. “We’re doing this.”

_____

“You’re sure you’ll be alright?” Clary asked Luke, once again.

“I think I can handle spending an hour in my own car. I brought a book,” he said, showing off said-object. 

She shifted a little where she was standing in front of the driver’s car door, still hesitating. Simon sighed at his best friend’s overprotectiveness. He did understand; the events in Alicante had shaken him up too. He sometimes woke up thinking he was back in that cell, and he had taken to avoiding Chelsea and other European looking neighborhoods that reminded him too much of the Shadowhunters capital, where bodies had littered the streets and the scent of blood had been so intense it nauseated even him, a vampire. However, they were presently in the parking lot of an airport. The danger factor was rather low, especially considering airports were some of the best warded locations in the mundane world to try and stop demons from enjoying trips across the world, or interfering with planes whose accidents tended to be rather noticeable. Plus, while they weren’t exactly in a hurry, they’d probably end up turned around a few times before finding the right terminal, and Simon didn’t want to be late for his little cousin’s—or second cousin, whatever—arrival. 

Luke scrutinized Clary’s face for a minute, and then his lips quirked up minisculely. Simon was looking at his eyes, though, and he braced himself at what he saw. This was the look of a man who would unironically say ‘Hi Hungry, I’m Dad’.

“I’m a werewolf, not a dog Clary. I’ll survive an hour in a car, even with the windows closed—”

The girl turned bright red. “That’s not—”

“—I brought my little bottle of water,” he continued, “and I’m safe from the sun in here—”

Sufficiently embarrassed, she stomped away and grabbed Simon in her quest to leave hearing range. He gave a little wave to Luke as he was dragged along, which the man laughingly returned. 

“I was just being nice,” Clary grumbled.

“You were very nice,” Simon reassured her as he patted her shoulder. She didn’t seem to hear him. 

“I don’t think he’s a dog! That’s absurd.”

“Absurd,” the young man nodded along. They finally entered the airport and the noise of thousands of people packed all together in an overcrowded space hit Simon like a baseball bat to the head. He focused on Clary’s angry muttering to ignore the growing headache in his temples, which was honestly so unfair. Why was he getting headaches as a vampire? He wasn’t even alive, technically!

“—and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a werewolf,” she was saying. “I’m not racist. Or specist? I don’t know, but I’m not it.”

Simon frowned. That was a good question. He didn’t think being a vampire was his “race”, and saying he was of the vampire species made him feel weird. Oh crap, he wasn’t a Homo Sapien anymore, was he? What was he? 

“Do you think I’m a Homo Vampirus?” he interrupted Clary. She stumbled and twisted to face him, looking shocked. She blinked a few times as they stopped in the middle of the hallway, people stepping around them and a few giving them dirty looks for it. 

“Whatever you are, Simon, you know I’ll support you.” Her hand lowered from his forearm to take his hand. “You can tell me anything, okay? If you’re exploring or questioning, or you just want to talk, about anything ,” she said with a meaningful glance, “I’m here for you.” She looked very serious. 

He supposed she hadn’t gotten to the part of Shadowhunter classes where they talked about species names. It was, admittedly, a bit more urgent to learn how to get rid of demons. Perhaps he would ask some questions to Izzie or Luke, because Raphael sure wouldn’t be answering his questions anytime soon, and he and Clary could have a “Newly-Supernatural” sleepover and make fun of all the horror classics. They hadn’t had much fun lately.

“I know,” he smiled at her. Their lives had changed so much this past year and for a while, he had feared that their friendship might be ending—with all the drama from the Shadow World, Jace, Simon’s own feelings for Clary—but they had made it through. If anything, it had made their friendship stronger. “Thanks.”

Clary smiled back and eased her hold on him as they started walking again, but didn’t let go of his hand. He much prefered the warm feeling of comfort the gesture now gave him to the nervous butterfly he used to be assaulted by. 

“Are you going to tell your mom?”

“Absolutely not,” he answered before she’d even finished talking. 

“Simon… You should tell her.” The ginger traitor gave him puppy eyes. “It’s important, it’s who you are! It’s not something you can change. I’m sure she’ll accept it.”

That sounded… unlikely. Yes, his mother loved him, but the existence of vampires might be a bit too much. 

It would be too much for anyone, really. 

He shook his head, and cast his eyes around to avoid the big green eyes staring up at him. The baggage section stood in front of them, with the origin cities of the flights flashing down a giant screen. 

“It doesn’t have to be now, of course. You should wait until you’re ready. Just… consider it?”

Tokyo, Seoul, Manila, Beijing, another from Tokyo—wait, no, that was the same flight. Nothing from London.

“There are pamphlets to help with that kind of stuff. I’ll find you one.” 

Simon absentmindedly wondered who exactly was making these coming out as a vampire pamphlets. He couldn't imagine any of the stuck up warriors he’d met in Idris doing something like that. Something to ponder later, he decided; more urgently, they hadn't ended up at the right place. 

“We’re in the wrong area,” he said, glad to avoid addressing everything his best friend had just mentioned.

“Are you sure?” she forwent any further speech on coming-outs and such, and tried to look at the screen. Unfortunately, her barely over five foot frame stood no chance against the group of tall men, probably athletes of some sort, that had gathered in front of them to claim their luggage. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he assured her. “It must have been the one right before this one. C’mon.” He gestured behind him and they made their way back, moving slowly between all the people and suitcases.

“So…” he absolutely had to change the subject before Clary started talking about his mom again. “You and Jace?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and she unsurprisingly rolled her eyes at him. “How is it going? Did you… ya’ know?”

She pinked a little but seemed overall more frustrated than flustered. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You’d think, after everything we’ve been through, it’d be—” she cut herself off to gesture vaguely, before letting out a despondent sigh. “We couldn’t be together for so long, and now that we finally are, all that he wants to do is train.” 

He must have looked skeptical, because she decided to explain it, explicitly . “We do endurance training, running, weight lifting, martial arts, sword drills, and he won’t stop making me practice flips even though I’m complete crap at it.” 

… Dare he say it? 

Well, someone had to.

“That’s probably why. You know, practice makes perfect and all?”

“That’s not the point!” she exclaimed aggravatedly. Simon raised his hands in surrender at the girl’s ire. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it, after all. “The point is,” she continued, “I want us to spend time together, as a real couple, not just having fights. Literal fights, with pointy metal things.”

He did feel for her. He’d seen their relationship from the very start, and he knew how much she loved him. “Uhuh. Maybe he’s just nervous? Like you said, you guys have been around each other forever and now that there’s no barrier between you, that’s a bit scary.” 

She frowned a little, but didn’t argue. 

The new baggage section had much less people than the one they’d mistakenly gone to and this time, they were actually in the right place, as indicated by the London flight number moving down the screen.

“Well, I’ll think about it. We’ve talked enough about my pathetic love life for now,” she grimaced. “I don’t want to meet your cousin while I’m crying about Jace’s emotional distance.” He snorted. “Are you excited? You haven’t said much about it.”

“I’m just surprised, I guess? My mom never mentioned any relatives and she told me only about a week ago. I mean, I am excited for sure. You know I don’t have any cousins.” Neither of them had much in the way of extended family, but it hadn’t mattered once they’d met. “He’s fourteen—”

“So a baby,” she cut in and Simon had to hide a smile at that.

“Please don’t say that in front of him.” Teenagers were so touchy about their age. The shadowhunter grinned in answer. “I really want us to get along, but I don’t know what we’ll talk about. At his age…”

“At his age, we were nerds. We’re still nerds. Just talk about games,” she said, looking very unimpressed. 

“But what if he’s into,” he lowered his head a little to whisper, “sports.”

Clary sucked in a breath at the word, then shook her head. “I can’t help you there. I’m sorry.”

He gave her a pleading look, “He’s our cousin, Clary. You need to participate.”

“No, he’s not!” She shoved him to the side. “He’s yours, take some responsibility. You’re a man now, Simon. Be the man.”

“Stop enforcing the toxic masculinity, Clary. I’m so disappointed in you,” he mock-sighed in a surprisingly accurate imitation of Jocelyn’s voice. “Also, you can’t go back on a promise. I know you remember the blood pact—”

“Urgh, fine! We’ll just… chuck him at Isabelle.” He looked at her dubiously. “She’s sporty!” she defended. “And that’s only in the worst case scenario. He’s related to you . I can’t imagine a Lewis playing football.”

“I don’t think English people play football,” she narrowed his eyes at him, “but I see your point,” he hurried to add. Neither his mother, his sister nor him were in any way remotely close to being athletic. “Okay, so we have a plan,” he nodded to himself. “Cool, cool, cool.”

“Great, glad we got that out of the way. Can you focus now? I think the London flight has arrived.” She nodded towards the people trickling in. Simon turned his gaze to the group too, and he barely had the time to look at a few faces before a sudden realization froze him in horror. 

“Oh no,” he breathed. 

His friend looked at him, concerned. 

“... I don’t know what he looks like.” How had he not thought about this earlier? How? He was literally here to pick this stranger up, and he hadn’t thought of a way to recognize him!

“ What? How do you not know what he looks like?” she said incredulously.

“We’ve never met—” Clary cut him off, “Pictures! This isn’t the 18th century, we have phones,” she dragged her hand down her face. “You should have told me. I could’ve made a cardboard sign, I have leftovers from last semester.”

“Mom told me only last night I had to come pick him up. It didn’t cross my mind.”

“God damn it,” she sighed. “How are we gonna find him, then? There are so many people…”

“I think we’ll have to ask a worker…” he trailed off hesitantly. She frowned a little, unsure what he meant. “You know, to pass a message on the intercom?”

“No. That is so embarrassing, we are not doing that.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“You could… like… sniff him out?” she looked like she regretted the words immediately, and honestly, Simon could relate. He regretted having heard that. 

“So much for not being specist.”

“I am not—”

It was probably fortunate that someone interrupted them at that moment. 

“Simon Lewis?” A middle-aged woman wearing the airport’s uniform split away from the mass of travelers and approached them, papers in hand.

Crap, had they met before? He didn’t recognize her though, and he’d never even been to an airport before!

“Uh, yes,” he said questioningly. Her name tag read Susan and he still had no idea who she was. She smiled at him, “I’m glad we were able to find you so quickly. Thank your mother for the picture for me, will you?”

We… ? Just then, Simon noticed the figure standing half hidden behind the airport worker. A boy, probably around Clary’s height, was holding a trunk and seemed engaged in a staring contest with the floor. He must have felt Simon’s gaze on him, however, because shockingly green eyes looked up to meet the vampire’s own eyes. This must have been—

“Harry, I’m gonna have to go now, alright? Don’t forget the emergency numbers I gave you and don’t be afraid to call them if you need help,” Susan told the boy, who looked very displeased but nodded mutely. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here. Alright! Time to go. Have fun, kids!” Not wasting any time, she began walking away with her own tiny luggage bag trailing behind her. 

They all watched her leave for a few seconds before turning back to each other. 

Clary was alternating between looking at him and Harry, probably trying to find all the ressemblances between them, Harry had gone back to his staring contest, and Simon was trying to telepathically ask his cousin to look up. 

The moment stretched uncomfortably and, needless to say, Simon did not awaken any telepathic powers. What even was the point of being a vampire?

“So,” he began, and didn’t add anything. His cousin didn’t bother looking at him and Clary focused her attention on him, raising the eyebrows of judgment, which, fair. That wasn’t the greatest start. “So,” he said again, “Harry. Is it short for anything? Hadrian, Henry, Harold…?” He was looking at him now, glaring, but didn’t say anything. “I’m Simon. Short for Simon–” ah, he really hadn’t thought this through, “–Lewis,” he finished lamely. 

The boy looked less angry and more judging by this point, and Clary seemed torn between doing the same and cringing from secondhand embarrassment. 

Well, this was going great , Simon sighed mentally. 

So much for being the cool older cousin. 

Chapter Text

Harry was fuming. 

That bloody old goat–great ruddy sack of bones, stupid magenta and mustard bastard with his head full of earwax and nose hair–

Who did Dumbledore think he was?

How dare he take his wand? 

It was more than just a tool, it was­­–it was part of him! It was proof he was a wizard, proof magic was real.

And yeah, he was used to being separated from his wand once summer came, but that was because of the Dursleys–who hated him and magic–not because of Dumbledore.

Did he want him to die, or something? How could he protect himself with his wand a whole ocean away? 

“It’s for your own good, my boy. MACUSA doesn’t keep track of underage magic, and with your guardians unaware of our world, you may very well hurt yourself,” the stupid hairy dinosaur had told him. His own good his arse! What about other people hurting him! Why did that never matter?

So now here he was, out of reach of anyone who could help him and unable to defend himself, alone with muggles (though he couldn’t really say he’d actually be safer with Wixen, given, well, everything that’d happened to him since he was eleven). 

Summer looked promising. 

At least his “cousin” seemed nice enough, if a little weird. The sight of his red-haired friend had had his heart stuttering, irrational hope rising in him for a split second that the Weasleys were there, that this was all a mistake and that he could go back home.

Clary, she’d said her name was. Recovered from the shock her hair had caused, he could see she didn’t actually look like a Weasley at all. He still couldn’t help sneaking glances every few seconds as they headed to the car where Luke was waiting, whoever that was. 

Simon kept turning towards him and opening his mouth as if to speak before closing it and looking away. It was getting a little ridiculous. Harry wondered what was going through the bloke’s head. Could he already spot the freakishness in Harry? He didn’t have anything visibly magical on him, but his clothes were obviously much too big for him… Oh, maybe he just thought his clothes were ugly and shabby (fair enough, those were Dudley’s castoffs, mysterious stains and holes and all). Maybe someone had told him about his reputation back in Privet Drive as a daft little delinquent boy. Maybe he could see the flesh-turned-ash flaking off his hands, the ink-blood and venom clinging to his skin, the anger and misery and curses and screams and death–

Harry stumbled as a guy with a massive suitcase shoved him roughly from the left. Simon immediately reached to steady him and pulled him closer, between him and Clary, while he frowned at the man already walking away. “Jerk,” Simon muttered. Clary glared in the man’s direction before seemingly deciding enough was enough, squared her shoulders and started marching forward. Somehow, people instinctively moved out of her path and those that didn’t were smoothly muscled everyone out of their way. Within moments, they managed to escape the throng of travelers.

Ron would like her.

They finally exited into the parking lot. Which was–kind of cool, actually. Harry knew multiple stories parking lots existed, but he had never seen one before. He wondered if they would get out by going up or down. 

“Right, so, that’s the car,” Simon suddenly spoke, pointing towards a grey van. “We’re sitting in the back. You want the left or the right?”

He shrugged. Simon kept looking at him expectantly. “I don’t mind,” he said looking away from Simon’s strangely dark eyes. 

“I’ll sit on the left then,” the older boy smiled at him.

They reached the car and a man with light brown hair and a face radiating kindness came out from the passenger’s, no, the driver’s side. Bloody Americans. 

“Hello, I’m Luke,” he smiled warmly at him, his eyes creasing behind his rectangular glasses. “I’m a family friend,” he said moving towards the trunk of the car, “and your designated cabbie for the day.”

“Soon-to-be stepfather!” Clary piped up from where she’d climbed into the passenger’s seat. 

A wave of fondness passed over the man’s face. “Yeah, soon. You need help with that?” he gave a nod indicating Harry’s trunk, which was over half his size and probably twice his weight. Thankfully, the feather-light charm made it easily portable around, even for him. On the other hand, it made it suspicious to muggles. “No, thank you,” he muttered. The flannel-wearing man stepped back to let him put his trunk in the car, which he hurried to do as a nagging feeling rose up in the back of his mind. Why did Luke feel so familiar?

“All right, let’s go,” the man exclaimed, climbing back in the car. “Everybody got their seatbelts on?” Uncle Vernon may not have given one whit of care about Harry’s safety, but he was not about to pay any police fine because of him. Harry knew to put his belt on first thing when he got into a car.

“Yeah, we’re not children,” Clary sounded like she was rolling her eyes from her seat at the front of the car.

“Well…” Luke trailed off as he slowly drove out of the parking lot. 

“Hey!” the red head laughed. “We’re not.”

“Sure, sure. So, Harry, right?” He nodded mutely. “Is this your first time in the United States, or in New York?” 

“Yes. To both.” What was it about the man? He really doubted they’d ever met before. 

“You'll like it. There's something for everyone, and you never get bored around here. Lots of action,” Simon laughed almost nervously. 

“Like shows and parties,” Clary said loudly, swivelling in her seat to look at Simon before turning her gaze to Harry. “Or if that’s not your kind of thing, we have one of the biggest libraries in the country. Actually, whatever you’re interested in, you can probably find it here. New York’s a big place.” She gave him a teasing smile. “You into sports?”

“Er, I guess. I’m on my school’s team.” So there were technically four teams, whatever. Same thing.

“Oh.” She looked surprised. “That’s, um, cool.” Her words suggested that it was not, in fact, cool. Great. Not even half an hour into this and he was already messing up.

“I like sports,” quickly said Simon. “Love them. They’re just so…sportsy. So much fun. Anyway, what sport do you play?”

He couldn’t exactly say Quidditch, now could he. Yes I speed around real fast on a flying broom chasing a flying gold orb, oh, didn’t mention I was a wizard? I also have a pointy hat.

“…Football.” That was a sensible answer. Everyone played back in primary school.

Simon made a noise in the back of his throat as his eyebrows raised high. “Football? At your hei–I mean, your age? Wow. You must be really,” he stressed the word, “good.”

What? Was he being insulted or complimented right now? It was just kicking a ball; of course he could do that at his age.

“I’m not too bad. What about you?” If he and his newly discovered cousin could find some common interest between them, it would already be better than with Dudley. It might make this summer not the absolute worst.

“I tried football, but,” he grimaced, “it wasn’t really my thing.” Clary snorted at the words. “I’m more into running these days. And self-defence.”

That…did not sound reassuring. Simon might have been nowhere near as large as Dudley, but he was still at least a head taller than Harry and four years older. “Like boxing?” He really didn’t want to play the punching bag again.

“Not really,” he answered hesitantly. “Well, I guess I am learning how to punch, but also how to, like, kick or elbow dem–deviants. I want to be able to defend myself if I’m ever attacked, you know?”

Clary mouthed the word “deviants”, looking as incredulous as Harry felt. Hermione had mentioned that New York wasn’t the safest place, but… “Is it really that dangerous,” he couldn’t help but ask. It sounded like he should have been allowed to keep his wand, after all.

“Yes,” Simon answered at the same time that Clary said “No.” They both turned to stare at each other, rather intensely. Clary furrowed her eyebrows, Simon raised his in response, she squinted, he stuck out his bottom lip…Merlin, the teen hoped he, Ron and Hermione didn’t look this stupid when they communicated silently. Luke, who had seemed to be mostly paying attention to the road, cut in before the two could finish their subtle conversation. “It’s no more dangerous than any other big city. It is, however, always a good idea for anyone to learn a little self-defence. Would you be interested, Harry?” The man gave him a quick glance in the rear-view mirror as he asked.

Was he interested? He was stuck here with no friends, no allies, no wand and no quick way to escape. He would have to rely on accidental magic (which was like the least reliable thing ever, except for adults) and luck (also not great, as it got him into trouble as often as it got him out of it).

He was very interested.

This might be what he needed to catch Voldemort off guard, and beat him. He highly doubted the snake bastard knew how to physically fight. He may have those disgusting toe claw things, but the ritual hadn’t given him any muscles. He’d like to see him catch these hands after spending a decade as a disembodied spirit.

“Yes,” he told Luke, his new favourite person in this entire country. “I’d love to learn.”

“Great!” His cousin smiled widely at him. Too widely. Were those…? “My friend is teaching me–her name’s Isabelle, she goes by Izzy though–and she is super strong and, like, very badass. She’s gonna kick your ass.” Harry’s face must have shown some of his thoughts about that, because the other hurried to reassure him. “Not in a bad way! In a very friendly way. She’ll kick your ass gently. To help you,” Simon nodded as he said it, as if any of that made sense. If he was actually trying to reassure him and not bully him à la American, he was not doing a very good job. “You don’t have to worry. She likes children.”

“I’m fourteen,” he pointed out slowly, suddenly wondering how old exactly his cousin thought he was.

“Right, of course, I meant children as in small future adults. Not children­-children.” He fiddled with one of his bracelets as he spoke. “Not that she dislikes actual children, just that you aren’t one. Obviously,” he laughed a little, gaze switching between him and Clary, who was hiding a smile behind her mouth. His cousin sounded–nervous?

Huh. Perhaps…Harry wasn’t the only one out of his depth.

“Maybe you should ask Isabelle before,” Luke sounded amused, “to make sure she has the time.”

“Oh, don’t worry Luke.” The redhead gave Simon a shit-eating grin. “I’m sure she won’t mind sparing some time for her very good friend,” she teased, clearly implying something more. The friend in question threw his hands in the air, looking thoroughly exasperated. “I didn’t mean it like that! Let it go, for the angel’s sake.” Harry’s lips quirked up at the teasing. If the guy was so admiring of his maybe-crush who could beat him, he was more alike Ron than Dudley (no matter what he said, Ron had totally had a crush on Hermione at the end of third year).

She laughed and ignored the rebuttal, leaning towards Harry instead. “You’ll see what I mean. It’s actually getting kind of embarrassing.”

Simon huffed and, imitating his friend, turned to plead his case to his cousin. “You want to know what’s really embarrassing? Discovering your boyfriend is actually your broth–” The older boy didn’t get the chance to finish, as Clary squawked loudly and threw herself halfway out of her seat to squash her hand on his face, her own having turned bright red in mere seconds. Still, Harry could guess what the rest of the sentence would have been. He had thought these kind of shenanigans were a strictly Pureblood thing, but… Well, even he had heard of the famed Alabama.

He was not going to make a fuss about this with his cousin’s best friend though, who he had the feeling he would be seeing a lot. He plastered a confused expression on his features and pointedly did not ask what Simon meant to say.

Luke, wonderful Luke, saved them all from the topic. “No fighting in the car! That’s how you end up in accidents,” he frowned, more disappointed than angry. “Clary, get back in your seat. Simon, no need to go over the whole thing again; living through it once was enough.” They separated, both looking faintly embarrassed by the scolding. The man mumbled something too faint for Harry to hear before shaking his head with a sigh. “It’s always like this around here,” he sounded almost apologetic, “you’ll get used to the bickering. It’s all in good spirit though so don’t worry. And,” he added warningly with glances to the older teens, “they’ll behave around you.”

“Yep,” Clary assured unreassuringly.

“Totally,” Simon answered unconvincingly.

Luke gave Harry a sardonic glance in the viewfinder, as if to say you see what I have to deal with? Harry bit his lower lip, trying not to visibly smile.

Luke shook his head exaggeratedly. “Now why don’t I believe that?”

_____

They arrived at the house shortly after, having spent the rest of the ride discussing the most important places to visit in New York City while Simon and Clary made plans to take him everywhere for the rest of the summer. He’d been right that she’d be around a lot; he and Simon had even been invited for supper the next night.

The car slowed to a stop in front of a narrow townhouse nestled between an almost identical copy of itself and an apartment building a few stories higher. It was a lot of brown and grey, the closest green around being that of the weeds creeping out from the pavement. Very similar looking buildings lined the street on either side while the street itself seemed to stretch deep in the city in both directions. Harry would’ve been hard-pressed to tell apart one end from the other, quite honestly. And yet, despite the homogenous look of the infrastructure…there was an Italian flag hanging from a window and a rainbow one across it, one balcony that dripped with vines and flowers, another with carved wooden trinkets swaying from it, actual beach chairs encroaching on the sidewalk and all these other little things, these little signs that screamed we live here this is ours our home we live we live! It was very mundane, and yet, Harry couldn’t help being reminded of his first time visiting London, visiting Diagon Alley, and how amazing everything seemed compared to the obsessive neatness and sameness of Little Whinging.

“Here we are.” Luke finished parking in front of the door. “Do you need any help to bring your stuff inside?”

“I'm alright,” Harry said carefully, reticent to give the impression that he didn't want to be around his cousin’s friends and have to make him choose between years worth of friendship and distant blood ties to a stranger—no choice, really—“thank you.” He really shouldn't let muggles hold his way-too-light luggage. Hopefully, he could just stuff it in the back of a closet for the rest of the summer and no one would notice the enchantment.

Luke hmmm’d at his response. “Simon? You're okay waiting for your mother?”

“Yup. I'll make us some lunch and I can help him unpack,” he threw a smile Harry’s way. “Don't worry, I can keep us alive for a few hours.”

“I know, I know,” the long-haired man huffed. “You're all grown-up now.”

Harry exited the car with Simon, largely apprehensive and a tiny bit eager to spend time alone with the older boy. Said boy popped open the trunk and stepped back, letting Harry reach for his luggage. He couldn't help tensing slightly at having him at his back, and then couldn't decide whether to be mad at himself or the world for it. 

Clary stuck her head out the window. “Don't forget to tell your mum you're both coming over tomorrow!”

Simon nodded and waved her off. “Call you later.”

She finger-gunned as Luke said goodbye, and then they drove away, leaving the cousins alone in front of the building. Simon finished unlocking the door and opened it with a slight flourish, gesturing Harry inside. “Mi casa es su casa,” he gave a lopsided smile. “Welcome! Let's go, I'll give you the grand tour. I mean, it's not all that grand, pretty small actually–” 

He stepped in, taking in the sight of the narrow hallway and the small wardrobe with shoes messily left in front, while Simon rambled on. Despite being larger, 4 Privet Drive had felt much more oppressive, with its carefully measured decor and ever present faint chemical smell. This was just...normal. Harry felt both as if he blended in with his sneakers and jeans and as if he stood out with his magic and abnormality. He flattened his bangs over his forehead. 

He was being stupid. No one would be able to just tell at first glance what he was.

“–eat lunch, but I’ll show you your room first. That cool with you? I mean, I imagine you don't wanna be dragging this thing around all day,” he continued, gesturing at his trunk.

He shrugged and nodded in response. It's not like the trunk was actually heavy, but it was...thoughtful, to offer. And he was, admittedly, curious to see where he would be staying. While the house wasn't big, it probably had some spare space; especially since, if he had understood correctly, only his mum’s cousin and her son were living here. 

“All the bedrooms are upstairs,” Simon said, walking up a few steps, then stopping to peer down at Harry with a slight frown. “Are you sure,” he hesitated, “you don't want a hand with that? ‘Cause, I mean, it’s a whole flight of stairs, and that's a very big suitcase for a very small–proportionately, that is–person and I don't want you to hurt–” 

He cut him off. “No, I'm good,” he said quickly, taking hold of his trunk with both hands, seeing as Simon was teetering on the edge of the step, looking very much like he might just help him out after all. “It's a, uh, good workout. For the foot.”

“For...the foot.”

Harry nodded. “There are tryouts at the beginning of term, so I need to stay fit.” It was actually a pretty good idea, now that he was saying it out loud. And an even better excuse to go out and poke around.

“Oh. Football!” The other sounded truly enlightened. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He resumed his trek up to the first floor, gesturing at Harry to follow.

However, as they went up the stairs, Simon kept glancing back at him every few seconds; probably to make sure he was alright, which was considerate, but inconvenient. Now, Harry had to pretend to be exerting himself carrying his luggage, and ignore how silly he felt dragging the thing on the stairs, flexing his arms and practically stomping on every step to properly display the strain of carrying a totally normal and non-magical trunk. 

Of all the times for someone to care…

Thankfully, they only had to go up one floor before Harry could drop the charade. He let out a big breath, to really show the exhaustion, and—oh no, too intense, that was too much, what kind of athlete is winded after this little! Oh Merlin, Simon looked worried again. 

“So, where am I sleeping?” He asked, avoiding his eyes and willing him very hard to just forget about the whole thing.

“Here,” Simon pointed towards a half opened door with a painted cat, sitting atop big block letters spelling out « Becca ». “This was my sister’s room, but she moved out years ago and we cleaned everything up. Well, except the box in the wardrobe. That's for storage, just pretend it's not there.” 

It was a nice room, quaint and small. The bed was a single, with a desk and stool beside it, and a bright blue rug thrown in the space between bed and wardrobe. It wasn't overwhelmingly obvious this used to be someone else’s childhood bedroom, Harry observed with relief. That would have been uncomfortable. 

“I'll let you settle in, alright?” Simon said from the doorway. “I'm gonna make some food and you can come down when you’re done, or I’ll call you when it's done.” 

“Thank you. I will.” He gave him a small smile.

Simon answered in kind, nodded a few times, looked around then back at Harry. “Cool, cool. So, uh, see you later.” He nodded again, seemingly to himself, and left. Harry listened to his footsteps and waited until he reached the bottom of the stairs to close the door.

He turned back to look at the most interesting feature of the room: the window.

He had his escape route. He had his goal. He only needed his destination. 

Where and how would he find the Wixen community of New York...

Chapter Text

Simon barely managed to catch his nintendo DS that was sent flying away by his bouncing on the bed, phone held in one hand. Supernatural talents could be surprisingly useful in his day-to-day life. He settled on his stomach and flipped the Ds open while listening to his phone ringing. Though he knew some unexpected hunt might have come up in the past few hours, he really hoped Isabelle picked up. He had some much to talk about!

He thought they might not be able to talk tonight after all, since she didn't pick up, when an incoming call made his phone buzz. He answered immediately and put it between his shoulder and ear to resume his game. 

“Simon!” His girlfriend’s voice rang out sounding a little breathless.

“Hey, Izzy. Are you busy?”

“No.” She sounded aggravated. “It’s just Jace being insufferable.” 

He huffed a laugh. “Jace, insufferable? Are we talking about the same person? He’s just so sweet and humble and cal–”

“You're so funny, Simon,” she interrupted flatly. “I love it when you make fun of my brother.”

“I'm kidding, you know that. We actually kinda get along these days. I mean, he is insufferable, but he grows on you. Like mold.”

She clicked her tongue, “He’s not mold. He’s...fungus at most.” He snorted at the unexpected correction. “I'm sorry, I know you didn't mean it that way. I just–” she sighed. “I worry for him. He’s been acting strange ever since Idris.” Her voice caught on the last word, undoubtedly thinking of Max.

“We’ve all been,” he paused, unsure of how to approach it, “a little weird, since then. I think it would be weirder if he was acting like nothing happened.”

“No, I know, but…” she trailed off. “Clary hasn't said anything?”

“Well. Apparently, all they do is train and fight.”

“Of course they can't stop bickering.” Simon could hear the eye roll in her voice. “I think it’s some sort of foreplay–”

“Nope! Nope, no, we're not talking about Jace and Clary’s sex life.” Izzy laughed at him. “But when I said fighting, I meant it. Like fighting-fighting. Like we do.”

She hmmd. “You know what, that does sound fun. We should do it next time.”

“Do what?” Realization struck him and poor innocent Kirby was eaten as he dropped his DS. “Izzy!” he hissed, flustered. “Not like that! The fighting isn't–” he stuttered “ foreplay. ” She was still laughing at him. “It’s training–just training.” 

“Sure.”

“I'm serious!” he insisted, despite knowing she was playing with him. “Clary said that they hadn't done anything.”

“I thought we weren't talking about it.”

Simon groaned. “We're not. I'm only saying that's what she told me. Jace isn't behaving that differently from usual, right?” Isabelle made a noncommittal hum. “You guys are shadowhunters. Murder is basically how you deal with emotions.”

“It’s our job,” she retorted, but she didn't sound annoyed.

“You're not denying it,” he teased, before sobering up. “Really, Jace will probably be fine. Just...I don't know, keep sparring with him? It's good to have an outlet.” He launched the level all over and watched Kirby swallow his first opponent. “I could talk to him? Help him relax, introduce him to the wonder of mundane culture that is video games,” he snickered.

“Is that like your Dragons and Dungeons thing?”

“It's Dungeons and Dragons. But not really? I mean, it can be, but…” He stopped. “You know what? You should come by. My mom has the night shift this week, so we could have a movie and game night! I’ll show you my favourite games, and we can make snacks and–” just because he couldn’t personally enjoy the snacks anymore didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy making them, “–oh, do shadowhunters have special snacks?” He asked excitedly, warming up to the idea. They’d started to date only this summer, and even before that, there hadn't been many occasions to hang out without some sort of life threatening event happening. He’d love to have an evening with his–and merely thinking the word still gave him butterflies– girlfriend , talking and enjoying each other’s presence. 

“We’re not from another planet, Simon. We eat popcorn and bat ears too.”

“Wait, wha–”

“I think it's a great idea, baby,” she continued. “Just the two of us, alone, with no else in the house…”

“Yeah,” he sighed, distracted and warmed by the endearment. A nice evening for just the both of them. It really would be nice–

“Harry!” He shot upright, Kirby once again sacrificed to the toll of his emotions.

“What?”

“My cousin!” He couldn't believe he had forgotten. That was literally the reason he’d called. 

“Oh,” she let out a small gasp. “That’s right! You were picking him up today. How did it go?”

“Okay, I think?” He decided to close his DS since his focus was completely shot and rolled onto his back to make himself comfortable. His positively ancient poster of Bulbasaur, complete with smaller uglier pokemons scribbled around, courtesy of 6-year-old Clary, stared back at him from his ceiling. He made a face at it. He really needed to take it off one of these days. “It was kind of awkward. I mean, duh, we'd never met and his family is–” he winced, “well, uh, dead. So it wasn't really a fun kinda meeting, but I think it went okay. He was pretty polite–and very British–and he didn't hate my guts at first sight! So, a success overall.” Success felt too strong of a word to assign to the situation, though it hadn’t been a failure either. Dinner had been eaten in strained silence, with a few stilted exchanges throughout. He had learned essentially nothing about Harry, except that this had been his first time taking a plane and that he went to boarding school, which explained why he’d survived the accident that killed the rest of his family. 

“It really is a little insulting how low your standards are.” 

“Huh? Oh! Well, you don't meet my low standards–” RETREAT, his brain blared, “I mean! You don't fit my low standards, because you exceed them! Like, by a lot! As in, you're out of my league!”

He relaxed at the sound of Isabelle’s laugh. He loved hearing her laugh, even at his expense. 

“Thanks, babe. Back to the topic of your cousin,” she added teasingly, “I suppose we’re not having a special date at your house, then?”

He winced, imagining kicking his baby cousin out to maybe get laid, and having to explain to Clary why he needed her to uphold their blood pact. Massive asshole behavior and absolutely mortifying. 

“Yeah, no. But…” It’s not like they couldn’t hang out at all. Clary did suggest to throw Izzy at Harry if he turned out to be into sports, which he was despite his somewhat misleading appearance. “We could still do basically what I suggested, except keep it PG-13. Harry said he was a football player, but I’m sure he still knows some video games. I mean, what teenage boy doesn’t like gaming?” He hurried to continue before Izzy could answer. Asking a rhetorical question was just asking her to roast you. “So we could all play together! And board games are easier to play with at least three people. Huh,” he added in a mumble, thinking of multiplayer games, “maybe we could invite other people too…”

“We don’t have to decide right now, Simon.”

“I would kill to see Jace get UNO-reversed, though.”

“Get what?” Ah, sometimes Simon felt like he was dating an Amish. Or something; he’d never met an Amish.

“Never mind.”

“Hm. Well, tell me more about your day then.”

Simon laughed. “So you can profile my cousin?”

“Obviously. I need to be prepared. He is an important target.”

“Wha–he’s not a target, Izzy!”

_____

Harry truly had intended to make a plan and, perhaps, try to sneak out, at least to familiarise himself with the escape route by the window. The only problem was, as he realised once back in the bedroom after supper, that his shoes were downstairs. Downstairs in the closet by the door, which meant going past Simon’s bedroom, down the stairs, back up the stairs and past Simon again. The probability that he would be able to do all of that silently? While factoring in the Potter luck? Practically nonexistent. Unfamiliar stairs are always the creakiest. 

It wouldn’t matter once Simon fell asleep however. He’d sneaked a look in the hallway while planning his possible escape and noticed the older boy had his door closed, so even if Harry made some noise sneaking around, it would be unlikely to wake him. All that was needed was waiting for him to drop. 

He’d settled on his bed, idly browsing a defence book Hermione had lent him–that is to say, slammed in his chest with the order to have it finished within the next two weeks–and keeping an ear on the low hum of Simon’s voice that he could hear through the walls. The gentle light of the bedside table, the quietness of the house, the tiredness of travelling and the fact that he’d decided to lay on the bed like an idiot had all lulled him to sleep. Harry woke up with the book pressing into his face and a bizarre tapping noise echoing in the room . He rolled away and squeezed his cheek, trying to get rid of the uncomfortable stiffness. He really hoped he hadn’t drooled on the book, because the Dark Lord would have to take a seat and wait for his best friend to be through with him if that was the case. 

Taking off his glasses, which were still intact thanks only to a lot of magic, he groaned when he realised he had slept through the night and that it was already day time. The noise that had woken him repeated and his gaze was drawn to the window, where some white blob was floating–

Hedwig!

Harry scrambled off the bed and was across the room in an instant, thankful he’d already worked out the window’s mechanism the night before. It slid up smoothly, letting Hedwig swoop into the room then settle upon the bed frame. Harry left the window open for her and slumped on the end of the mattress, resting his forehead against Hedwig’s. He could feel part of the tension that had been plaguing since stepping off the Hogwarts Express drain out of him at the closeness to his oldest friend. They’d been separated far longer before, true, but an entire ocean was so much more daunting than evil wizards and bars on the window. He’d felt like he was entirely on his own…But he wasn’t. He had Hedwig. 

She hooted softly at him and he leant back slightly, bending his head so she could comfortably preen him. He huffed and rubbed his totally dry eyes as he let her do her thing.

“Hey girl. I missed you. I wasn’t sure if…” he trailed off. She pulled sharply at a strand of his hair. “Ouch!” he said more out of petulance than pain. “I’m not saying I doubted you. It’s just–I just,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I was scared .” He busied his hands by petting Hedwig’s soft feathers. It was okay. He was okay. He could say it out loud–though quietly, always quietly–and no one would know. Hedwig wouldn’t use it against him. “What if you’d gotten hurt?” He kept his concentration on making sure all the feathers laid smoothly. “I wouldn’t have even known. You’re the best owl ever, I know, but the ocean’s really big.” She let out a croon, the one he knew meant she was trying to reassure him, the one that always calmed the roiling mess of feelings inside of him and softened the jagged edges of his mind. The smile came impulsively and he let it bloom across his face, hidden as he was by Hedwig’s white fluffiness. “Yeah, you’re the best. Thanks, girl.” 

He could just feel the smugness radiating off her and he snorted a little, finally pulling back now feeling more settled in his skin. Remembering his concerns about being in the middle of a city, he asked, “You think there’s enough for you to hunt here?” She fluttered her wings slightly in response. “Good,” he sighed in relief. Ron and Hermione had helped him put a lot of vermin under stasis before leaving Hogwarts in case whatever more or less wild life that hung around New York ended up not being enough, but he was glad they wouldn't have to depend on the pretty limited supply. She'd get the opportunity to stretch her wings this way, which would hopefully make up for the wait between the deliveries she'd have to do this summer as he and his friends had agreed to limit letters to every two weeks for her health (though he knew Hermione was going to create an email account for him, which would mean more regular contact). His fierce companion wasn't meant to be kept in a cage and handfed. 

Now that he was awake however, he wasn't sure what to do. Simon hadn't told him anything about how the mornings would go. Was he supposed to wait for the other to wake up, or maybe he should start on breakfast? He didn't want to touch things without permission, but neither did he want to be late to whatever chores he had on the first day. He hadn't even met his mother’s cousin yet, he reminded himself. Perhaps she was the one to assign the work in the house. It would explain why Simon hadn't mentioned anything. Should he wait in the room? On one hand, he could keep out of sight this way. On the other hand, the possibility of one of the Lewises barging in and seeing Hedwig…

He hadn't exactly asked for permission to keep her, and neither would he. It’s not like they needed to know; she wouldn't make any trouble. It would, nonetheless, be easier for everyone if Harry just made sure they didn't meet. 

Mind made up, he flicked Hedwig’s foot. “I’m going downstairs, to see if anyone’s awake. Please be quiet, we don't know how they'll react.”

She gave him a sideway look, hopped to the other end of the bed frame and started grooming herself. Well, it's not like she wasn't used to the ‘be quiet and pretend you don't exist’ routine. He didn't need to be worried about that. 

He slowly pulled the door open, somewhat expecting it to creak like the old doors of Hogwarts but no noise came of it. He stepped lightly in the hallway, thankful his steps were muffled by the carpet, and headed towards the stairs. Simon’s bedroom door was still closed, meaning he was probably asleep. The wizard wasn’t sure what he would do as the only one awake in the house since this wasn’t a good time to be sneaking out, but he was already out so he might as well get himself a glass of water or something. 

Walking towards the kitchen, he heard the scraping of metal and froze immediately a few steps away from the doorway, his heart pounding from the unexpected noise. Guess he shouldn’t have been so confident from only seeing a doorway. He exhaled slowly, trying to breathe out the adrenaline and shock, and resumed his trudge to the kitchen where he was beset by another surprise. 

A woman stood by the stove-top. Her profile assured him she was no intruder, as he could easily see Simon in her traits and wavy brown hair. This was his mother’s cousin, Elaine. His new guardian. His…not-Aunt. 

Somehow, Harry hadn’t expected to meet her for a while yet. She hadn’t been there at all the previous day and Clary, Simon and Luke had felt like a family of their own. 

She noticed him before he could think further on it. 

“Oh! Good morning,” she gave him a tired smile, “you must be Harry.”

“Er, yeah. And you are–Elaine, right?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry for not being able to pick you up yesterday; work keeps me incredibly busy!” She laughed a little, shaking her head. “I get the worst schedules. I honestly think I might be a little cursed. You met both Clary and Luke, didn’t you? Oh, come sit down sweetie, I’ll get you some eggs.” She gestured at the table with one hand, the other busy with a spatula. Harry mechanically sat down.

“I–thank you, yes, I did meet Clary and Luke. They were nice,” he offered hesitantly. 

“Yes, Luke’s very nice.” She then muttered something too low for Harry to hear, who only caught a snippet of what sounded like “...Jocelyn…” She must have been talking to herself, however, because she continued right on. “Clary’s practically family! Her and Simon have been friends forever. You’ll be seeing her around very often. Have I told you about Rebecca? That’s my daughter, the oldest child. She lives on her own, but you will probably meet her at least once this summer.” She took two plates out of the cabinets and laid them on the table, then poured the scrambled eggs out of the pan in equal portions. “Did you get along with Simon yesterday? You’ll be spending a lot of time together this summer, so it would be best to nip any issues in the bud! As I said, my schedule isn’t ideal and I usually work nights, so we’ll probably see each other only for breakfast and dinner.”

Harry wasn’t sure if she was actually expecting an answer or simply filling the silence. She seemed way too energetic for someone who had worked all night, and very able to carry the conversation by herself. 

“Simon was nice. He made spaghetti.” What to say, what to say…They hadn’t shared much information. Every time Simon started on a topic, he seemed to change his mind and instead ask about Harry, who either didn’t have anything to answer, didn’t have anything he could answer without breaking the Statute, or simply didn’t want to answer. Furthermore, supper had dragged on well past the point of reasonableness because the eldest had kept playing around with his food, instead of bloody eating it . Harry had genuinely been wondering if the bloke had actually poisoned the meal. And then he’d explained that he was on a diet, which, okay? Why not just serve himself some salad instead? That’s what Aunt Petunia usually did. Still, despite the suspicions of attempted murder, the sauce was truly, well, to die for. “The spaghetti was good.” There. Nice and neutral. The tension and awkwardness would hopefully fade as they got to know each other anyways. There was no need to mention it. 

“Oh, yes, Simon makes a mean spaghetti. He’s a pretty good cook in general, when I can convince him to make something,” she rolled her eyes, playfully Harry assumed. Continuing on the topic, she started talking about their family recipe of AAAAAH and how Simon and Rebecca had tried to surprise her with it one year, and then the mention of her daughter led to talking about her career, and her boyfriend, and her apartment, and her ex-boyfriend, and…

By the time their eggs were finished, Harry had forgotten more about Rebecca Lewis than he’d ever learned about his own parents, a thought which soured his mood despite the freely given eggs. Elaine practically skipped out of the kitchen, cheerfully telling him it was her “daynight time” and that she’d see him tomorrow. She was already heading up the stairs when he opened his mouth to ask if she’d met his mother–they were cousins, had they travelled to each other’s country? Exchanged letters, phone calls? Had Lily Evans ever told her about her life, her boyfriends and her friends and her professors?–and then closed his mouth, not a word making it past his lips. 

Elaine was very chipper. 

Aunt Petunia had died just a few weeks ago. 

That wasn’t the reaction of someone who’d known and mourned the departed. And if she hadn’t known Petunia, she wouldn’t have known Lily either. Maybe she did know things about his mother, but Harry didn’t want to hear no, to be told there was nothing. Trying to reach his parents’ memories felt like grabbing smoke with your bare hands. Everyone had known, or known of them, yet no one could tell him anything. No true memories, only fragments of facts and rumours echoing through the Wixen world until the shadow of Lily-and-James-Potter stretched beyond the small island they had lived and died for and faded beneath the legend of the Boy-who-lived.

Sometimes Harry felt like he’d killed his parents twice. First in life, through a wand of yew and the words of a madman, then in death, through the ink of a quill and the words of a wiseman. 

He looked at the disappearing figure of his new guardian, still seated at the table. The sound of a door closed rather carelessly floated down to him, then it was silence.

His gaze was drawn to the sink, where the plates and cooking utensils were set, all still dirty. 

Well. No meal was ever truly free. This was a small price to pay. 

Elaine hadn’t told him anything about his responsibilities in the house and if their future conversation were anything like this one, he doubted she would. It would indeed be Simon who assigned tasks, then. Shaking his head, he turned on the faucet and did his best to drown out his thoughts in hot soapy water and dirty dishes. The repetitive and familiar motions were surprisingly soothing, without anyone peering over his shoulder aiming to catch him in a mistake. He quickly finished washing the meagre amount of tableware and left it to dry in the rack beside the sink. Better not to go rifling through all the cupboards and end up guessing the wrong place for putting away the items.

He dried his hands on his pants, making sure they’d stopped dripping before heading back towards his room. Hedwig would doubtless be asleep by now as she usually was in the early morning, especially after such a taxing flight as crossing the Atlantic must have been. He snatched his shoes by the entryway, just in case he didn’t get the occasion to leave his room the rest of the day. They were, thankfully, somewhat clean. At the very least, they wouldn’t leave a trail of dirt throughout the house and he could keep them hidden underneath his bed without making a mess.

“Harry!”

His head snapped up, his arms halfway through a motion to hide his shoes behind his back that froze at the sight of Simon, looking at him and blocking the path to his room. Simon. Standing in front of the door. The open door. 

Oh bugger . 

Harry immediately schooled his expression into something that hopefully conveyed innocence and sincerity, though he’d never known much of the first and the second was a weapon to be wielded judiciously. They’d spent–what, 24 hours together?–Simon totally wouldn’t notice he’d just paled 3 shades.

“Simon! Er, good morning,” he smiled, hoped it didn't look like he was cringing, and edged closer to glance behind him. 

“Harry, oh boy, I don’t know how to tell you this,” he looked incredibly stressed, which was not reassuring at all. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know how this happened.”

He was firmly within grabbing distance when he finally got close enough to see in the room–did the bloke have to be this tall?–and there she was; Hedwig, the majestic snowy owl, the smartest bird he’d met, his first friend, his most trustworthy companion, his pure white owl staying in the middle of the room, glaring. Harry could feel his soul wither a little. 

“There’s an owl in your room.” 

There sure was. 

An owl, with whom he’d discussed the importance of staying hidden. 

“I’ve never even seen an owl in New York! I have no idea where it came from. This is–I swear we don’t get random animals in the house usually. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry, just–” There was only one way out of this. 

Harry cut him off. “That’s not an owl.” Oh fuck what was he even saying.

Simon turned his very distressed gaze from the glaring owl in the room to Harry. 

“What?”

“That’s not an owl," he said again. Well, in for a penny... "Obviously,” he scoffed, stalling for time. “That’s my–” cat? No, no, too many associations with witches, even if Hedwig was white, “dog.”

“What?” 

“My dog. Buddy.”

Simon stared at Harry. Harry stared back. The American turned his gaze to the animal a few feet from them, Harry turning with him. They both peered at Hedwig, who looked very unhappy with the both of them, and was also very noticeably not a dog. 

“That is clearly some sort of bird.”

“No,” Harry denied, “that’s my dog, Buddy. I just told you.”

Simon’s eyes played ping-pong between the two of them. “...It has wings.”

Harry gasped, channelling Lavender whenever she saw some particularly weird shape in her tea leaves reading, which was every time. “Buddy went through a very traumatic accident! Just because he looks different doesn’t mean he’s not perfect.”

Simon’s brows furrowed, the shock giving way to bewilderment. 

Harry felt kind of bad doing this, but he wouldn’t risk Hedwig. “He’s a good boy,” he insisted, wishing for Simon to just believe him, to see Hedwig as Buddy the dog, no this is not an owl, it’s just a white dog, there are no owls, don’t worry about it. “The best boy.” He said fiercely.

“...Okaaay. I didn’t know you had a dog,” Simon said slowly.

Merlin damn it. He couldn't have an apparating dog; the whole point was for Hedwig – Buddy – to be a normal pet. 

“He was, er, sleeping. In my trunk. You wouldn’t have noticed him.”

A strange expression crossed the other’s face before settling back into confusion. But no suspicion, which was a good sign. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Was… what dangerous?

“Staying in a closed bag?” he continued. 

“Oh.” There was plenty of space in his trunk. A muggle trunk, however? He needed to reassure the taller boy so he wouldn't question it. “No, he’s an English breed. It’s fine.”

Simon nodded slowly. “Right,” he said and didn’t move.

Harry smiled tightly, desperately wanting to throw himself out of the window he could see from the corner of his eye. 

“Can I…” he gestured at the doorway where Simon was standing, blocking his path into the room. 

“Ah, right,” he took a step to the side. “Sorry.” He was still staring.

The wizard slinked into the room, shouldering the wall as he tried to keep his distance from the other. He immediately took hold of the door.

“Uh, wait, breakfast–” Simon tried to say.

“I ate with your mum, thanks, sorry,” he answered, and promptly shut the door in his cousin’s befuddled face. 

He turned and made eye contact with a very judgmental Hedwig, and was then hit with the realisation of what he had just done. 

There was no way that would work. Any second now, Simon would burst in his room, shouting “Aha! There is no dog, only an owl and a very stupid underage wizard!” Except the room stayed quiet, Harry frozen in his spot and Hedwig completely unbothered. After a moment, he heard footsteps drawing away from his door and heading downstairs. Did... Did Simon believe him? But that was crazy. No one was that stupid. There was no way he would buy the shite Harry had spouted, unless—

—unless magic was involved.

Holy shit. Merlin’s holy shit, even.

What had he done?

He had basically just–freaking imperio ’d his cousin! With his mind! His life was over. There was no way he could claim accidental magic on this, even though it was. 

For Morgana’s sake, how had he messed up this badly this quickly! It hadn’t even been two full days that he’d been staying with the Lewises, and already he was throwing around Unforgivables. 

“Hedwig,” he choked out, “I’m going to Azkaban.”

Her amber eyes held no mercy. She snorted, shook her wings, and settled in to sleep.

Chapter Text

Simon was this close to giving up and lying on the ground in the middle of the hallway with his ear pressed to the gap between floor and door to listen in. He couldn't tell what was going on in Harry's room. No screams or loud noises, just the normal amount of sound he was able to hear from someone in another room. His vampiric senses would get better with time, but he couldn’t wait a decade for that to happen when his cousin might be getting mauled right now. 

He’d almost kicked the door in when Harry had closed it, slammed with panic at the idea of him being alone in a room with a demon. It may have looked like an owl, but there was no way it was a normal animal, much less a dog. Simon didn't know much about England; he didn’t think dogs were that different over there, though. The thing had shown up out of nowhere the morning after Harry had arrived alone, sans-pet. So either… either it had showed up today and somehow deluded Harry into thinking it was his long time pet — was that even possible? Something like that sounded more like a fae trick than a demon’s plot to their next meal — or it truly was his cousin’s pet and had been all along. That brought up a number of other concerns, namely: had it changed form and indeed hidden in Harry's things, or had it crossed the Atlantic all the way from Britain to follow this one teenager? 

And most concerning, if it had been staying with Harry for a few months, perhaps even years … Shivers crept down his spine at the thought. A demon going to such lengths did not bode well.

Lesser demons did not bother with mortals except to hunt and hurt them, and the less said about Greater Demons, the better.

The only thing that held him back, that stilled his clenched fists inches away from painted wood, was also what had confused him at first; Harry’s perception of a harmless, normal animal. As long as Simon didn’t do anything, the not-owl would probably keep pretending to be a dog for at least another few hours. Also, he didn't really want to have to explain to a 14-year-old why he was trying to kill his “pet”, or worse: tell him about the Shadow World. Simply knowing about it was enough to get you in trouble and ruin your life. Look at him. Dead and now a literal creature of myth. 

He pulled himself away from the floor and glared at the wooden sign spelling out Becca’s name that still hung there despite her moving out ages ago, absently noting that maybe he should get Harry his own letters.

His feet mechanically led him down the stairs while his mind was busy being split between panic (making his thoughts rush like a hamster running on its little wheel, except both the wheel and the hamster were screaming) and keeping an ear on Harry’s room.

A young male voice filtered through, barely audible, “...wig…ass cabin…” it said.

What the fuck?

He needed Clary for this. 

As soon as he reached the last step, he crouched down and started crawling back up the stairs silently, all those spy games he’d played with Rebecca paying off. He stopped before reaching the top and kept himself just out of sight of his older sister’s bedroom. Wow, this really brought back memories. 

He dug his phone out of his hoodie’s pocket and then got his passcode wrong twice because he kept glancing at the hallway.

“Fucking he–” he muttered to himself, finally reaching his phone app. Clary’s number was his second most called, below Isabelle’s only because they tended to see each other in person pretty much everyday, whereas meeting up with Izzy required either advanced scheduling or advanced sneaking around. It had barely rung for the second time before the call was picked up.

“Hey,” Clary sounded distracted. She was probably painting with the new watercolours her mother had gotten her last week, like fun little colours would be enough to make up for a lifetime of lies. 

Simon sighed mournfully, “We have a problem.” They always had problems. It’d started when they were sixteen, and had yet to stop. Smash mouth really wasn't kidding when they said the years start coming and they don't stop coming and they don't stop coming and they don't stop co–

“No,” she shot him down immediately, now fully alert. “Why would you say that? We don't have a problem. Everything is great.”

“Uh, I know for a fact that's not true, considering how often you've been complaining about Jace, and also I mean no offence, but, your mom? Is kind of a little bit of a problem. But none of that matters, because we have an actual, in-my-house-with-my-baby-cousin, demon problem.”

“We what,” she yelped. “Holy shit, why didn't you start with that! Is it dead? I’m coming over. Are you okay? Do I need to call Jace,” the words were shot rapid-fire without a pause for breath. 

“No!” He winced and twisted around to look back into the hallway like he’d be able to see through the walls and tell if either his mom or Harry had heard that.

And then what Clary said registered. 

Jace… He wasn’t the biggest fan of the arrogant blonde, but the guy was genuinely, incredibly (frustratingly) skilled as a demon murder machine. He’d be a lot of help… “Yes,” he changed his mind.

Then thought about Jace standing in his living room exuding superiority and smugness with his stupid cool boots and flowing locks and his non-existent blood pressure shot through the roof. “No,” he said again. “Urgh. Just, not yet. Listen, this is actually a, uuuh, long-term problem?”

“Are you okay,” she asked intently.

“Yeah.” Now he felt like a dick. He sighed inaudibly through his nose, letting his forehead hit the wall. He definitely freaked her out, saying what he did with no context. “Yeah, Clary, I’m okay. Sorry. Nothing’s happened, we're all fine.”

He could almost feel her deflating from the other end of the call. “... How do you have a long-term demon problem? They're usually more of the short-term, I'm-about-to-die kind.”

“My cousin has a pet demon.”

Silence.

“Come again?”

“It’s—” He blew out a breath. “I’m not sure it’s a demon, to be honest, but it was the first thing I thought of. I’m kind of freaking out a little over here.”

“I don’t get it. Is it a demon? And what do you mean, it's your cousin's pet?”

“Okay, listen. I went to wake up Harry like 10 minutes ago and he wasn't in his room, but you know what was? A fucking owl! Like with wings and shit!”

“That’s, uh, weird,” she said with the tone of someone thinking the fuck . “That's definitely weird. But not exactly demon weird...?”

“I know! I thought it was just an owl, which, kind of freaky, how did it get in here, where did it come from, also I’m pretty sure white owls live in Antarctica or something, but then! Harry told me that it was his dog .”

It was such a terrible lie—so unbelievably absurd—that it had to be true. Nobody was stupid enough to make up a lie like that. Which was terrible news, as it meant his cousin might have slept in the same room as some illusionary creature that he believed to be an innocent dog.

“Huh?” 

“Exactly! And I was like, uh no, that’s a bird–”

—and like nothing could stop the coming of a tsunami, nothing could hold back the words bursting from Clary “–no, that's a plane–”

“–no, it's Superman,” he finished, equally bound to completing the quote, “and he said ‘no it's my dog’! And I was thinking ‘what the hell, where did it come from?' We didn’t see any dog or owl yesterday when we picked him up, right?”

“Right.”

“He said it was in his luggage! Well, he said it was in his trunk, because he’s British.”

“There’s no way a dog could have fit in his luggage,” she clicked her tongue. “Though it was pretty big,” was added consideringly. 

“There is no dog, Clary,” he hissed into the phone, probably looking as unhinged as he felt crouched on the stairs arguing about the existence of the damn creature.

“Right, no, sorry, no dog. I don't think an owl would have fit either, though?”

“It wouldn't have,” he strained out as he tried to keep whispering even while his voice rose. “But a shape shifting demon could have!” He shook the phone like Clary could feel it. 

“Oooh,” the understanding in Clary’s voice had him slumping over, not bothering to react to the stairs digging into his back and ribs beyond a slight wince. Screw vampirism, why couldn't he have been turned into a worm or something? He wouldn’t need to care about demons or taxes. His only worry would be finding a good crunchy leaf. Or something. He doesn't actually know, because he's not a worm. Being a sentient being was the worst. “And Harry wouldn't have noticed if it looked like a dog or an owl or a tiny shrunken owl either way because he’s mundane. Hence the dog.”

“Hence the dog,” he agreed.

“Okay, that's– wait, is the demon there right now?” The alarm was back in her voice.

“Yeah.” The worst thing was that he couldn't do anything to the demon unless it attacked first, otherwise Harry would think he was crazy. And also probably hate him for killing his ‘dog’. 

“What's it doing right now?”

“I don't know. It's with Harry in his room.”

“You left him alone with it,” was asked incredulously.

“I know, I know,” he groaned. “Thing is, my cousin doesn't just think it’s a dog. He thinks it’s his dog. His dog, Buddy the demon. So, that’s…”

“Not good,” Clary finished for him.

“Yeah, but that also means it's been with him for a while, right? Plus, it wasn't really doing anything earlier, just…staring. I’ve got pretty good hearing now, as you know, so I’m keeping an eye, uh, an ear on things. I think—,” he snuck another glance in the corridor. Closed door, nothing audible beyond. No change. He bit the inside of his cheek. “—well, I don't think Harry is safe, per say, but I think he’ll be fine for the next, what, fifteen minutes ‘til you get here?”

“Twenty,” she grunted. “I’m putting my shoes on and I’ll catch the bus. Do you have that dagger Isabelle gave you?” 

“It's in my room.”

“You should keep it on you, just in case.”

He huffed. “That thing’s the length of my forearms! Not exactly subtle. I’m gonna look like a serial killer.”

“Just put it in your pocket, for fuck’s sake.”

“And have it cut me up? No, thanks.”

“Jesus fucking christ. Listen, I’ll be there in 10, get the dagger,” he would definitely not, “and keep listening for trouble. I’ll text Jace,” he’d already said no thanks, which he prepared to do again. Clary anticipated that. “I’m not telling him what’s going on, I’ll just say I’m at your place. If something goes wrong…”

Ah. “Smart.”

“I thought so, too. See you,” she hung up.

She’d gotten so much more brusque since, well, everything. It might be that the constant danger and lying and bullshit they’d had to go through had exhausted her patience prematurely. There she was, hanging up on him, her own best friend of over a decade. He thought it might be a good change for her overall. She’d stood up to her mother and to the Council. She was much less afraid to speak up and disagree with people now when before she would have backed down and looked away, content with her art and Simon. it had scared him at the beginning, this change; he'd thought it meant she’d outgrow him and leave him behind. But she hadn't. Two years later, their friendship was stronger than it had ever been. He felt like a savah, all wistful and proud over her grandchildren. 

He rearranged himself to be in a slightly more comfortable position, though it was a bit of a lost cause considering he was trying to squish himself as close as possible to the hallway while keeping himself hidden. Sitting there, the twenty minutes painstakingly dragged by with only a few muffled sounds coming from Harry’s room to break the monotony. His shoulders hitched a little higher every time, sure the next one would be a scream. There were only the normal kind of noises someone moving around made, until he heard the handle turn. He shot up immediately to peek around the corner and paused, confused. There was nothing moving. 

He heard the sound of a door opening, a car passing by and, oh, that was the front door. That was embarrassing, especially since Becca’s room was in the opposite direction of the front door. Superior vampire hearing, his ass. Clary could never know.

The red headed agent of chaos in question appeared at the bottom of the stairs, raising her eyebrows. He made a shushing motion, then gestured for her to come up. She knew his house well enough to navigate it mostly silently, having been a frequent player of the spy games. He kept an eye on the currently demon hosting room and waited for her to reach him. He turned and opened his mouth, then thought about it for a moment and changed his mind. He touched her wrist lightly, and inclined his head forward. She nodded. Quickly, he crossed the hallway towards his own room. 

Clearly they hadn't practised spying together in too long because as he was turning the handle slowly to be quiet, since the old thing tended to creak, Clary bumped into him from behind, sending his forehead smacking straight against the door with a loud thunk just as the bolt slid in and the door swung open from the impact. He whipped around, wide brown eyes meeting green. Both he and Clary stood frozen for the five longest seconds he’d ever experienced. Clary glanced towards Becca’s room, still wide-eyed and rigid, then they both moved at the same time, her stepping forward and him pulling her in the room. He immediately shut the door behind her, barely remembering to be delicate with the handle, not that it mattered honestly because it made nowhere near as much noise as his own skull just had.

“Sorry,” she whispered. 

He let his forehead hit the door–gently , this time. “We’re so bad at this. There’s no way he didn't hear that,” the words were nonetheless said in a whispered tone. 

His friend shrugged, smiling remorsefully. More interestingly, she hefted out of her satchel a thick book with a warm brown leather cover. 

“I sneaked my mom’s codex,” she wiggled the book from side to side. “I think it has about all the demons ever in it.”

“Demon dictionary,” he nods.

She nods back. “We can try to find your cousin’s demon pet in it.”

“Our.”

“What? Oh, my god,” she rolled her eyes. “When it's your cousin, it's blood pact this, blood pact that, but when it's my brother—”

“Your brother tried to kill us! And everyone else!”

“Our brother tried to kill everyone,” she smiled sweetly. “Hakuna matata means family and all that.”

He gasped, horrified. “It's ohana, you uncultured swine. And fine,” he spat, “your crazy brother is our crazy brother. I hate him even more. Let’s find this fucking demon.”

“That's the spirit.”

They settled on his bed because, not to sound like an eighty year old, but sitting on the floor was too harsh on his back. The New York coven might have been fine with sleeping upside down and in coffins, but Simon, if anything, was a creature of comfort, thank you very much.

“Alright,” she let the book thump softly on the bed covers. “Describe the demon.”

They settled backs to the wall, knees bumping. 

“Okay, well, it looked like an owl,” Clary nodded seriously at him, digging out one of her millions of notebooks she’d dragged everywhere with her since the age of 10. It held much less innocent scribbles these days. “I genuinely thought it was an actual owl at first honestly! It looked exactly like what’d you expect an owl to look like. It was about this big,” he held out his hands in front of him in an estimation of the size of the thing, knowing Clary was able to measure things from sight. “It was mostly white except for these little black spots all over. Sharp black beak and yellow eyes.” 

“Yellow?” she paused in her note taking.

“Yellow,” he maintained. “Bright, almost school bus yellow. Its claws were—its toes?”

“I think it’s actually a different name for birds of prey. It's a…Starts with a ‘t’,” she muttered with frustration.

T, t, t….

“Talon,” he snapped his fingers in victory.

“Yes!”

“Right, its talons were black as well. And, I can’t prove it, but it looked… aware. Intelligent. Angry.” He shuddered lightly at the memory of those piercing eyes drilling through him, dread creeping through him as the truth of the situation had slowly dawned on him.

“Anything else?” Clary asked, resting her pen on the open notebook.

“I don't… Physically, I think that’s it. Although… I do wonder if it really was in Harry’s luggage for the trip. If it was –”

“–then it’s a shapeshifter,” she caught on immediately. She’d probably already thought of it on the way over. “It could have also sneaked on the plane and pretended to be something else. But if it didn’t–”

“–then it has ways of transporting itself across long distances, quickly.”

She grimaced. “Do you know how long it’s been with Harry? The thing that’s most striking to me here is that it seems to be non violent. That’s unusual.” They both knew that by now. “There are parasitic demons, but they’re usually small,” as she demonstrated by bringing her thumb and index close, “or the type to stay hidden. If I remember that lesson correctly,” she added in a distracted mutter.

“I don’t know. I didn’t get the chance to ask, or to even think about it. And I know it makes no sense. We’ve never encountered a demon that didn’t  immediately try to tear our faces off, especially not a demon that’s basically playing house!”

“There’s nothing immediately familiar about this demon, Simon,” she gestured apologetically at the book. “We can look. It’s just—it would be faster to ask Isabelle or Jace.”

“I know,” he groaned into his hands. “Izzy shot me a text this morning, she’ll be unreachable until tomorrow. And…I don’t have a problem with Jace anymore. I just don’t want him charging in and killing my little cousin’s ‘dog’. Which he would do.” 

“He–” she frowned, then shrugged. “Yeah, probably. We don’t have to actually tell him about the demon though.”

He deadpanned. “We don't have to tell him about the demon we're asking his help for?” 

“We’re just educating ourselves. Broadening our demonic horizons. Nothing wrong with that. What’s the matter with a little hypothetical question?

He wavered. It would definitely be faster, and therefore safer, to directly ask for one of their shadowhunter friends’ help. Simon meant it, though, when he said he didn't want Jace killing the thing immediately. He understood the impulse, was definitely feeling it right now himself. But…He imagined telling Harry his pet was dead. 

Harry, whose entire family had just died. 

Fuck.

Simon had the briefest urge to give himself amnesia so he wouldn't have to deal with this crap anymore. And then he opened his mouth and out came something that was definitely in the top ten stupidest thing he’d ever said. Maybe even top five.

“We're not killing the demon.” 

Clary blinked at him. “Uh, yeah, I know? I’m proposing asking Jace what it is, not telling him it is here.”

“No, I mean—that’s fine, you can ask him now,” he waved his hand. “I mean we’re not killing the demon. At all.”

“...at all? You, what? Wait, wait, wait, you’re not suggesting we just leave it alive and free?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” His hand grabbed hers on top of the bed cover, cutting off the argument he could see building with a soft squeeze. “Clary,” he said softly. “He’s only here because he has nowhere else to go. We’re complete strangers who aren’t even that closely related, really. I can’t take away what little he has left,” he looked at her beseechingly. “Even if that thing is a demon.”

She stayed silent for a moment, biting her lip. If he still had a heartbeat, Simon knows it would’ve been thudding in his ears.

Her hand squeezed back. “As your best friend, I am obligated to tell you I think this is a terrible idea–”

He sucked in a breath, 17 years of habit not yet broken.

“–and that I’m gonna help you with it anyways.”