Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since the school ball. Time had stretched strangely since then — not exactly painfully, more like a dull ache, as if someone deliberately avoided touching a healing wound.

Carlisle remembered their last conversation with perfect clarity. The shadowed stretch of wall, the cool air, and the way Harry had looked at him then — tense, alert, defensive. And he had finally spoken what he had carried silently all this time: that he was already working on his divorce. That he wanted a fresh start. That he no longer wished to live in lies. And that he wanted to fight for Harry — not for some unattainable ideal, but for a real person.

He had not waited for Harry’s response. He knew that now it was not words but distance that needed space. He did not call. He did not seek him out. Not because he did not long for him — but because he knew that if he tried to pull Harry close by force, Harry would only flee. The man could not be chased. He had to be given time. Space — especially after everything that had happened.

Because there were things he still could not quite forget. Even now, he felt the tiny, burning points of shame in his chest whenever he recalled the moment he had lost control. The dimness of the study, the tension, Harry’s nearly frozen body pinned against the couch… and that instinctive, sudden movement with which he had kissed him. When only one thought remained in his mind: to taste, to claim, to lose himself in him.

And then Harry’s voice — breaking the daze: “Enough…!”

Carlisle still felt the cold shiver run through him as he had recoiled. He had let desire rush too fast, too deep; if Harry hadn’t stopped him, he might truly have hurt him… Harry had never held it against him. Not since. But Carlisle knew he had gone too far, too soon. And that memory, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, was always there — behind his best intentions, like a gentle guilt.

By contrast, he thought fondly of their kisses. When Harry allowed it, he reciprocated the closeness — not driven by desire, but by trust. Carlisle remembered how the man’s soft hands had curled around his, how the warmth of the moment had enveloped him, how the quiet kiss had brought calm, reassured him. It had given hope: perhaps they could start over.

Because things had happened in the wrong order. Desire had come first, understanding later. And now it was difficult to step back to the beginning — to where everything could be built slowly, with trust, with genuine closeness.

Carlisle knew this perfectly. That was why he did not rush. But the absence was already working on him.

They hadn’t spoken in two weeks.
Not really.

Of course, he had seen him — sometimes, for fleeting moments, somewhere in the city. When Harry hurried out of a café, or was stepping toward his car. Sometimes he even greeted him politely, like a parent acknowledging their child’s teacher.

But Harry’s gaze always turned away too quickly.

There was no anger in it.
No rejection.

Just that old, perfectly measured distance, the same he had once practiced toward others.

Only now, he was the one looking in from the other side.

And something itched in Carlisle. Increasingly, insistently.

The feeling that he needed to see him.

Not alarming, not yet — but no longer comfortable either.

The solution arrived unexpectedly. In the form of Hermione Weasley.
Blessed woman.

Rosalie happened to be on the family’s “shopping duty” that day, the ritual they sometimes took on to maintain the semblance of normalcy. According to Esme, these small gestures kept them reassuringly human, even if the kitchen cabinets were slowly turning into a museum under endless cans and boxes of cereal.

That day, Carlisle had almost instinctively offered to join. No ulterior motive — just the promise of a peaceful day, a little movement, some company. At least that’s what he told himself.

“Unnecessary,” Rosalie muttered when Carlisle announced he would accompany them. Her voice was low, meant only for him. Carlisle responded with a meaningful blink. Rosalie’s eyes flashed, but she didn’t argue further.

Inside the store, the neon lights mercilessly sharpened reality. Carlisle spotted the woman immediately — Hermione — standing before the chocolate aisle, carefully selecting bars.

“Picky… he won’t like it… but at least it’s not hazelnut,” Hermione murmured as she added another milk chocolate bar to her basket.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Carlisle’s mouth. Harry liked sweets. The thought warmed his chest in a surprisingly gentle way. And in that moment, as Hermione turned toward the register, the thought seemed to arise on its own: "perhaps, if I help her, I might see him."

“Mrs. Weasley, how are you?” he said politely, as Rosalie slowly and reluctantly caught up. “Oh, I see you’ve done quite a thorough shopping today. If you allow, my daughter and I would be happy to help carry these home.”

“Pathetic,” Rosalie hissed, barely audible, yet a note of mock-elegant disdain lingered in her tone. The sort of contempt becoming of a lady, yet almost pitying the man at the same time.

Carlisle ignored it. Out of habit, almost.

Hermione paused for a moment in silence. Her gaze ran across Rosalie’s face, then returned to Carlisle. A small, knowing spark lit her eyes — she saw through him, and yet, she only smiled.

“Thank you, Dr. Cullen. That is very considerate of you.”

Carlisle inclined his head slightly. Polite, as always — but inside, a childish satisfaction stirred. He asked no questions. He didn’t say Harry’s name. Yet, perhaps… perhaps this was a chance.

The walk was not long. Ten minutes, maybe less, even at Hermione’s slower pace. But Carlisle didn’t mind. Every step, every movement, every moment gave a new hope: perhaps now, finally, they would meet.

The task of keeping up the conversation had fallen to Rosalie, which wasn’t a problem at all. A few days ago, she had declared—defiantly—that she actually liked Hermione, which had left Carlisle almost stunned. His Rosalie wasn’t the type to admit such things lightly. Since then, he had suspected that some kind of strange, yet functional, dynamic had developed between the two women.

At that moment, they were engaged in a lively discussion about something surprisingly down-to-earth.

"Seriously? Neither of them flies?" Rosalie asked in disbelief, and Hermione merely shook her head.

"The engine is too complicated a mechanism. Cylinders, pistons, ignition—too many parts move too fast to enchant it properly. One wrong spell, and the whole thing explodes."

Rosalie huffed, scandalized. "A whole world just collapsed inside me."

Carlisle smiled.

As they reached the house, Hermione silently linked arms with both Rosalie and Carlisle and led them straight through the front garden. Carlisle felt a faint, cold tingling run along his skin—like walking through a veil. The sensation was too delicate to hurt, yet too real to ignore.

He only understood what had happened when they reached the porch steps: a protective charm.

The house looked small from the outside, neat, an unassuming one-story building.

Then, suddenly, music sliced through the moment.

A violin.

At first, the melody was soft—just a few tentative notes hanging in the air—then it grew in strength. A solo. Deep and sharp, carving through the silence as if alive.

"Well, Dr. Cullen," Hermione said, her tone quietly amused. "It seems your effort wasn’t in vain. Harry’s home."

The front door wasn’t locked—apparently, the wards were sufficient against any outsiders. Hermione stepped inside and called over her shoulder,

"Come in, since you’ve carried all that. Harry will be unreachable for a while anyway."

Carlisle followed them into the hallway as Hermione began unloading the bags.

"Help me put these away. I’ll see if there’s any… blood. There should be something in Harry’s stores."

Carlisle hesitated for a fraction of a second—why would Harry keep blood in his home?
But the thought scattered the instant he stepped further inside.

Beyond the entryway, the space opened wide—broad, airy, impossibly large compared to the modest exterior. Like a distorted reflection of reality, clearly the result of magic. And yet, it felt tasteful, natural—even homely.

Meanwhile, the music shifted.

Tartini.

Carlisle recognized the piece—the Devil’s Trill Sonata. He wouldn’t have expected to hear something like that in Harry’s home. Perhaps it reflected Hermione’s taste… or perhaps not.

When he stepped into the living room, he froze.

Harry stood by the window. A light shirt, dark trousers—comfortable, everyday clothes. And yet… there was something elevated about him. The violin rested in his hand, his fingers moving with confident precision along the strings. His eyes were closed, opening only occasionally to glance at the sheet music before him. His movements were not those of mere practice—he breathed with the melody, moved with it. As if he wasn’t playing the music, but living it.

Carlisle’s feet rooted to the floor. Every muscle in his body went still.

Hermione joined them, smiling, her voice soft with fond amusement.

"Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing toward the table. "You won’t disturb him. It’s as if, when he plays, he’s not even in this world anymore."

Carlisle sat down slowly, Rosalie beside him. His gaze never left Harry.

This wasn’t a meeting. They didn’t speak. There was no direct exchange between them.

And yet… it felt as though he had glimpsed the very depths of Harry’s soul.

Music, magic, and silence.
And he sat there, wordless—grateful.

Rosalie was willing to go through with this charade for Carlisle’s sake, but deep down she had already decided this would be the last time. She liked Hermione—or as much as one could like an older, stubborn witch who somehow always looked at her as though she were a messy guest merely tolerated out of courtesy—but she sincerely hoped this wouldn’t become a habit.

Because Harry certainly wouldn’t appreciate them “accidentally” dropping by all the time.
Especially now, when Carlisle was walking an increasingly thin line between obsession and something far more pitiful.

The whole situation struck her as absurd. Carlisle was practically spying on the man. If it weren’t all so emotionally tangled, Rosalie might’ve even found the absurdity of it amusing.

She tried to participate in the conversation, though her attention kept wandering. Not that talking to Hermione was unpleasant—quite the opposite. The woman was intelligent, sharp, and even entertaining when she wasn’t busy trying to see through one’s (vampiric) soul.

But Harry...

He was still playing Tartini.

Rosalie’s eyes hadn’t left the violinist for almost a full minute. His movements were precise, confident, never forced or overly studied. There was just something… natural about him.

“He’s very talented,” Rosalie murmured finally, more to herself than to Hermione, though she kept her voice low so as not to disturb him.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Hermione replied while arranging a few cups on the counter. “He uses a ward when he plays—nothing can distract him. We can hear it only because I asked him to let the sound through. I told him, if he’s going to get lost in his violin again, I’d at least like to enjoy it too.”

Rosalie nodded. It did seem that Harry had shut out the world completely. And yes—he was enjoying himself. There was a deep, almost ancient kind of peace radiating from him, something she had rarely seen in him before.

“He hasn’t played in a while,” Hermione said softly. “He’s probably stuck on something.”

Rosalie’s gaze drifted toward the other side of the living room. The coffee table was buried under stacks of books and scattered papers. Ink blots marked the corners of the pages; tight, hurried handwriting filled the margins. Carlisle’s eyes flicked there too—just for a moment—but with the intensity of a man trying to memorize every trace of another’s existence.
As if he could find, between those pages, the exact place where time had slipped away from him and the door had quietly closed.

Rosalie nearly sighed. He was an absolutely terrible conversational partner—his eyes hadn’t left Harry for a second. The entire burden of small talk fell on her. She didn’t even bother to hide her boredom anymore, but if Carlisle had dragged her all the way here, she would at least look impeccable and behave like a civilized guest.

At least until she lost her patience completely.

Fortunately, Rosalie had been born in the right era to master the art of polite conversation—complete with a cup of tea for Hermione and a glass of salamander blood for herself and Carlisle.
But what they were doing now had gone far beyond the bounds of politeness. In fact, it had drifted well into the territory of the absurd.

They were talking about Edward.

Edward.

And Hermione, of course, seemed perfectly aware of how ridiculous the situation was. It was almost as if she enjoyed guiding Rosalie into this awkward, half-smiling exchange—so genteel, so utterly artificial. Rosalie felt like she’d been transported to some old English garden party, where ladies and gentlemen engaged in refined conversation over tea—while the host, blissfully unaware, played the violin in the background.

Ridiculous. And pathetic.

Hermione’s eyes betrayed how entertained she was. That warm, amber gaze carried a kind of gentle amusement—sharp, knowing, impossible to ignore. It only made Rosalie bristle more. So she pressed on.

“My brother, Edward, is… passionate about music,” she said at last, suppressing the shudder that rose with the words. She couldn’t decide which was worse—that she was talking about Edward, or that she was doing it to keep a witch entertained.

Carlisle, meanwhile, only offered an occasional word or nod. He was somewhere else entirely—somewhere deep in Harry’s presence.

“The telepath?” Hermione asked lightly, sipping her tea as if she had just put the pieces together.

“Yes,” Rosalie replied. “He plays the piano. For hours. Long, drawn-out sessions. I just hope Harry doesn’t get carried away like that…”

Hermione laughed—a bright, unrestrained sound that broke through the formality of the room.

“No, thankfully, Harry doesn’t overdo it. They say playing music is one of the most effective ways to empty the mind. That’s the foundation of Occlumency, though he didn’t exactly learn it that way. For him, the violin helps organize his thoughts.”

“Occlumency?” Carlisle spoke for the first time with real focus, his gaze sharpening on Hermione as if the word itself had drawn him back to reality.

“Yes,” she nodded. “The art of shielding one’s mind. At a high level, it lets you build mental barriers—so others can’t break in.”

Rosalie folded her arms, eyes still on Harry, who played without a flicker of awareness of any of them.

“Sounds like a serious discipline,” she remarked.

“It’s not something they teach in school,” Hermione said, her voice quieting. “But it’s incredibly useful. If your brother learned it, he could block out the constant thoughts he hears much more effectively.”

Rosalie raised an eyebrow.

Hermione just smiled. She knew exactly where to strike. It didn’t hurt—at least not her. But in that moment, Rosalie finally understood why people spoke of this witch as dangerously intelligent.

And why Harry let her stay so close.

The bow moved softly across the strings, the notes slowly filling the room.
Harry had been playing for several minutes, but his focus wasn’t on the melody. His thoughts were louder than the sound of the violin itself.

It had been two weeks since he had truly begun his research.
At first, only in the evenings — now it consumed every spare moment. The house had started to look as if a library had exploded inside it: open volumes, scattered notes, pencil marks in the margins.

But in truth, he was still at the beginning.

Hermione had already warned him not to rush, not to try to unravel everything in one breath.
“The answer might be in the next book — or the hundredth. This isn’t a sprint, Harry. It’s a marathon.”

And though he knew she was right, the restlessness still stirred beneath his calm.
The spell he had sensed at the edge of Carlisle’s mind wouldn’t leave him alone.
Too clear, too powerful to be a coincidence.

Yet he hadn’t found anything like it.
Not yet.

He needed patience — and consistency. Neither had ever been his strongest quality.

The violin helped.
The melody became the rhythm of his thoughts; it didn’t drown them out, only guided them.
Now, as Tartini’s shadows slowly filled the air, Harry’s breathing steadied.

No need to rush.
I’ll be here for months anyway.

The notes gradually smoothed his breath, his shoulders eased.
But somewhere within the music, beneath the flow of sound, the old urgency lingered — quiet but persistent, like an unfinished thought.

Enough for today. Time to return to reality.

Slowly, almost dreamlike, he lowered the violin. As he turned, the movement froze halfway.

He wasn’t alone.

On the sofa sat Hermione, her arms loosely crossed; beside her, Carlisle — attentive, his posture taut with quiet focus. And Rosalie, legs crossed, as if she’d dropped by on a whim — though her expression betrayed her. She knew exactly how absurd this scene was.

Harry’s gaze moved slowly over them before settling on Hermione’s eyes.

“So... we have guests,” he said softly.

And in that softly spoken sentence, there was everything — surprise, a hint of reproach, and something quieter still: a careful, tired curiosity.

Carlisle knew exactly how pathetic this was. He knew—and still, he didn’t care.

He wasn’t a telepath like Edward, yet he could almost hear Rosalie’s thoughts. Every small movement—the slight arch of her brow, the way her lips pressed together above the rim of her cup—all of it betrayed what she was thinking. And she was right. This wasn’t even borderline anymore—it was outright ridiculous.

He’d be ashamed tomorrow.
For now, only Harry mattered.

Harry, who didn’t even notice the stares behind his back.
Who lost himself in Tartini as if he hoped to find every answer hidden in those notes.
And maybe he was right.

Carlisle allowed himself the indulgence of watching. He didn’t even try to deny it.
He watched the man, the motion of his hands, the graceful fingers gliding across the strings. The concentration on his face, that fragile balance he somehow held with such ease. He’d never thought the act of playing the violin could be like this. That there could be a sound, a movement, capable of striking him so deeply.

He would never again be able to sit through a concert in peace.

And when Harry threw them out, then he would be ashamed.

But now… now he only watched. Because he knew these moments were rare—and they always ended before one truly grasped them.

Then Harry’s movements slowed, and the silence that followed was somehow louder than the music itself.
When the man turned, Carlisle already knew—they’d been seen.

“So… we have guests,” Harry said quietly, his gaze flicking immediately to Hermione, who was just then levitating a cup onto the table—presumably for him. The witch raised an eyebrow, questioningly, challengingly, in that effortlessly insolent way only Hermione Granger could.
It was as if they were carrying on some unspoken conversation.

Harry stepped closer and, without any visible reaction, took a seat.

“Yes,” Hermione said with perfect ease. “Dr. Cullen and Miss Hale were kind enough to walk me home from the shop. Unfortunately, I overdid the shopping—too many heavy bags.”
Her sigh was theatrical, but not exaggerated.

Carlisle watched from the corner of his eye, catching the smallest flicker of Harry’s reaction—a quick, almost imperceptible glance as he sipped his tea.

“I’m afraid this has gone cold,” Harry murmured, already standing to make a new one—but Hermione’s wand moved faster.
With a single flick, steam rose again from the cup.

“Don’t bother. I’ll warm it,” she said lightly.

Carlisle almost smiled. The exchange was far sharper than it appeared.

“Interesting,” Harry replied, unable to keep the faintest edge from his tone. “And here I thought you’d forgotten you were a witch—since a few bags gave you so much trouble.”

That was the end of Rosalie’s patience. She placed her cup down with delicate precision and rose in one fluid motion.

“Well. Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, her voice smooth, her gaze burning. “We absolutely must do this again. Next time, we’ll host the tea. And perhaps we’ll ask Edward to dazzle everyone with his own musical talents.”

Carlisle bit the inside of his cheek to stop the laugh that threatened to escape—though the amusement tasted bittersweet.
It wasn’t proper, it wasn’t dignified.
And yet, it was oddly exhilarating.

Edward knew something had happened long before the garage door lifted.
He’d felt Rosalie’s thoughts from halfway up the drive—they practically sizzled with indignation.

Awkward. This was going to be painfully awkward.

The image accompanying her thoughts resembled a scene of refined torture more than a friendly visit.
Rosalie marched into the house with all the grace of a queen pretending nothing was wrong, but Edward wasn’t fooled.

Behind her, Carlisle walked slowly, as if half caught in a dream—and his thoughts were a jumble.
Edward didn’t even need to dig deep; what he found at the surface was already more than enough to make him uncomfortable.

He himself was sitting at the piano, leafing through sheets of music, when Rosalie caught sight of him—and immediately snapped.

“Oh no. Not tonight!” she declared, pointing an impeccably manicured finger straight at him.
“I’ve just survived the most excruciatingly awkward tea of my life, thanks to someone’s obsession with classical music”—her eyes cut sharply toward Carlisle—
“and I will not let you start playing now. One single note, and you can say goodbye to your piano.”

Jasper, who’d been sitting quietly on the couch, let out a soundless sigh and buried his face in his hand.
“Oh God…” he muttered as the clash of Rosalie’s fury and Carlisle’s tangled emotions rolled through him.

Edward flinched, his fingers tightening on the edge of the piano lid.
“I don’t want to know,” he hissed.

“You’ll know anyway,” Jasper murmured hoarsely, leaning back with his eyes closed, as if trying to muffle the storm. “Rosalie’s rage… and Carlisle…”
He stopped, his lips pressing into a line. “Let’s just say I’d rather not describe it.”

Edward gave a short, humorless laugh.
Carlisle stood in the doorway, still wearing his coat, and for a moment it looked as though he were considering turning back.

Rosalie headed upstairs without a word—her steps light, graceful, but carrying the weight of barely restrained tension.

When she disappeared around the turn of the staircase leading upstairs, only three of them remained in the living room.
The silence was almost tangible.

Jasper’s gaze shifted away quickly, as if ashamed of what he couldn’t help but feel from Carlisle — the raw, unfiltered swirl of desire, confusion, and attraction.
Edward wasn’t so lucky: every thought, every flicker of emotion reached him too, no matter how hard he tried not to pay attention.

The realization that he and Jasper were sharing all of it, involuntarily, gave the air a bitter edge.
It wasn’t easy for anyone — least of all when it was one’s father, and said father was, quite visibly, trying to… for lack of a better word, court his newly found mate.

Edward lowered his head; shame vibrated through him, deep and sharp.
Carlisle’s eyes caught both of theirs at once.

Before either of them could speak — perhaps to apologize, or at least to make excuses — Carlisle raised a hand to stop them.

“Yes... believe me, I’d much rather all of this stayed inside my own head,” he said quietly. “But there’s nothing to be done.”

There was no anger in his voice — only a kind of tired resignation that made Edward feel even more unsettled.

Carlisle took off his coat, hanging it on the rack with a slow, deliberate motion, then looked at his two sons thoughtfully.

“To tell the truth,” he said at last, his tone distant, almost absent, “Hermione did mention something...”

Chapter Text

The next day at school, Edward already felt by the end of the first class that his head was going to explode.
The chaotic thoughts of teenagers swirled loudly in his mind: panic over half-finished essays, who was dating whom, and which teacher everyone hated most—all at once.
A boy in the back row kept humming a song in his head, looping the same three lines again and again until Edward was ready to climb the walls.

Jasper wasn’t doing much better.
The crowded hallways were thick with hormonally charged emotional outbursts crashing in from every direction.
Every time a door opened, another wave hit him—excitement, jealousy, nerves… The entire day felt like one long, chaotic storm of emotions.
Especially with the thought lingering in both their minds that maybe, just maybe, there could be a way to stop it.

During the second break, Jasper waited for Edward by his locker.
“I can’t take this anymore,” he muttered, flinching slightly as the intense admiration of a passing girl brushed against his senses. “Honestly, I’d rather go back to the war than spend one more hour in this place.”

Edward didn’t look at him; he just snapped his locker shut with a tight jaw.
“What Carlisle said last night… maybe there’s something to it.”

“Harry?” Jasper asked, as if reluctant to say the name out loud.

“Him.” Edward nodded. “If there’s even a chance we could learn to quiet this—whatever it is—I don’t care if it’s him helping us. I’ll try.”

Jasper hesitated, then nodded. “Then let’s go.”

From the teachers’ lounge, Mrs. Copper, the music teacher, stepped out—balancing a stack of papers and a mug of coffee on her arm.
She spotted them, raised an eyebrow, and tilted her head toward the door at the end of the hallway.
“Morven’s in there.”

The thought that brushed through Edward’s mind from hers was almost amused: “At this point we should give that boy his own office, so many students keep looking for him…”

Harry was indeed inside—but not with any students.
He was bent over a notebook, lost in thought over a page full of pencil notes.
An empty coffee cup rested beside his head on the desk.

Edward cleared his throat. “Got a minute?”

Harry looked up, then motioned for them to come in.
“Come on.” He stood and opened the door to the small lounge next to the teachers’ room.
The space was empty, dimly lit, with only a humming coffee machine in the corner.

He turned it on.
The smell of coffee slowly filled the room as he faced them.
“What is it you’d like?”

Jasper’s shoulders were tense, and Edward stayed silent for a moment, as if weighing his words.
Finally, Jasper began.
“We heard… that you might know a method. Something that could help us, maybe, control our abilities.”

Harry looked at them calmly.
His face didn’t change—only a slight lift of the eyebrows, but no trace of thought or emotion slipped through.

Edward continued, “We’d like your help. We want to… learn.”

Harry took a slow sip of his coffee, then set the cup down.
“We can try,” he said finally. “Occlumency is meant to keep others out of your mind, not to silence a gift… but it might work.
One of my friends once used it for something similar—to stop seeing too much of the world’s edges all the time.
It might help you too.”

The boys exchanged a glance.
Harry added, “I can come by Tuesday evening.”

Rain tapped dully against the large kitchen window.
The stove answered with a quiet sizzle as Harry stirred the hot sauce with a wooden spoon. The air smelled of rosemary and garlic, mingling with the metallic scent of rain from outside.

Only the kitchen light was on. From Hermione’s room came the faint click of a door, then soft footsteps crossing the floorboards. She entered holding a cup, pouring herself some tea.

“So,” Harry said quietly at last, without looking up, “I noticed that some people… interfered.”

Hermione glanced at him, her tone carrying that familiar, feigned innocence.
“Interfered? Whatever do you mean, Harry?”

“The Occlumency,” he replied, finally meeting her gaze. “Edward and Jasper didn’t ask me to teach them by chance.”

“Really?” A satisfied smile flickered across Hermione’s face.

“Hermione…” Harry sighed.

“I only mentioned, very casually, that there was someone who happened to be rather skilled at it.” She shrugged, smiling like someone who knew she’d been caught and didn’t regret it in the least. “You seemed to have forgotten that you once said you’d let him get to know you.”

Harry rubbed his forehead. “I agreed to go over there on Tuesday…” he muttered, though there was no real reproach in his voice.

Hermione’s eyes lit up, her expression both triumphant and tender.
“Perfect!” she said, and the next thought was already forming. “You know, Carlisle asked me the other day if I thought you’d help him with a few books… about potions. You could bring him some.”

The word stilled Harry’s hand mid-stir.
For a moment his gaze grew distant, shadowed by something bittersweet.

He could see Carlisle bent over his notes years ago, trying to make sense of the logic of magic — precise ratios, the effect of temperature, the structure of potions. Once he’d taken an interest, he’d spent days at that desk, immersed, patient, methodical.

And now… now, even without memories, he was searching for the same knowledge again — only through different means, in a different world.
Now as a doctor.

Harry’s throat tightened. The nostalgia left a tender, aching weight inside him — both painful and comforting.

“Potions, huh?” His voice came out rough, thin. “I’ll check my old books… If there’s nothing too revealing in them, he can have them. Again.”

Hermione smiled sadly, though there was warmth in it. Then her tone turned teasing.
“You know, this is partly your fault,” she said with mock reproach. “Anyone reckless enough to destroy his kidneys with potion misuse shouldn’t be surprised if his doctor soulmate wants to study Potions properly…”

Harry laughed, shaking his head, though pain still lingered behind the smile.
“Yes, thank you, Hermione, I do recall you mentioning that. At least three times.”

“And I’ll keep mentioning it,” she replied in her playfully stern voice — then softened. “But you see, Harry… he’s still the same man.”

Harry drew a slow breath, but couldn’t hide the emotion in his face.
Something warm spread through his chest — sharp and tender all at once.
“Maybe,” he said quietly.

Silence settled between them.
Only the rain and the simmering sauce filled the air.

Hermione walked over to the kitchen table, set down her tea, and sat.
“You remember why we came here,” she began.

Harry looked up, replying automatically.
“Because of you. For your research. So you could finish what you’ve spent your whole life working on,” he said at last. “So you could see your research through.”

Hermione watched Harry for a moment. A little reproachfully — they both knew perfectly well why Harry had really come… and why Hermione had let him come with her.

She smiled slowly, a small, weary curve touched with that kind of gentle sadness only those know who have lived too long and no longer fear death — only the thought of who they’ll leave behind.

“Carlisle’s been helping,” she said softly. “Especially since he no longer has to hide what he is from me. His treatment helps… A few more weeks, maybe months, and I’ll be finished. And when I’m done — I’ll go home.”

Harry didn’t look at her.
He stared at his hands, wiping the spoon on a kitchen towel as if there were still something left to clean.

“But you can’t come with me, Harry…” Hermione’s voice trembled — not from weakness, but from mercy. “You’ve buried everyone already. Don’t bury me too. Don’t watch it happen. You’ve… you’ve become too much. And you’ll live too long.”

The silence that grew between them wasn’t comfortable.
Only familiar.

“I stayed,” Hermione whispered. “As long as I could. As long as I had the strength. But now… now I want to be selfish for once, Harry. I want to rest. I want to see the ones you can’t reach anymore.”

Harry’s lips trembled, but he didn’t speak. He only nodded. He’d known they were moving toward this moment, had prepared himself for it. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Alchemy,” she continued quietly. “That’s all it gave me. A little time. More than it should have, maybe…” She smiled faintly. “Twice as much, if you think about it. But now… there’s nothing left to keep me here.”

Harry finally looked up. His eyes held a deep, wordless sorrow.
“I can’t be anything but grateful that you stayed this long,” he said softly.

Hermione nodded.
“Every minute was worth it. But I can’t stay with you any longer…
But he… he might be able to. Please, Harry — just give him a chance. Because if I knew there was someone who could stay with you for centuries to come, I’d leave this world at peace.”

They were silent for a while.
Then Hermione’s gaze dropped to his arm. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the string of mineral beads resting against his skin.

“I hope,” she whispered, “that you find the answer you’re looking for. That you can give him back his memories… or…” — her voice faltered — “or at least learn to see the man he is now.”

“I just hope it won’t make things worse,” she added softly, glancing toward the beads.

Harry lowered his eyes.
He clenched his hands tightly, as if to hold back everything he didn’t dare say.
Then he reached out and took her hand.

“I’ll be fine,” he said in a low, muffled voice. “Don’t worry about me, Hermione. Thanks to you… I’ll be fine.”

Hermione’s smile was bittersweet.
“I can’t not worry about you,” she murmured. “You’ve worn that protection for far too long…”

Harry didn’t answer. He only bowed his head and let her warm, trembling fingers rest against his skin for one last moment.
Then he let go.

Hermione smiled faintly and turned away, as if to wipe a tear from her eye — though she didn’t cry.
And Harry didn’t either. He didn’t cry anymore.
He only watched her shadow in the kitchen light — the silver in her hair, the faint tremor of her hands around the teacup — and let the silence speak for him.

For a long moment, that silence lingered between them.
The old, familiar silence in which they had already said everything.

Carlisle felt a peculiar thrill that Tuesday evening, one he couldn’t quite deny.
He was glad for the chance that Harry had agreed to help Edward and Jasper practice Occlumency, but the real reason for his unease wasn’t the boys’ lesson.
It was that the whole thing gave him a reason for Harry to be at the Cullen house tonight.

He had therefore decided that, for once, he wouldn’t work in his study.
He simply carried his medical notes and laptop to the dining table and settled there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Of course, the family wasn’t blind.

Alice giggled softly as she passed him.
Rosalie, however, wasn’t nearly as restrained.
Carlisle was just adjusting his monitor when he heard her mutter under her breath:
“Pathetic.”

That word seemed to have become a permanent fixture in Rosalie’s mind whenever it came to him.
Carlisle ignored it — he’d long since learned there was no point in taking offense.

A little later, Esme leaned toward him with a kind smile.
“Something wrong with your study? Do you need a bigger desk?”
Carlisle replied with a straight face, without a hint of embarrassment:
“The light is better here.”

Rosalie visibly shuddered at that and called out for Emmett.
“Come on, I’m not watching this again!”

Emmett, however, was only half-listening, talking quietly with Jasper about something, so Rosalie eventually stormed up the stairs alone.

The boys — Edward, Jasper, and even Emmett — wisely kept silent.
None of them had a reason to stir the situation.

Esme watched for a while longer as Carlisle tapped away at his keyboard, then, with a quiet sigh, she walked into the kitchen.

Carlisle tried to focus on his work, but his attention kept wandering.
There was still at least half an hour to go, but he was already reacting to every small sound.

The noise reached Edward’s ears immediately — that faint pop of displaced air left behind by a spell.
A moment later came the soft crunch of gravel outside the door.

He didn’t need mind reading to know who had arrived.

Carlisle’s head shot up from his papers, a reflex more than anything, but he forced himself back into the chair.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his gaze back to the documents — too deliberately to be truly focused on them.

“Don’t say anything…” he sent toward Edward, his mental voice dry, as if trying to talk himself out of standing up.

Edward arched a brow and headed for the door.
As he passed Jasper, he caught the faint twitch in his brother’s expression — that subtle, full-body flinch of secondhand embarrassment.
He knew exactly why.

The cold air hit Edward as soon as he opened the door, and then he saw Harry.
The man’s movements were unhurried, his footsteps steady against the gravel.

Behind him, Jasper rose slowly, drawing closer as if his very presence might make the next few minutes easier.
Edward knew it wasn’t only his own calm Jasper was protecting — he was also weary of the constant storm of emotions around him.

"God, I hope he really can help…" Jasper thought, and for once, Edward completely agreed.

When Harry stepped inside, he didn’t pause in the hallway — he simply kept walking without a word.
That was as long as Carlisle managed to stay seated.

“Harry,” he said at last, trying to fold genuine warmth into his tone. “I’m glad you came.”

Harry only nodded.

Jasper stepped in helpfully beside him, explaining that they thought the living room would be best for the lesson.

The usually lively Alice stayed near the edge of the room. Almost imperceptible, as if she didn’t want attention on her at all.
“This… will it be like when you looked into my visions?” she asked quietly. Her voice didn’t sparkle now — it trembled, uncertain. “We didn’t ask you for anything dangerous, did we?”

The image flashed through Carlisle’s mind instantly — Harry on the couch, nose bleeding, eyes bloodshot.
He could still feel the weight of that moment, the helplessness he’d tried to suppress.
He couldn’t bear to see that again.

“No,” Harry interrupted before anyone could respond.
His voice was quiet but steady. “It’s nothing like that. Quite the opposite.”

Alice nodded, though worry still lingered in her eyes, and stepped back.

Then Harry looked to Jasper and Edward, a silent signal that he was ready to begin.
Carlisle understood the unspoken dismissal. He withdrew to his table — though his eyes kept drifting back to the couch, where the three of them were preparing to start.

Harry began slowly, as if building a structure one brick at a time.
“Occlumency is a branch of mind magic — perhaps the mildest form of it. Despite the name, it doesn’t always require actual magic. It’s more like…” He searched for a word. “…a meditative training of the mind. It helps maintain control over one’s thoughts.”

He looked at Edward.
“In some cases, however, the presence of magic is essential. For example… Mr. Cullen is a natural Legilimens. Deflecting the ‘attack’ of a Legilimens operates on a different level entirely.”

“I can’t control it,” Edward cut in defensively. “Whether I want to or not, I hear people’s thoughts.”

Harry raised a hand to stop him.
“That’s not what I meant. Your kind of… probing along the surface of experience is like a kitten scratching at a door. Truly skilled Legilimens can break into another mind with a glance — implant false memories, or even shatter the mind entirely in seconds. In the wizarding world, that’s considered a dark and forbidden art.”

Carlisle watched as Edward gave a small nod and Jasper shifted slightly, uncomfortable even with the topic itself.

“Occlumency training is far more effective when guided by a Legilimens,” Harry went on, “but please… if you ever encounter another magic user, don’t advertise either your gift or the Occlumency.”

Carlisle kept silent, watching as Jasper and Edward leaned closer together to begin their exercise.
He withdrew again to his table — but his gaze kept returning, drawn like a tide, to the couch.

Harry spoke for nearly an hour.
During that time, Carlisle had quietly gone back to his own work — though if he’d wanted to, he could have recalled word for word everything Harry had said to Jasper and Edward.

At the end of the lesson, Harry left some notes on the table and promised to return for another session — on Friday. Still this week.

Carlisle didn’t dare hope for a date that soon.

When Harry was about to leave, Carlisle automatically stood to walk him out.
The man had just turned when he paused beside him, frowning slightly.

“Hermione said that…” he began, then handed him a few thick volumes. “…that you were interested in Potions.”

Carlisle stared down at the books, surprised.
The worn covers read Potions I and The Basics of Herbology.
Something stirred inside him — something close to gratitude.

He looked up carefully at Harry.

The man turned his head away, as if suddenly self-conscious.
“I’ve never eaten—” he started, then caught himself mid-sentence, realizing where he was.
“Anyway… apparently, I’m not as frightening a person as I might seem at first glance. So if there’s something you’d like from me, just ask. Worst I can do is say no.”

Carlisle nodded almost reflexively, but the weight of the words lingered in his chest.
Despite all the distortions of their nature, there was something so natural, so clear in that quiet trust that he couldn’t even speak.
He just smiled — carefully, so as not to break the moment.

“I’ll take good care of them,” he said finally, a little hoarsely.

Harry seemed to wait for him to say more, but in the end only nodded.
He sighed softly and headed for the door.
Carlisle’s gaze followed him until, with a faint pop, he vanished at the end of the path.

He wasn’t sure what he should have done — only that he didn’t want to ruin it. Not now. Not with him.

Then Rosalie glided past, nearly silent, and threw him a sideways smile.
“You could’ve asked him out, you know.”

Carlisle turned, startled — but she was already gone.

He remained there, the books clutched in his hands, and for the first time in many years, he realized that it wasn’t immortality, but waiting, that would truly test him.

Chapter Text

Carlisle simply wasn’t having any luck.

Even though Harry came by every Tuesday and Friday evening, somehow they always managed to miss each other. There were nights when Carlisle had to switch shifts, and by the time he came home, Harry was already gone. Only the cup left on the coffee table, and the tired looks in Edward’s and Jasper’s eyes, hinted that he had been there.

Carlisle was beginning to feel that his medical devotion — the Hippocratic Oath — had turned into more of a curse. It protected life, yes, but it also kept him away from the one he now most longed to be near.

That evening, too, he made it home only by the end of the hour. Esme tried to stall Harry with pastries, the others with conversation — hoping that, this time, they might finally not miss each other completely.

Harry sat on the couch, his elbow resting on the armrest, eyes closed in quiet repose.
After an Occlumency lesson, every nerve in his body was taut; from the outside he might have looked like he was simply dozing, but inside he was still trying to steady his thoughts.

He was tired today—no point denying it.
Five more minutes, he told himself, before he would leave.

Lately, everything had become harder. The research absorbed all his focus, and that damned flower... it shouldn’t have mattered, but the opportunity had been too tempting. He couldn’t resist—a rare plant, and it was blooming now. The stillness of the forest had done him good, but spending the entire previous night out there, less so. He couldn’t sit over books forever—not if he wanted to keep his sanity.

Staying in the house with Hermione, though, was too painful now.
He had grown used to not being entirely alone.
To the sound of a voice in the evenings, a question, a glance. Maybe he had grown comfortable.

Five more minutes—he would pull himself together and go.

Edward was already gone, but Rosalie and Emmett had come down to the living room, and Alice had joined them at the end of the lesson.
Now she stood a little apart, sorting through the drawings in a folder as if about to sit down.

Harry wasn’t blind. He noticed something had changed in Alice, though he didn’t know why.
She didn’t make it obvious, but Harry had a sharp eye for anomalies. Alice’s sudden distance was… well, no accident.

At that moment Esme entered the room, holding a steaming bowl of pastries.

"Harry, they’re best while still warm," she said gently, offering them to him.

Harry looked up; there was something dry, wry in his eyes.
"You really shouldn’t trouble yourself. In a house full of vampires, the cookies would just end up forgotten on the table."

Esme’s smile remained calm and steady.
"Oh, don’t worry. Carlisle takes them to the children’s ward. They disappear in seconds there."

Carlisle.

The name itself stalled his thoughts.
He’d almost forgotten how maddeningly sharp the pull of a fresh soulbond could be.

He knew the man’s work kept him away, and he didn’t blame him for it—but still, the emptiness, that constant tugging, was becoming harder to bear.
It would help, he thought, if they could just meet, even briefly. If he could just see him.

He wasn’t the same Carlisle as before.
But sometimes, when he forgot that Harry was the one he’d newly bonded to, someone he meant to “win over,” his gestures seemed to come from another time.

And Harry missed that.

At last, he reached out, took a piece of pastry, and said quietly,
"Then make the chocolate ones more often. Chocolate heals."

Rosalie laughed.
"Well, look who does have a weakness!"

Harry shoved a bite into his mouth and muttered indifferently,
"Everyone does."

Esme smiled and withdrew, but Rosalie watched him with a frown.
"You look awful… missed your beauty sleep?" she teased, her tone sharp but amused.

Harry sighed deeply. He didn’t have the energy for this tonight. He’d finish the pastry and go.
"No," he muttered at last. "I just had to walk back from the forest last night… took the long way."

Rosalie raised a brow.
"Forgot how to Apparate?"

Harry thought for a moment, then shrugged.
"No. A rare plant was blooming, that’s why I went. There are potion ingredients you really shouldn’t Apparate near—the magical residue ruins them. So I went on foot… like an ordinary Muggle."

"How far did you walk?" Emmett asked.

"Three hours, if I hadn’t had to take a detour," Harry answered tiredly, idly pushing at the crumbs left in the bowl. "But I saw unicorn tracks, and it’s their foaling season. I didn’t want to disturb them. So… I went around. Got back around six."
He stifled a yawn by the end.

For a moment, silence settled over the room. The word itself—unicorns—seemed to still the air.

Alice suddenly straightened; the earlier restraint vanished from her eyes in an instant.
"Unicorns…?" she whispered, enchanted. "You actually saw them?"

Harry slowly turned his head toward her, the faintest trace of a smile flickering at the corner of his lips.
"I saw their tracks. But I was close enough to know they were there."

Alice’s eyes sparkled.
"In these forests? They must be so beautiful…"

Her eyes went wide, her mouth slightly open, as if she wanted to shower him with a hundred more questions—but the words caught in her throat.

On the other couch, Emmett and Jasper had settled in with controllers in hand. A bright racing game flickered on the screen, Jasper leaning forward in quiet focus while Emmett grinned.

"Sure, unicorns… don’t fall for it, Alice, he’s teasing you," Emmett snorted. "What’s next, dragons?"

Harry’s face didn’t move.
"Not around here, I think. Maybe in the Rockies, though…"

Jasper’s fingers froze on the buttons, and Emmett pushed his joystick so hard that the car on-screen slammed into a wall.
"What did you just say?" he asked, suddenly paying attention.

"Unicorns are extremely rare, but there’s a small herd here," Harry said calmly.

Alice gasped, clapping her hands together in delight, as if she had just heard the most wonderful news of her life.
"Oh my God, oh my God—do you think we might ever see one?" she breathed.

For a brief moment, Harry’s eyes softened.
There was something in her excitement that set her apart from every non-magical person he had ever met. It wasn’t curiosity, nor disbelief—it was pure longing for beauty.

"I’ll see what I can do," he said slowly. "I haven’t exactly gone looking for them before."

Alice let out a small cry of joy, while Rosalie gave Harry a thoughtful look.
"Maybe you shouldn’t wander alone in the forest at night," she said finally. "You could call one of us. We’d gladly come for you. Or if you’re that into weird hobbies…"
A half-smile tugged at her lips.
"Someone might even pick flowers with you."

Harry’s face remained unreadable.
"I didn’t have my phone," he said simply.

"Even better," Rosalie muttered, folding her arms. "Then how did you know which way to go?"

"From the direction Cassiopeia was facing," Harry replied without hesitation.

Rosalie just stared at him for a moment, then sighed and gave up.
"At least try to carry a phone, for heaven’s sake…" she mumbled under her breath.

The silence that followed was broken by Jasper. His voice was quiet, attentive.
"How often do you go into the forest?"

Harry considered for a moment.
"Two or three times a week. Depends how much I sleep… or what ingredient I’m missing."

The room fell silent again.
"More often than you lot go hunting," Harry added softly, taking the last sip of his tea.

Then he drew a deep breath and stood up.
He was just slinging his bag over his shoulder when the door suddenly opened—
and there stood Carlisle.

Harry froze, nearly colliding with him; he would have stepped back, but his foot caught the edge of the rug. Before he could fall, Carlisle was already there—his hand instinctively finding Harry’s waist, steadying him.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Carlisle’s eyes traced over him, sad but gentle.
Harry felt the vampire’s cold skin, and that familiar, sweet scent now faintly veiled by the hospital’s sterile air.

Carlisle stepped back quickly, as if afraid he’d crossed a line.
"Already leaving?" he asked quietly.

"Hm… yeah," Harry murmured, suppressing another yawn.
If they tried to keep him now, he’d probably fall asleep right there on the couch.

Carlisle nodded softly, his gaze still lingering.
"Then rest well, Harry… will you come on Friday?"

"Of course," Harry said quietly, managing a tired smile and a brief nod before stepping out the door.

Edward had been arguing with Bella more and more lately.
The girl was stubborn, passionate, and when she said, “I want to become a vampire,” something in Edward finally snapped.
Not because of the blood—his self-control had long been trained for that. But because of what the words meant: that Bella would be willing to give up everything that made her human.

The argument still rang in his ears that evening as he sat on the couch, while Harry was trying to break through the crude mental walls in his mind. Every thought scattered, his shield trembled.

Harry leaned back, massaging his temples. Jasper and Edward sat in front of him; both of them looked tense, like men who had run into a brick wall all day.

“I know it’s frustrating,” Harry said, his gaze sliding over them. “But until you make your shield solid, a single thought slipping through means game over.”

Edward shut his eyes. Among the swirling voices in his head Bella’s voice rose too—her saying, “I don’t care what it costs, I belong with you.”

If she were truly his soulmate, he wouldn’t fight it. He wouldn’t doubt, wouldn’t try to distance heeself.

And yet… Harry was doing exactly that to Carlisle.

Edward found this harder and harder to bear. He saw how hard his father was trying: switching shifts, cutting his hospital hours short, just to be home when Harry came by.

And Harry… acted as if none of it mattered. As if he didn’t care.

At first Edward thought Harry was simply cautious. But now he could feel the pain, patience, and doubt in Carlisle’s thoughts. The longing he couldn’t suppress—and the fear of scaring Harry away.

And Harry did nothing to close that distance.

Edward was angry at him for it.

Not only because it hurt Carlisle so deeply, but because Edward didn’t understand.

If someone felt a bond like that… why fight it?

If Bella were his true soulmate, he wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t weigh what je might lose—just know he couldn’t let go.

But Harry… for some reason, Harry wanted to remain out of reach.

Edward watched him massage his forehead as if trying to silence his own thoughts.
There was something in Harry’s gaze Edward couldn’t read—a strange mix of depth and restraint that was more irritating than impressive.

“This makes no sense today,” Harry remarked, his voice edged with fatigue. “The moment I break through your shield, your thoughts are screaming.”

Edward pressed his lips together but didn’t respond.

“If things aren’t going well in paradise and you can’t concentrate… tell me, and we’ll postpone the lesson,” Harry continued, already gathering his notes. “But I’m not interested in your Miss Swan-related thoughts.”

Carlisle, sitting in the corner with a book, lifted his head. His gaze lingered on Harry for a moment.
He regretted that Harry might leave early; perhaps Esme’s hot chocolate would keep him for a few minutes longer.

He set down the book he had only held so that he’d have something to look at when he wasn’t watching Harry.

It seemed the lesson was over. He didn’t blame Edward—today he had been incapable of focusing. The arguments with Bella had taken too much out of him.

The girl wanted to become a vampire to stay with Edward.
Carlisle didn’t know what advice to give. Part of him understood Bella; the other part was terrified of what it would mean for Edward.

But now… now there was something he could hope for. He might get to talk to Harry. He had made it home on time today, and Harry seemed a little more rested.

Last week, when he had returned only at the end of the lesson, he looked ready to collapse from exhaustion—the others whispered that he’d spent the whole night in the forest because of some flower. Since then, a certain restlessness clung to him.

Carlisle hoped he could coax Harry into opening up a little. If he couldn’t talk him out of those nightly trips, maybe he could at least go with him.

He opened his mouth to speak—only to freeze when he noticed Harry hadn’t stood up. After packing away his notes, he accepted the mug that was offered to him. The sweet scent of the steaming drink filled the room, and Carlisle could almost feel Harry’s features relaxing. He knew chocolate was Harry’s weakness, and he was already working on preparing something special for him.

“All right,” Harry said after a sip. His voice was a little husky, but playful. “I’m willing to hear your woes… but only because my name came up in relation to Miss Swan.”

Jasper left the room with a quiet laugh. Edward remained a moment longer, his gaze shifting between Carlisle and Harry as if unsure which of them to worry about more.

Carlisle only gave him a reassuring nod, then pulled his chair a little closer to Harry.

Harry set down the mug, something tiredly ironic flickering in his eyes.
“I’m all ears, Edward… But I’ll just say it upfront—I’m not interested in any threesome involving you and Miss Swan.”

Edward rarely had the chance to spill his heart to anyone. Most didn’t want to hear it, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to share his burden. But sitting there with Carlisle and Harry, he felt he had to speak.

“Bella and I have been fighting,” he started, then paused, as if tasting the words. “She said… she said she’d even become a vampire for me.”

Harry looked at him with furrowed brows, tired, but attentive.
“Yeah? Go on.”

“But I…” Edward bowed his head. “I can’t take her soul." Inside himself, there’s anger and helplessness, and love just as sharply there— he afraid of the future, afraid of losing her either way.

Harry stared at him, momentarily stunned, his gaze cool and sharp.
“And where did this nonsense come from, that you don’t have a soul?”

Edward sighed, as if he had fought this exact argument a hundred times before.
“I’ve argued about this with Carlisle more than anything else. He couldn’t convince me.”

“Well then,” Harry said, locking eyes with him without giving him room to look away, “how is it that he has a soulbond? And Rosalie and Emmett too, if I’m guessing right?”

Carlisle lifted his head, and for a second even the air seemed to tighten. Edward’s face showed the shock as well.
“They haven’t killed as many as I have. I… killed hundreds when I left vegetarianism behind. Yes, they were guilty people, but… it wasn’t my right to judge.”

“That’s why they get a soulbond and I don’t with Bella,” he added softly. “How could I do that to her… when we don’t even share that connection?”

Harry sighed wearily.
“I like Rosalie, but I don’t believe for a second that she’s never killed—”

The door opened, and Rosalie and Emmett walked in. Rosalie stopped, measured the three of them with her gaze, then folded her arms and stepped closer.

“I feel like we’ve just been invited into a conversation,” she remarked, sitting down and crossing her legs.

Harry raised a brow at the group.
“Seriously, why do I always end up giving lecture-style clarification on birds and bees…?” he muttered. “Edward, your relationship with Miss Swan is no less just because there’s no soulbond. In case you missed it, I have a bond with Carlisle, and we still haven’t ridden off into the sunset.”

“Edward,” Carlisle said softly, “a soulbond doesn’t guarantee a relationship. It’s… a possibility.”

Harry nodded.
“Exactly. Officially, there are three forms—romantic, platonic, or the kind both parties simply… ignore. The bond can exist even if they don’t act on it. Everyone has to talk it over with the other.””

He paused for a heartbeat, then continued with a crooked little smile.
“Though some people send very indiscreet hints about which form they’d prefer.”

His gaze flicked to Carlisle. The man looked up in surprise, a shy smile tugging at his lips; Rosalie stifled a derisive snort. True, Carlisle had been anything but subtle.

Harry took a deep breath, rubbing his chest as if he felt something there.

“But that’s pointless right now,” he said, voice slightly hoarse. “You can’t think clearly when a fresh soulbond is dragging you around from the inside.”

Carlisle leaned forward a bit.
“You feel it… that strongly?”

Harry met his gaze.
“Of course I do.”
A moment of silence followed, as if he wanted to say more but swallowed it.

Carlisle’s eyes followed every small shift in Harry—"So it’s not just me being pushed around by this feeling… I hope he’s not suffering from it. I can’t miss more visits":, he thought.

“What do you mean?” Edward tried to break the tension. “If the two of you are destined, why wouldn’t you go with it—why would you only want friendship? Bella and I have to decide whether we stay together or not, but you two… fate put you together—”

“I agree with you about not turning Bella,” Rosalie cut in, unexpectedly serious. “That’s the first good decision you’ve made. But even a soulbond requires a decision.” She reached for Emmett’s hand; he nodded wordlessly.

“Exactly,” Carlisle said. “Harry or I could choose not to pursue a romantic bond. Not to seal it.” There was something like pain in his voice.

“But why would you?” Edward asked, baffled.

Harry’s expression darkened.
“Because sealing a soulbond is a massive risk…”

He closed his eyes briefly, then chose to speak. His voice was quiet, every word dropping heavily into the silence.

“My parents had a soulbond,” he said, somber, and though he felt all eyes on him, he looked only at Edward. “My father seemed like such an idiot in my mother’s eyes that he had to convince her for seven years before she gave him a chance.” A brief, bittersweet smile crossed his face, but he continued seriously. “I wasn’t even a year old when they died. There was a war in the wizarding world. When our house was attacked and my father was killed, my mother… was paralyzed by the breaking bond. She couldn’t run. She chose to sacrifice herself to give me blood protection. She didn’t think of escape for a second… the grief crippled her.”

Silence froze the whole room. No one dared to move, as if the weight of the story held them in place. Harry had never let them this close before—now, for the first time, he didn’t pull away when Carlisle slowly reached over and took his hand. Carlisle didn’t dare sit next to him, didn’t dare embrace him, though every nerve in him longed to.

Harry’s gaze rested on Carlisle’s hand, as if weighing how close he would allow him.

He took a deep breath and continued, a hint of weariness in his tone, but firm.

“You see, Edward, a soulbond isn’t simple or straightforward,” he said. “As much of a blessing as it seems, it can be just as much a curse. If you don’t want to turn Miss Swan, then simply don’t. You don’t need to lose your mind over it.”

He lifted his eyes to Edward, the look strong, unmistakably encouraging.
“If you want to stay together, and Miss Swan wants to become a vampire, that will be her choice, not yours.”

That was when Rosalie shot to her feet and slammed her hand on the table.

“Edward made the right choice not to damn the girl to eternity!” she hissed, her voice unusually sharp. “If it were up to me, I’d rather die human, no matter how much I love and adore Emmett!”
Emmett only shrugged, unoffended—he knew Rosalie’s view well enough.

Harry’s eyes flashed, fire sparking there.
“But it’s still the girl’s decision,” he said firmly. “Miss Swan may be stubborn, but the stubbornness isn’t necessarily random; it could be a half-felt pull. Normal mortals feel soulbonds weakly or not at all. That stubbornness could even be attraction. If she transformed, her soul would shift too. And Edward might recognize her as… his true match.”

They stared at him, stunned. The possibility had never occurred to Edward. Hearing it now brought both joy and fear—he loved Bella as she was, and the thought that the soulbond might manifest later… too many questions, too much risk.

Harry shrugged.
“I’ve heard of someone losing their soulmate that way—and someone finding theirs the same way.” Then, more softly, almost to himself: “And for some it changed nothing at all…”

He went on quietly, seriously:
“But Edward, don’t diminish any relationship just because it isn’t a soulbond. There are people who will die for each other without such a bond. But those who are bound… will die for each other.”

Carlisle watched Harry’s face as the young man’s words slowly soothed the tension among the family. But Carlisle’s thoughts were far from soulbonds now. He knew he had to seize this moment—Harry was open, even if tension still vibrated in him.

“Could we speak in private?” he asked softly.

Chapter Text

Carlisle finally found the opportunity to pull Harry aside for a private conversation.
Harry hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He followed Carlisle toward his study, but his movements were tense. He glanced around with curiosity, as if seeing the house properly for the first time; during his previous recovery, he had been half-asleep or tormented by fever, so he probably hadn’t looked around at all.

Then he suddenly stopped. His gaze fixed on a cross hanging on the wall, a piece of his father’s heritage.
Carlisle flinched. Harry looked as if he had seen a ghost—pale, rigid. Carlisle heard his heart start to beat faster—he had never seen him react physically like this before. Abandoning the distance he had forced himself to maintain, he stepped closer and carefully took Harry’s hand.

"Harry, what’s wrong?" Carlisle asked, trying to make sense of how a simple, antique cross could evoke such a reaction.

Harry slowly lifted his gaze to him, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper.
"Has this… always been here?"

"Yes… but what’s the matter? It’s just an old cross." Carlisle saw that Harry’s eyes were still fixed on it, then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

Harry stared at the cross for a long, tense second, as if seeing not an object but an old fear. Finally, he shook his head and moved on.
"Just a memory…" he murmured.

As they entered the study, Carlisle still held his hand; the gesture now felt more like reassurance than consolation.
"Why did it evoke such a strong reaction in you?" he asked cautiously.

Harry turned his gaze away.
"When I was a child, a lot was said about me. They didn’t understand what was happening to me, and they used faith as an explanation." His voice lowered. "It wasn’t pleasant."

His voice quieted, as if closing the topic.

Before Carlisle could ask anything, Harry suddenly changed the subject. "But why is this cross in a house full of vampires?"

Carlisle hesitated for a moment. He felt that if Harry had bad experiences with faith, then his own human years, his father’s actions, and the memories of persecution would seem even heavier. The trials, the screams of innocents—he had never been able to forget them, carrying everything he had seen and endured with fear and deep shame. He rarely shared it with anyone, but now he felt he had to.

Carlisle began to speak. His voice was quiet, measured, yet there was a trace of old shame lurking behind it that he could never fully let go of.

"I was the only son of an Anglican pastor. My mother died when I was born. My father… he was a fanatic. Obsessed with chasing everything he believed to be the devil’s work: Catholics, witches, werewolves. And he wanted to shape me in his image." He paused for a moment. "Many innocent people were lost because of him. Because of us."

Harry sat silently across from him. His gaze was dark and attentive, yet Carlisle couldn’t tell whether it reflected sympathy or something else entirely.

"When he grew old," Carlisle continued, "he entrusted me with the hunts. But I no longer saw demons. Only humans. Then… one day we encountered real monsters. Vampires living in the sewers. The crowd revolted. And I…," he fell silent, "was bitten. Three days later, I became what I had hunted."

Carlisle smiled bitterly, but the movement was more self-protective than humorous.
"I have no excuse," he said quietly. "If I could go back… I would do many things differently."

When Harry looked at him, something gentle and warm flashed in his eyes.
"Surprising, when someone turns from hunting to healing," he said. "Rare."

It was neither praise nor reproach, yet there was warmth in it.

Carlisle felt the tension in his chest ease.
He sensed that Harry did not judge him, that he forgave him—that the silence, the strange, pensive expression, was a sign of understanding.
And the moment brought a quiet peace.
"Thank you," Carlisle said softly.

Harry nodded. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke:
"And… where did vegetarianism come from?"

Carlisle took a breath before answering. Now he didn’t want to hide the rest of the story either.

"When I realized what I had become… I rebelled against fate," he began. "I tried to die."

He continued almost shyly.
"I jumped off cliffs. Tried to drown myself in the sea. But I was too young, too strong. Our nature… clings relentlessly to life."

Harry sat down slowly, as if not wanting to miss a single word.

"Eventually… I simply decided to starve myself," Carlisle said. "I avoided humans for months. I hoped that if I grew weak enough, it would finally be over."

His voice softened, became more restrained.
"One night, deer passed in front of me. I was so hungry, so weak… that I attacked them without thinking. When I was done… I realized there was another way. I didn’t have to harm. I didn’t have to become a monster. I had eaten game before."

A faint, quiet smile passed over him.
"And so my new life was born"

Carlisle fell silent for a moment. It was surprisingly comforting to have told Harry about his past—but that wasn’t why he had pulled him aside.

He watched the man carefully, seated at the edge of the couch, lost in thought—but most importantly, despite everything he had just heard, he did not judge him. Although it seemed Harry was still processing it all, his quiet acceptance meant a great deal to Carlisle.

Carlisle drew a deep breath—not out of necessity, but to gather his courage. He felt strangely, awkwardly embarrassed whenever it came to Harry: he barely knew him, and yet something about him was paralyzing. The wild, uncontrollable pull caused by the fresh bond of souls had begun to subside; in its place remained a quiet, subdued admiration.

And yet, it seemed that Harry had no effect on him at all, not like anyone else. Carlisle was not vain, but he knew exactly the effect that unnatural beauty tied to vampiric life could have. It was no coincidence that he and Esmé had maintained a sham marriage for years.

His appearance unsettled many people, except Harry.
Harry seemed completely unmoved. Simultaneously, it was frustrating, comforting, and terrifyingly thrilling. If Harry ever allowed him in, it would surely be for who he was, not his appearance. That was what made it so frighteningly real.

Carlisle caught his gaze for a moment, as if asking himself for time. He had to gather everything—his courage and his composure.

Then he looked up again. He knew he couldn’t delay any longer.

"I pulled you aside because I want to… court you," he finally said. His voice was quiet, yet firm. "I have romantic intentions toward you."

Harry looked at him. His expression showed no surprise, only caution.
"It’s not that simple," he replied softly.

"I know," Carlisle nodded. "But I still want to try."

The man’s eyes darkened slightly, but his voice remained soft, gentle—a baritone that always seemed to vibrate delicately in the air.

"You don’t know me," Harry said. "I have countless secrets, and I’m not ready to talk about them yet. Though… you would have the right to know."

Carlisle stepped closer slowly. He took Harry’s hand; his fingers pressed gently. His skin still felt warm, and he wondered how cold his own might feel to him. Yet Harry never flinched. Not once.

"I’m not in a hurry," he said quietly. "Harry… you told me earlier that your father courted your mother for seven years before he had a chance. I will court you for as long as it takes. Until I get a chance… or until you allow it."

Harry didn’t answer, but for a moment, he slowly raised his gaze to him. Carefully.

So carefully—such tentative uncertainty that Carlisle had never, in a single moment, seen from him before.

It was clear he was searching for something—a foothold, a point of security, some way to put into words what he wanted to express.

Then finally—almost imperceptibly—he nodded.
"We can try…" he said slowly.

It wasn’t the voice that was quiet; it was him pulling back slightly, as if, immediately after saying the words, he felt too raw, too exposed. And with that, he looked away, so he could not see the genuine, pure joy that spread across Carlisle’s face.

And yet Carlisle’s smile now was like someone who had received more than he had dared hope for.

Harry tried to pay attention.
He really, genuinely tried.

And yet… it was as if only half of him was present. Carlisle’s words reached him, and he understood them—but inside, a raw, sharp anger churned that he could not show. If he let it surface, Carlisle would surely misunderstand. He would think he was angry at him.

But he was never angry at him.

He was angry at the lies someone else had planted over the man’s memories.

The loneliness he had carried for years.
The unjustified guilt.
The life that wasn’t his, yet had been forced upon him.

He wasn’t angry at Carlisle.
He was angry at Dumbledore.

He was the one who had taken the man’s memories.
He was the one who decided who had the right to remember—and who did not.
The one who left the most important truth intact—that Carlisle had never harmed a single person—but wove everything else around him in lies. He had given him a past filled with suffering and unnecessary self-blame.

And now Carlisle was talking about the sewers, the monsters, the hunger…

…while Harry struggled ever harder to keep the true images at bay.

He lowered his gaze and tried to smooth his breathing. He could not show it. He could not let Carlisle think his words had hurt him.

And Carlisle did indeed look at him as if he feared he had gone too far. As if he were risking something irreparable with his own past.

Harry tried to offer a quiet, encouraging smile—not a false one, just restrained.

He tried to pay attention. He tried to stay present.

Every word Carlisle spoke—the cautious approach, the confession of his intent to court him, the fragile courage with which he presented it—all carried such weight that Harry almost felt guilty for being only half-present.

He felt terrible for thinking of another man—even if that other was really him, just in another time, another life.

This Carlisle, with whom everything had been easy: friendship, connection, love.
The one who had known every tremor, every subtle motion.

And now here stood this careful, slightly hesitant man, who had gathered every ounce of courage to lay his intentions bare. And it was both heartbreakingly sweet and disarmingly new.

Harry knew he deserved an answer.

For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to speak the truth:
"I knew you. You were more than a friend to me. More than a companion. You know it too, you just cannot remember."

But how should he begin?
How could he know what kept that past sealed?
What if a single wrong word, a single wrong move, hurt him?

As Harry wrestled with his thoughts, something else touched him: the awkwardness of the situation. The clumsiness that radiated from Carlisle. A shy, yet open attempt to come closer. As if he feared that a single poorly chosen sentence might be fatal.

And it was simultaneously endearing and heart-wrenching.

Harry knew he should respond, but Carlisle did not rush him.
His patience, as always, was gentle.

And that only made Harry’s heart tighten further.

Slowly, Harry nodded.
"We can try…" he said softly.

Finally, when he had left Carlisle’s study, and walked past the cross he had always hated he allowed himself, at last, to be caught up by the past.

Chapter Text

Harry stormed through the forest. He had just left the Cullen house, but he felt it would be reckless to try to Disapparate now. Angry, distracted, who knew where he might end up. He chose instead to go straight home through the woods, despite the light drizzle.

Carlisle’s words about his past echoed in his mind. The images of the false past were filled with self-blame, loneliness, despair, and hunger.

"Lies!" he suddenly struck a tree. "Lies! That old manipulative bastard… lucky he’s been dead for a long time."

"Many innocent people died because of us…" he repeated, striking the tree again. "No. Not a single one. He even spared him, the real wizard… Carlisle would never have followed his father’s path. Never."

He pressed his head against the trunk, letting the rain wash over him, as if it could cleanse the filth of the lying past. Carlisle had become a vampire to protect him, to save his life. Just as Dumbledore erased Harry’s memories from Carlisle’s mind, there could have been enough mercy to not twist the past like this.

Carlisle had not gone through the change alone — not in solitude, not in shame, as the false memory suggested, but with someone by his side. He had held him, spoken to him, while trying to endure the other’s pain.

The moment Carlisle opened his eyes — red, hungry, lost — did not bring death, but recognition. The bond that had always drawn them to each other was still there, unchanged, even when everything else had shifted.

And that made it clear that no matter what came, they had to move forward together, not because it was safe, but because letting go of the other was impossible.

There and then, as a newborn, thirsting for blood, forced into a completely new form of existence, he resisted every instinct. He held himself… even as Harry slowly fell apart beside him.

Harry sat with his back against the damp cellar wall, watching Carlisle. The silence between them was heavy.

Carlisle’s face was paler, his eyes red, yet his gaze carried a human despair. Every nerve in his body was searching for new rules, while instinct had long since found its answer: he needed blood.

Harry knew this. He knew it, and with every breath, he knew he could do nothing.

If he hadn’t been certain that acting otherwise would only upset Carlisle more, he might have torn at his hair by now. But instead, he just sat, motionless, trying not to think about what came next.

Carlisle moved slowly, as if he had to relearn every gesture. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Are you okay, Harry?"

His hand reached out, but halfway it faltered, fingers curling back into a fist.

Harry’s chest tightened at the movement. He felt what it meant: Carlisle was already afraid to touch him.

And when the man’s gaze swept over his face, Harry felt the dull ache beneath his skin where Carlisle had held him earlier. The sharper pain throbbed in his arms—unseen by either of them, fortunately.

He drew a deep breath and spoke only when he was certain his voice would not tremble.

"We can’t stay in London, Carlisle. We have to go, okay?"

The words fell softly between them.

Carlisle straightened slowly, his gaze resting on Harry.

"We can’t leave," he said finally, quietly but firmly. "We came to London to find you help. A healer. Harry… you’re getting worse."

Harry’s face twitched, but he did not look up.

Carlisle stepped closer, his voice almost pleading.

"Look at yourself. You’ve been awake beside me for three days, without food, without rest…"

"I’m fine…" Harry cut in quietly. His voice held no life, only fatigue.

Carlisle fell silent. His chest tensed, as if Harry’s open lie struck him to the bone.

Finally, the boy lifted his head. Their eyes met.

"Are you sure you want to go into the crowds of London?" he asked slowly. "Among all these people… now?"

The silence between them thickened.

Carlisle wanted to protest, but his voice caught. Something—the hunger or the recognition—choked him.

Harry continued to watch, still.

"Or could you… hurt people?" he asked. There was no accusation, no fear, just raw curiosity and deep pain. "Would you give in to what you feel? Or do you want me to go… without you? To disappear? To leave you alone in this?"

The words were soft, broken, drawn out by the despair slowly creeping over his body. Harry’s hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, gripping it—not in anger, but because somehow he had to hold on. The pain was oddly grounding.

He rested his forehead on his knees, shoulders trembling, and his voice faded when it finally escaped him.

"You shouldn’t have been here…" he whispered. "You shouldn’t have come with me…"

Harry began to sob. The sound was sharp, raw. Guilt gnawed at every limb. Carlisle had become a vampire because of him. Only because for him.

The man, barely recognized as his soulbond, would have to live as a killer...

Air did not come. He gasped, but it was as if his lungs refused it.

Then cold hands touched his wrists—firm, determined. They tried to free his hands from the hair he clung to frantically.

"Harry!" Carlisle’s voice was urgent, desperate. "Breathe! Do you hear me? Breathe!"

Harry shuddered, but his body did not obey.

"My God, I don’t know how hard I can reach you…" the man’s voice trembled. "Calm down, please…"

The next moment, he felt the world shift around him. The chill and smell of the cellar, the roughness of the walls—they vanished. All that remained was a chest in front of him, hard and unmoving, to which he was drawn. And an deeply sweet scent.

Carlisle.

Harry gripped his shirt convulsively, his fingers digging into the fabric as he tried to find something solid in the chaos.

Cold fingers ran through his hair, along the nape of his neck, then down his back—careful movements with a single purpose: to soothe him.

His breathing gradually evened. For the first time, he felt what it was like when a cold touch did not push him away, but held him together.

Carlisle remained still, only his hands moving gently.

"Listen to me," he finally said. "Everything that led us here was my choice, Harry. Not yours. Neither of them."

He tried to step back slightly to look at the boy’s face, but Harry’s grip would not let him.

"Do not blame yourself for what you did not control. You did not do this to me."

Harry shook his head, hot tears running down his face, disappearing on Carlisle’s skin. Until now, he hadn’t realized he was crying.

"I don’t want to hurt people," Carlisle continued softly. "And I can’t stay here. They’re too close… too many sounds, too many heartbeats." He closed his eyes for a moment. "If you let me… and if you still stay with me, we can leave here. Together."

The “stay with me” trembled in his voice—not a plea, but an instinctive, deeply rooted desire. Something speaking from deeper than reason.

Harry slowly tried to steady his breathing. Every breath hurt his chest.

Finally, he spoke, barely above a whisper:

"North… to Scotland. That’s where my school is. There I can reach my godfather. He… I think he can help."

Carlisle nodded, keeping his hand in the boy’s hair.

"Your godfather?"

"Yes. A werewolf, his soulmate," Harry replied. "If anyone understands what it’s like to lose yourself… it’s them."

Carlisle almost whispered to himself:

"Then let’s go to them."

The silence that followed was no longer sharp. Only Harry’s uneven breathing and the dull hum of the city filled the space.

At the edge of the city, only the damp fog lay before them. The sounds of London gradually faded as Carlisle stopped and looked down the road stretching ahead. The asphalt was washed by rain, everything was pitch-dark, yet the man could still see something.

Harry leaned against the wall, his eyes half-closed. He said nothing as Carlisle bent toward him, only allowing the man to slip his arm beneath him.

"I’ll carry you on my back," Carlisle said quietly, as if apologizing. "We’ll move faster this way."

Harry merely nodded. He had no strength to protest, and honestly… he didn’t want to. When Carlisle moved to lift him, Harry was surprised at how natural it felt. His partner’s coldness didn’t bother him.

Carlisle held him closer, taking a deep breath. His chest rose slowly, then tensed.

"I have to try to hold my breath," he said softly. "The city… the smells, all the blood, every scent… it’s like shards of glass scratching my throat." He adjusted Harry carefully on his back. "I might go too fast… like I’m moving much faster than I am…"

Harry smiled, though the gesture was more a tired grimace. "Then you’re lucky," he whispered. "Because I can handle the speed. Don’t worry."

Carlisle smiled. "If it’s too much, just hit me, okay?" His voice now sounded serious. "Once we leave the city, we’ll make camp. You’ll eat, drink, and sleep by a fire… warm… Enough of this damp cold, Harry."

The boy chuckled softly, resting his forehead on Carlisle’s shoulder.

"That’s the best plan I’ve ever heard."

Carlisle closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, under the gray sky, only the road lay ahead. A deep, silent breath—and then he pushed off.

Somewhere along the way, he must have fallen asleep. He didn’t know when, only that he felt himself being carefully set down on the ground. The movement was almost silent, yet it woke him. The grass was cold beneath his nape, the air fresh and clean—there was no city, no smoke, only the scent of wet earth and rain.

He opened his eyes. The sky was dark blue, scattered with tiny frozen stars, as if the night itself had turned to ice. From the side, he heard a sharp crack: Carlisle was kneeling by a pile of firewood, trying to spark some flames but striking the flint too hard.

Harry slowly sat up, not wanting to startle the man, who was still staring at his hands, stunned by his newly born raw strength.

"I’ll help you, okay?" he whispered softly.

Carlisle glanced up at him, tension vibrating in his eyes, but he nodded. Harry drew his wand and aimed it at the woodpile. One movement, a quiet incantation, and the flames suddenly sprang to life. Their light danced orange under the dark blue sky, illuminating Carlisle’s face: his eyes… they almost glowed from the restrained tension.

"I didn’t want to wake you," he said quietly, sitting on the other side of the fire, keeping some distance, as if wary of something.

Harry slowly edged closer to the fire, his body protesting, each limb feeling leaden. "It’s okay," he said. His voice was hoarse, dry. "I haven’t slept this well in a long time."

Carlisle smiled faintly, a touch of sadness in it. "Harry, you only managed ten minutes of rest…" he remarked gently, and Harry chuckled softly.

The fire began to crackle slowly, warmth reaching his skin, and only now did he truly feel how chilled he had been. Carlisle handed him some water.

"Drink. And eat something too." His voice was cautious, softly caring.

Harry obeyed, sipping carefully, but kept his eyes on him. In the firelight, he looked more predatory, his eyes dark and sharp. But behind it was that subtle, gentle light… the same one Harry had known when he was still human.

"Carlisle?" he finally asked softly, very carefully. "What… what about with you?"

After the question, everything went silent for a moment.

Carlisle stayed still. He closed his eyes, as if the question itself hurt him. He swallowed—a heavy, dry, struggling motion, more like a physical pain than a simple reflex. Harry felt the guilt stabbing into his chest for even asking.

Finally, Carlisle spoke, barely above a whisper:

"Harry… please." His voice trembled with tension. "I… I don’t want to talk about this now. I don’t want to deal with it yet." He turned his gaze away, as if ashamed of his own hunger. "Now… I want to focus on you." He said it very softly. "Making sure you get better. That… is far more important to me."

Harry nodded slowly. He knew this wasn’t a solution, just a postponement—but he didn’t press the matter.

Carlisle looked back at him, and something soft and luminous appeared in his gaze. A mixture of gratitude, pain, and a strange, new kind of bond.

The silence between them was no longer heavy. Only peaceful.

A moment they both wanted to seize, to hold… at least for a few breaths.

Carlisle leaned back slowly, lifting his gaze to the sky. The fire burned warmly, and Harry was close to falling asleep again when Carlisle spoke softly.

"There’s no food left, is there?"

Harry shook his head.

Carlisle nodded and slowly straightened. His movements were quiet, but there was a new, strange ease to them—too fast, too precise in every motion.

"Stay by the fire," he said, his voice low but firm. "I’ll find something."

Harry watched the small town stretching out before them with cautious eyes. He didn’t like the idea of walking straight through it. Carlisle’s movements had already changed the moment they began approaching: his shoulders tightened, his steps grew too deliberate, as if he were restraining himself by sheer force.

Harry glanced up at him from the half-light.

“Are you sure… we have to go through it?” he asked quietly.

Carlisle didn’t speak.
He only nodded.

He wasn’t breathing. He led them through the town’s dark streets without a single breath, every fibre of his body protesting the unbearable closeness of blood.

Perhaps they would have passed through without incident—
if the tavern door hadn’t burst open a few metres ahead.

Light slashed across the darkness.
A drunken man staggered out, fresh blood running down his face and arm, gleaming darkly in the lamplight.

The world stopped for a heartbeat.

Carlisle inhaled sharply, and a deep, distorted growl tore from his throat. His face showed nothing but cramped, rigid tension—an edge of hunger far too late to suppress.

Harry didn’t think—he simply moved.
One instinctive, stupid motion: he stepped in front of him, wrapped his arms around his neck. Tried to hold him back with his own body.

Carlisle went rigid.

He looked down at him—his jaw twitching, eyes pitch black, the growl still vibrating in his throat.

Then he lunged. In the next instant Harry felt his breath burning against his skin. Carlisle’s arms locked around him and pulled him close with such force that the air was crushed out of Harry’s lungs; his chest would have given way if the spell hadn’t burst from him, shielding him like a reflex.

Carlisle twisted them around, pinning Harry to the wall, and bent toward his throat.

When Harry felt the brush of teeth against his skin, fear froze him, his heart hammering wildly.

But after one trembling breath, Carlisle’s fangs snapped shut beside his neck, not touching flesh. A moment later his nose pressed deep into the hollow of Harry’s throat, drawing in his scent with a desperate, hungry inhale.

Harry’s trembling hand slid into Carlisle’s hair, stroking gently, soothingly.
“It’s me,” he whispered, though fear still pulsed sharp in his throat.

Carlisle’s body loosened for a heartbeat, as if the tension drained from him. He moved, looked into Harry’s eyes—
and looked at him like a man seeing a ghost.

The next moment he staggered back, as though the closeness burned him.

Harry stayed pressed to the wall, his voice shaking.
“It’s alright… it’s alright… let’s just go, okay?”

Carlisle’s eyes flashed wild, the words seeming only to ignite the panic in him. In one glance Harry saw horror, rage, and self-loathing crash together.

Then Carlisle grabbed Harry’s arm—wordless, iron-tight fingers—and dragged him out of the town in long, rigid strides, until the night swallowed them whole once more.

They didn’t stop among the trees, not until they were far enough to be safe.

Carlisle let go of Harry as if touching him were a sin. He backed away with a low, warning growl.
Harry kept himself upright only by pressing his back against a tree trunk, as though he would collapse without it. His chest was still heaving. He looked at Carlisle with wary eyes—Carlisle’s face showed nothing but raw, stripped fear.

“NEVER again…” Carlisle’s voice was desperate and furious at once. “Never step in front of me like that again! That was—insanity. Everything could’ve… it was one breath away from disaster!”

He started pacing in front of Harry in long, frustrated strides, fingers tearing through his hair as if he could shake the whole moment off his body.

Harry just stood there, his own breathing uneven. He could almost still feel the ghost of teeth at his skin. He felt suddenly too young. Too breakable.

“I know,” he said softly. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t just let you—”

Carlisle halted and looked down at him. His eyes flashed fiercely, torn between anger and self-disgust.

“What if I had hurt you?!” he burst out. “What if I hadn’t stopped—?”

Harry’s throat tightened; his voice trembled.
“Did it ever cross your mind… to bite me? Does my blood tempt you?”

Carlisle froze. As if nailed to the earth.

“NO!” The word cracked like a shout. “Your blood doesn’t tempt me like that, Harry. Never.”
His voice thinned, became hoarse. “I couldn’t harm you. Do you understand? This is… something else.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, then forced himself to continue.
“The only reason you’re standing here is because I caught your scent—because I realized it was you. Your scent anchored me. If I hadn’t recognized it… if I’d thought you were a stranger…”
He broke off, eyes filling with horror.
“…I wouldn’t have stopped.”

The weight of the words fell hard between them. Harry trembled.
“Then… use my scent. If it helps, use it. Who knows how many towns we still have to cross?”

Carlisle closed his eyes again, drawing in a deep breath. The trembling in him slowly faded; his movements regained their control.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he whispered.

He didn’t step closer—he only met Harry’s eyes. Fear still flickered in his gaze.

“Harry… it would destroy me if I hurt you. No matter how vicious the thirst is, your safety is first.”

His voice wavered, then steadied.
“The way you looked—pinned to that wall by me, your heart racing, soaked in fear… If I could sleep, that would follow me into nightmares too. There will not be a next time.”

Carlisle’s eyes flashed with a hard, painful resolve.
“If I ever get that close to losing control again… I’ll leave. I’d rather walk away than keep you in greater danger with me than without me.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. His chest tightened, as if the air had abandoned him.
Now the fear came from something else entirely— the fear of losing him.

Chapter Text

The next days were quiet—too quiet.
Harry couldn’t tell which of them was trying harder to avoid the other’s eyes.
He only noticed that Carlisle’s eyes grew darker day by day, the red sinking almost completely into black. And the distance between them grew in exact proportion.

Carlisle didn’t speak about it.
Didn’t speak about anything connected to what had happened in the city.

And Harry didn’t ask—yet with every step he felt the sharp taste of unspoken fears.

The man still walked with him, but somehow… farther.
During the day he would sometimes walk three steps ahead, sometimes two steps behind; like someone constantly calculating the safe distance.

It was starting to wear Harry down.
Not the forests, not the cold, not the exhaustion—but this quiet retreat.
The fact that Carlisle didn’t say what he intended to do.
Whether he even had a plan.

And the darker his eyes grew, the more he turned his gaze away from Harry.

Before the next town they stopped at the side of the road.
Carlisle turned partly toward him.

“Harry… you can walk through during the day,” he said at last. “I can’t. I’ll go around as soon as it gets dark. And… I’ll find you on the other side.”

The words were factual, logical.
Harry nodded—yet something in his chest clenched painfully.

Carlisle looked at him for another moment, his expression impossible to read.
Then he stepped back.

“Be careful,” he said softly.

Harry tried to smile.
He failed.

The man stood there for one more second, fists clenched at his sides—then vanished soundlessly into the forest.

At the town gate Harry looked back.
The wounded part of him wanted to see Carlisle still standing somewhere between the trees.

But the clearing was empty.

And as he stepped into the busy streets, swallowed by daylight noise, the fear settled in him completely:

"What if Carlisle decides now… that being apart is better?
What if this was the last time I ever saw him…?"

The thought struck so suddenly, so sharply, that he had to steady himself against a wall.

Moving through the crowd, each step made the air heavier.

And he had never in his life felt so painfully, utterly alone.

The sun was still high when Harry reached the far edge of the town.

Every sound in the city echoed foreign inside him. People hurried past without looking at him; no one paid attention, yet he felt as though the quiet tension was slowly grinding him down. He worked quickly: bought a thicker sweater, a lined coat, warm socks.
But when he reached the food stalls, he hesitated. His money wasn’t much, and he knew he’d need it more later. In the end he bought only the minimum—just enough for a few days, if everything truly went wrong.

As he walked through town, he kept looking over his shoulder. Completely pointless—Carlisle couldn’t be anywhere near here, not now, not like this—yet the reflex stayed. Still, when he finally left the last houses behind, the tight knot in his chest loosened just a little.

He headed toward the deeper parts of the forest. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, he had managed to retreat as far as he could. He built a fire—slightly risky, but the nights were too cold.

He settled beside the flames and listened to the forest: the crackling, the distant rustles. After each sound he caught himself waiting for something familiar to follow. A step. A soft, subtle arrival.
But only the night moved.

Carlisle wouldn’t have been this late. He usually wasn’t.

Harry knew Carlisle wouldn’t disappear without a word. He knew that. But still he couldn’t calm down.

The fire snapped, light scattering long shadows across the trees. Harry pulled the coat around himself, the dull ache in his limbs pulsing with every breath, and kept waiting.

Night thickened around him, but the tension stayed—persistent, quiet, clinging to him like a shadow.

He didn’t want to fall asleep. In truth, he was terrified of it.

But fatigue crept in slowly, relentlessly, dragging down his eyelids. The heat of the fire seeped into him, the steady crackle lulled him, and his body—despite every protest—gave in.

He dozed off.

He didn’t know how long it lasted, but he woke suddenly, sharply. Panic thudded in his chest, raw and instinctive:

"Carlisle still wasn’t here.
Or… perhaps he wouldn’t coming at all."

Cold fingers slipped gently into his hair. The icy terror melted in an instant.

The man’s touch was soft, careful—almost timid.
And his voice, barely more than a whisper:

"Everything’s alright, Harry. I’m here. Sleep, okay?"

Harry’s breath still trembled, but the fear slowly unwound.
Carlisle was there. He had come after him. He had found him.

And that truth, in that moment, meant more than anything else.

The dawn chill bit sharply at Harry’s face when he woke.
The fire had sunk to embers, and a greyish haze lay over the forest.
Carlisle’s coat was draped over him like a warm blanket.

Even so, he was shivering.

He pushed himself upright slowly. His ribs protested, his arm throbbed, but he pushed the pain aside.
The first thing he saw was Carlisle sitting on the other side of the fire, perfectly still, like a silent guard.

“Good morning,” Harry said, clearing his throat.

“Good morning,” Carlisle replied — and that soft, constant worry in his voice made Harry breathe a little tighter than he had for days.

Harry forced himself to get moving; he gathered his things and held the coat out to him again.

“Thank you.”

“Keep it on,” Carlisle said quietly, with a kind of gentle reproach. “You were shivering all night.”

Harry appreciated the warmth — just not like this.
Not with this tone, not with this overcareful distance.
This parental, too-delicate attentiveness was slowly wearing him down.

He let the coat fall lightly into Carlisle’s lap.

“I bought a warmer one. I just need to wash up today, if we find a stream. Then I’ll switch.”

Carlisle nodded, but his gaze didn’t leave him.

“You should eat.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

“I ate last night,” he lied. “Later… let’s just go.”

They traveled most of the morning in silence. Carlisle vanished from his side now and then — always only for a few minutes — returning with berries or whatever fruit he could find. Blackberries, wild apples, anything at all. He brought them back like some tense, overzealous squirrel.

Harry was grateful for the food, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Not enough for his strength, not enough for his healing.
Still, he said nothing.
Carlisle’s worry pressed on him harder than hunger did.

Around noon they reached a stream, where Carlisle stopped.

“Change your clothes,” he said quietly, as if he truly believed Harry might collapse in front of him. “I’ll go ahead and check where we can camp tonight.”

Harry nodded and watched him slip soundlessly into the trees.

When he stepped into the water, his whole body flinched.
The cold bit into him, but at least it washed the dirt from his skin, and with it some of the tension that had been building for days. His body protested the chill, but the freshness helped.

He sat down and carefully unwrapped the bandages on his palm. He’d managed to find new ones in town, but the sight beneath them still made him frown.
A thin layer of skin had begun to form, yes — but not with the quick healing his magic usually granted. Not nearly fast enough.

For the first time in days, he removed his shirt completely.
A stubborn greenish bruise stretched beneath his ribs.
Another marked his arm — the place where Carlisle had grabbed him.

Not serious wounds, but too many, and they should have been gone by now. Something was wrong.
Maybe it was exhaustion slowing his magic.
Maybe the cold.
Maybe the limited food he’d forced himself to survive on in the forest.

Harry sighed and reached for the warmer shirt when a soft sound rustled behind him.

He turned.

Carlisle stood there.

His eyes weren’t on Harry’s face — but on the bruises, the marks, the imprint of his own fingers on Harry’s arm.

And on his face spread that same slowly building, paralyzing self-loathing guilt that had been driving Harry mad for days.

And then — from the cold, from the hunger, from the tension, from the fear that had been tightening in him since the city — something in Harry finally snapped.

Harry saw it happen—how Carlisle’s expression shifted in a single heartbeat into raw guilt.
The deep, consuming kind that Harry had been trying to shield him from.

“Harry…” Carlisle began quietly.

“Enough!” Harry snapped.

The word tore out of him so abruptly, so fiercely, that even the air around them seemed to shudder.
Magic flared—leaves rustled violently, as if a gust of invisible wind swept through the clearing.
It lasted only a second, then the forest fell silent again.

Carlisle’s eyes widened.

“Enough, Carlisle,” Harry repeated, his voice hoarse.
“Enough of this walking-on-glass. You are my soulmate. Not my guardian. You don’t have to move around me like one wrong look might kill me.”

Pain flickered across Carlisle’s face.

“Harry… I’m a vampire,” he said softly, as if that explained everything.
“One wrong move and… there are my fingerprints on your arm. We can’t be equals. I’m not even sure we can still be partners at all…”

“I’m a wizard!” Harry shot back.
“If I were in good shape, a single uncontrolled spell could kill you too! Don’t pretend this is only on you!”

He yanked the shirt over his head angrily.

“It’s not your becoming a vampire that would keep us from being soulmates,” he continued, voice sharp.
“If that were the reason, the bond would have snapped the moment you were reborn—not grown stronger.”

He turned back toward Carlisle with something wild, almost challenging in his gaze.

“If you don’t believe we can remain partners—then why did you come with me? What’s your plan when we reach my godfather?”

Carlisle didn’t answer.
He only stared at the bruises again.
And Harry saw it—the man withdrawing into his own head, into his guilt, into that quiet, crushing self-hatred.

He wasn’t looking him in the eyes.
He wasn’t saying anything.

Harry drew a long breath.

The silence.
The distance.
The restrained self-loathing…

“Then go now,” he said finally—sharper than he meant to.

Carlisle froze.
His eyes widened.

“Harry—”

“If you’re going to leave anyway… if you truly think we can’t be equals… then go now.”

Carlisle stepped closer, slowly.

“I won’t leave you alone in the wilderness,” he said quietly, stubbornly.

“No?” Harry laughed—short, sharp, exhausted.
“Then you’ll leave after, when you know I’m safe? I’m not your responsibility!”
He struck his thigh with a fist.
“I’m supposed to be your partner, not your child!”

Carlisle reached toward him instinctively.

“Stop, you’re already covered in injuries—”

“They’re just bruises! Nothing!” Harry shouted.
“I wasn’t wrapped in cotton my entire life!”

He grabbed his bag.

“I’ll manage. I am healing… just slower…”

Carlisle didn’t let go.

“You’re always tired,” he said quietly. “Why? Why are you healing so slowly?”

“Carlisle, stop.”

“No,” Carlisle shook his head. “You’re not eating enough.”

Harry jerked his head toward him so suddenly that Carlisle stepped back.

“Then let’s talk about you!” Harry snapped.
“What about your thirst?”

For a heartbeat, Carlisle’s black eyes darkened further—
and the air vibrated with restraint.

Harry stood there, panting, hands trembling, his shirt only half buttoned.

Carlisle looked at him.
Too long.
Too silently.

Then, in a rough, low voice, he said:

“I’ll get you proper food. Meat. Your body needs it.”

And before Harry could even draw breath, Carlisle vanished into the trees—
so fast, so almost panicked—
that the bitterness slammed back into Harry’s chest, sharp and burning:

He left again.
He’s still avoiding me.

And he still didn’t answer the questions Harry actually asked:

"What about your thirst?
What will you do when we contact my godfather?"

Harry just stood by the creek, among the trees, where he had last seen Carlisle’s figure disappear. Something was gathering in his chest with a slow, heavy urgency—something he didn’t want to name. A moment later, he had already decided: he wouldn’t wait any longer.

If Carlisle truly wanted to stay with him, he would find him.
If not… then better to know now.

The thought cut into him so sharply he had to take a deep breath, as if restarting his lungs. His chest hurt—maybe from the bruises, maybe from something entirely different—but he ignored it. He slung the bag over his shoulder and moved forward along the path.

With every step he took, he moved farther from Carlisle.
With every step, the air grew heavier.
The bond thrummed inside him—like a taut string thinning with every movement.

His stomach tightened slowly. This was no longer a road with Carlisle—only a drawn-out, agonizing goodbye.

He couldn’t think about that, so he focused on the trail. On the tree trunks. On the light filtering between the leaves. Anything was easier than naming the pain pulling tight inside him.

It wasn’t fair that he was angry at Carlisle. He knew that.
But he was still angry.

The man’s world had turned upside down, he had become a vampire, he craved blood, maybe feared he’d become a killer, or that he’d lose control with Harry nearby. And still… Harry had somehow expected they would face this together.

By the afternoon he had pushed deeper into the forest. Toward evening, he no longer paid attention to the passing landscape; he just kept walking, as if movement was the only thing left he could still control.

He stopped abruptly.

He had felt that tense, string-like pull in his chest for a while now—like an invisible tether connecting him to Carlisle. And the farther he walked, the more it strained.

He felt he was at the limit. As if it could snap at any moment.

What happens if he goes even farther? Does their connection break? Does the pull disappear? The thought slashed through him. Something in him whispered: yes, if he takes one more step, this bond will tear.

And he didn’t want to break it.

If Carlisle wanted to broke the soulbond between them—let him do it. Harry would not.

So he made camp. Built a fire with precise, methodical movements—he didn’t want to think. Then he lay beside the flames, watched the stars, and waited.

From here on, it depended on Carlisle’s decision alone…

He tried not to overthink the relieved breath that slipped out of him suddenly.

The bond had not broken.

The taut string in his chest suddenly… loosened, softly.

Carlisle was approaching.

The realization came before any sound.

Harry was already sitting up when the man stepped out from between the trees. The firelight brushed across Carlisle as he emerged. There was blood on his shirt—on the sleeves, the chest, the throat. In his hand, a freshly caught rabbit. His eyes were no longer hungry.

The two men stared at each other in silence for a long moment.

Carlisle stopped in front of him. “Harry… you left,” he said quietly, uncertainly.

Harry only nodded. “I gave you the chance to walk away if you wanted to. To break the bond between us if that’s what you wanted…” He rubbed at his chest, where all day he’d felt as if something was trying to tear him apart from the inside. “But you… you followed me.” The last word left him more like a question.

A moment of silence. Heavy, settled silence. Harry’s gaze traced the blood, Carlisle’s face, the shadow beneath his eyes. “Why did you follow me? …Should I be hiding a corpse?” he asked in a flat voice. He knew he should panic, but he didn’t have the strength.

Carlisle’s eyes widened in shock. “What would you say if I told you… yes?” he asked cautiously—more waiting for an answer than claiming anything.

Harry inhaled slowly. Deliberately. He hadn’t thought this far. What if Carlisle really had killed someone? What then? What would he do? What would he say? What would he choose?

The man’s shirt was bloody. He was fed. There could have been a corpse somewhere. But he wouldn’t be standing here if that were true.

Harry looked up at him. His voice was calm—disturbingly so. “You confuse me. You’re not the type to kill without conscience.” His heart skipped a beat. “Or did you come here for absolution… so I could be the one to kill you?”

Carlisle’s face tightened, his whole body tensing. “Harry… you’re starting to scare me,” he said as he stepped closer, slowly. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”

His voice was quiet, trembling, yet steady: “The animal blood… helped. I didn’t kill a human.”

The air loosened between them, as if a clenched hand had released Harry’s chest. As if for the first time in days he could truly breathe.

Carlisle set the rabbit down by the fire but didn’t sit. He simply stood before Harry, as if waiting for him to say the words—whether they would continue… together.

Harry nodded slowly.

“So… you came back because you realized this can work?” he asked softly. “If you hadn’t found a solution today… you would have left. Right?”

Carlisle lowered his gaze. The answer slipped out, barely audible:

“Yes. I would have left… because this thirst in me was no longer… handable. Harry, you saw how close I was to the edge.”

Harry bowed his head. His stomach twisted.

“Yes, I saw! And I couldn’t help you. What kind of partner am I… if I can’t help my own soulmate?” he asked quietly, anger directed at himself. “What good am I to you, if in the end you still have to leave?”

Carlisle stepped closer slowly, then crouched in front of him.

“Harry,” he said gently, “don’t you think this would have been impossible to solve… unless the solution came to me?”

Softly, he continued, “There will be moments in your life too, where I can’t help. Where all I can do is stand silently beside you. Just like you stood beside me.”

Harry pressed his lips together. He couldn’t speak.

Carlisle looked into his eyes—truly, clearly, for the first time in days. His voice was low, as if blaming himself: “Harry… you should have left me long ago. You should have stayed in the city when we split up. You should have sent me away… because I hurt you, I almost bit you.”

Harry listened without moving, without looking away. Carlisle’s gaze stayed fixed on him, stunned, almost reverent.

“Did it never occur to you to run from me?” he asked quietly, as if he himself didn’t believe the answer.

Harry slowly shook his head.

Carlisle’s eyes trembled, his voice softer, more broken: “Why not? Wasn’t it enough that I hurt you? That I nearly lost control?”

Harry’s answer was calm, clear: “No, Carlisle. That’s not enough to make me leave you alone.”

Something warm and painful flickered across the man’s face, as if Harry’s words both wounded and healed him. “Oh God, Harry…” He reached toward him, but his hand halted in the air. He looked at the blood staining his fingers.

Harry let out a tense breath. Then, without hesitation, he leaned forward and embraced him.

Carlisle froze in shock.

“Harry… I’m all covered in blood,” he said uncertainly. But his arms were already wrapping around him—tight, relieved.

“I don’t care,” Harry muttered. “Though I’m glad it’s only animal blood.”

Carlisle let out a quiet laugh—the first in days.

Harry held him even tighter.

“Don’t do this again,” he whispered. “Don’t close me out. Don’t leave thinking it will help me.”

“I promise, Harry,” the man said, and his voice didn’t tremble now, didn’t falter. It was only clear and honest. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Bella was trying to enjoy the first days of summer break, those unusually quiet mornings. Charlie had talked her into going out for breakfast together at the town’s café.
Bella wasn’t particularly hungry, but she liked her father’s quiet company.

As they crossed the street, Bella suddenly stopped short.
Carlisle stepped out of the café door, a tray of coffees in one hand—but his movements lacked their usual ease. His shoulders hunched, as if he carried a weight no one else could see.

Charlie lifted a cheerful hand in greeting.
"Good morning, Dr. Cullen!"

But Carlisle walked away, not even glancing at them. His eyes were lost somewhere far off.

Bella stared, unsettled. She had never seen him like this. Carlisle was never distracted.

Charlie only let out a resigned sigh.
"Poor guy… I hope the rumors going around aren’t true." His voice sounded tired. "People and their nonsense—there’s no end to it."

Bella knew exactly what he meant.
And as her father moved on toward the entrance, last week’s conversation with Edward stirred inside her.

Bella leaned against her bedroom door, watching Edward sitting on the windowsill—
in the same pose he so often had—
only somehow now he felt farther away.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him, smiling softly, though a vague tightness sat in her chest.
In the past few days, Edward had been acting with a strange, delicate caution.

A few days ago, he had suddenly asked whether it bothered her when he stayed in her room at night.
Bella had almost fallen out of the bed in shock.
How could it possibly bother her?
She cherished every breath spent with him. Every minute she could simply look at him—even if Edward often believed their relationship was far too dangerous.

She had assured him then that she would tell him if she ever wanted some time alone…
But that would not be today.
Not tomorrow.
Perhaps never.

Yet ever since she had slipped up—admitting she would even take immortality for him—something had changed.
Edward had become more careful. More distant.
As if he were afraid that one more step closer might destroy her.

Even now he sat there: beautiful, perfect, and yet so distant it was as though she were seeing him through glass.

Bella smiled faintly. She didn’t want to rush him. She just liked having him there.

Edward eventually slid down next to her on the bed, stretching out beside her, one arm tucked under his head like a pillow.
His nearness was familiar, comforting—yet the tension in him was unmistakable.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” Edward said at last, still staring at the ceiling.

Bella immediately turned toward him.
“About us?” she asked carefully.

Edward gave a faint smile—this time a true warmth flickered in his eyes.
“No. We’re fine.”

Bella let out a relieved breath. It felt good to hear it.
So what was it that troubled him so deeply?

“It’s about Carlisle… and Esme,” Edward continued quietly.

Bella sat up straight. She hadn’t expected that.
“Is something wrong?”

Edward slowly shook his head.
“Not wrong… just a change. Their marriage has always worked as a cover. For the family. For the outside world. They’re… friends. Very good friends. But not… a couple.”

Bella blinked. She hadn’t seen that coming at all.
Edward’s expression didn’t move, but his voice was cautious, as if he were handling something fragile.

“If anyone asks… if anyone wonders… it would help if you confirmed they’re separating. Carlisle would be very grateful.”

Bella blinked again, as if her mind needed a moment to catch up.
“Of course I’ll help… it’s just… a lot at once.”

“I know,” Edward said. “But it matters to him. There’s someone he wants to court. And he doesn’t want unpleasant rumors.”

Bella’s eyes widened.
“Who is this mysterious woman? Another vampire, maybe?”

Edward turned his head away, tension flickering across his face.

“Not a woman,” he said at last. “And not a vampire… but not a simple mortal either. That’s all I can say. I’m sorry. Carlisle asked me not to share more. Not yet.”

Silence hung heavy for a moment.

Bella nodded slowly, though her thoughts were spinning in every direction.
Another man… Carlisle?
She had absolutely not expected that.

She looked at Edward, and for once it wasn’t his inhuman beauty that caught her attention—
but the small crease between his brows, the tense look he wore as he spoke.

“And this upsets you?” she asked softly. “That… it’s a man?”

Edward let out a short laugh. Gentle, quiet, but honest.
“No, Bella. That’s not the problem. It doesn’t matter who he’s drawn to.”

But the smile faded quickly.

“It’s just…” he began, then paused, searching for the right words.
“I don’t like that man. I feel he wouldn’t welcome Carlisle’s pure intentions. He’s not a bad person, just… not kind. Not someone who seems right for him.”

Bella touched Edward’s arm gently.
“You really are worried about him.”

Edward closed his eyes for a brief moment.
“Carlisle hasn’t had a lasting partner in a very, very long time. He’s been with men and women before, but… he hasn’t truly let anyone close in ages. And now… now he’s finally found someone who means something to him. I just… I’m afraid this man won’t appreciate him.”

His words were soft, but full of emotion.

Bella squeezed his arm gently.
“If he’s important to Carlisle… maybe there’s more to him than you’re seeing right now. Maybe he just needs more time.”

Now, as they reached the café door, Bella glanced back toward the sidewalk once more.

Carlisle was already farther away.
But before he turned the corner, he stopped for a moment, looked back toward the café window…
and it seemed as though he was struggling with something.
Or someone.
As if leaving hurt him.

Then Carlisle disappeared.

When they stepped inside the café, Bella’s eyes were drawn immediately to the window—
the very window Carlisle had looked at with such quiet desperation moments earlier.

And someone was sitting there.

Someone Bella knew all too well.

Harry Morven.

He was speaking with a stranger, calm and relaxed, as if it were just an ordinary morning.

Bella’s heart skipped a beat.

The mysterious man…
The one Edward hadn’t wanted to talk about…

Impossible.
No. It couldn’t be…

But the impossible thought still slipped through her mind, cold as a shadow:

Carlisle… was moving toward Harry Morven?

Carlisle only meant to stop in for a moment.

There was always someone at the hospital for whom a cup of coffee could prove lifesaving—if not literally. He never drank it himself, but it had become a habit to bring an extra cup or two for his colleagues.

He didn’t expect the breath to catch in his chest the moment he stepped into the café.

Harry was sitting at one of the corner tables, his back partly toward the door, but Carlisle could see his face in profile.
Light movements, an easy smile—
as if the man he knew, the one who so often hid behind polite half-smiles, had suddenly melted into someone’s company.

The stranger sitting with him looked a little older, perhaps mid-thirties.
Taller than Harry by at least a head.
Short brown hair, neatly kept, and a fashionable, well-trimmed beard.
His clothes were simple: jeans, a dark T-shirt, and a protective motorcycle jacket tossed loosely over the chair. Through the window, Carlisle even spotted the man’s bike—
a red-and-white Yamaha.

He wasn’t strikingly handsome; it was more the charisma, that quiet, effortless pull of presence that drew the eye.
Harry laughed at something he said — and that sound, rare and warm and unguarded, hit Carlisle harder than anything else could have.

He didn’t want to—he truly didn’t— but his ears still strained toward them. As a vampire, he should have heard every word, every breath, every subtle shift.

Yet now… only muffled scraps of sound reached him.
Nothing coherent.
Nothing that would reveal how close the two men were.

Just fragments. Fleeting, unintelligible.

Carlisle almost froze.
This wasn’t natural.

The realization—that perhaps Harry had deliberately veiled the conversation with some kind of spell—ran through him like a cold blade.

Something tightened in his chest.
Not anger—he rarely felt anger.
More that sharp, needling ache, the bitter sting one feels when fate seems intent on holding something important just out of reach.

And beside it, quieter but no less cutting, the thought that Harry opened up so easily… to someone else.

Judging by their movements, the man and Harry were familiar—friends, maybe.

Carlisle tried to push away the idea that this could be a date.
A simple, ordinary date, in a café, on a bright morning.

He himself hadn’t even gotten that far.

He had expressed his interest—yes, carefully, respectfully—but he had not yet found the moment to actually ask him out.

“Just friends,” he told himself again and again as he waited for his order.

But in the mirror behind the counter, his eyes betrayed him, always drifting back to them.
Harry’s gestures, the stranger’s look, the natural closeness between them…
every little detail rekindled the emotion he refused to call jealousy.

Then the stranger stepped beside him at the counter, and Carlisle’s muscles tensed before he understood why.

“One more coffee and a tea, sweetheart,” the man said lightly.

The barista nodded. He glanced at the pastry display.
“Did this just come out?”

“Yes,” she smiled.

“Then I’ll take a slice of the molasses cake, too. Harry would’ve bought it himself if he’d been up here when we ordered. I’ll bring it to him.”

Harry.

He said the name so easily, as though he’d known him for years.

The order was nearly done when the barista looked up at him, placing cups on the counter.

“Are you an old friend of Mr. Morven’s?” she asked kindly.

The stranger laughed—a deep, easy sound.

“Jesus… is that what you call him? Mr. Morven?”
He shook his head, smiling with careless charm.
“And Harry manages to keep a straight face?”

The girl shrugged, flushing a little.
“Well… it seems polite…”

“Darling, you really are sweet,” he replied, still smiling.

Her cheeks reddened further; Carlisle wasn’t sure whether it was the pet name or the man’s voice.

He wasn’t used to feeling this way, but now he found himself distinctly put off by those who used nicknames unasked for.

“Yes, you could say we’re old friends,” the stranger continued, taking the coffee and tea.
“One way or another, we tend to help each other out. Old habit. It’s always exciting and… enjoyable when Harry drops in.”

His movements were assured, his smile genuine.

Carlisle stiffened at the words.
The man’s face gave nothing away, the barista didn’t notice a thing—but for Carlisle, every syllable, every inflection, was complete and unmistakable.

A hot, sharp spark shot through his chest.
He tasted venom rising in his mouth, felt every muscle coil tight.

Jealousy—raw and territorial—flooded his thoughts.
Every gesture, every smile, turned into a threat, a possibility that this man might take from him the chance he had barely begun to hope for.

He could feel his whole body poised to act, to reclaim Harry’s attention by any means—
but he knew he couldn’t.
So he stood there, trembling inwardly.

When the stranger walked back to the table, Carlisle’s gaze followed—tense, almost vibrating with focus.

The man sat down. Harry looked at him, and then—as if sensing he was being watched—
lifted his eyes toward Carlisle.

A faint crease appeared between his brows.
Then he simply nodded.

A polite, cautious gesture—and when the stranger slid the tea and the cake toward him, Harry turned back to their conversation.

Carlisle’s hand curled into a fist before he realized it.
It felt deeply, profoundly unfair that Harry’s bright green gaze left his for another man.
That the look capable of stopping time inside him was now given to someone else’s words.

He collected the cups at the counter.
When the girl asked something, he managed only a gentle, strained smile in reply.
His usually calm, composed face was merely a mask; inside, a storm was raging.

Then he left.

On the way back toward the hospital, every thought circled around Harry.

Next time, he wouldn’t let him simply nod and walk away.
Harry had allowed him to court him—softly, subtly, but unmistakably—
and that truth now pressed on him, urging him not to wait any longer.

Now that the school year was over, and Harry would have more free time, Carlisle knew one thing for certain:

If he didn’t act soon, the chance Harry had offered would fade.

It was time to ask him out—finally, truly, with his whole heart.

Harry was walking down the hospital corridor, clutching the file in his hands as if the weight of the papers could somehow measure the responsibility that came with them. He had started the investigation weeks ago, but most of the work had been left to Basil — reliable, experienced, and particularly skilled at obtaining information.
Being a Squib, he had to hide much less in the wizarding world and moved with practiced ease among Muggles.

Harry had entrusted him with smaller and bigger assignments over the years, but now, holding this file, he knew their professional relationship was beginning to stretch thin. Sooner or later he would have to approach him with a different face, a different persona. Aging spells could have been an option, but after a while it became difficult to keep track of which version of him was supposed to look what age.

Now that Basil had brought him the files, Harry knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. Carlisle would be able to decide what to do with the information. Harry himself wasn’t sure which direction to take.

As he moved through the corridors, something shifted in the air. He couldn’t put it into words, but he felt it — the presence.
Carlisle was somewhere nearby.

His steps slowed, and when he lifted his head, Carlisle was already standing in front of him, wearing his white coat, posture held a little too tightly, though his face showed the faintest flicker of surprise.

The man glanced around, as if checking who might overhear, then stepped closer.

“Harry.”
His voice was quiet, slightly muffled, yet more personal than anything he would have used around others.
“Is everything all right?”

As soon as he spoke, his gaze slid to the file in Harry’s hands.

“Yes,” Harry replied shortly, then after a moment’s pause added, “Could we talk in private? There’s something here you… should probably take a look at.”

Carlisle nodded, his expression smoothing back into calm. He gestured for Harry to follow and led him toward his office.

He sensed him even before he heard his footsteps.

Something familiar stirred in his chest — like the faint vibration of a plucked string running down the hospital hallway.
Harry.

At the moment of recognition, Carlisle’s stomach tightened — fear surged up instinctively. Was he hurt? But he dismissed the thought just as quickly.

If Harry were injured, this would be the last place he’d come. His relationship with doctors was… well, far from friendly.

Oddly, that realization, ominous as it was, soothed Carlisle.

“Well, Mr. Martin, next time we’ll be able to remove the stitches,” he finished the bandaging, keeping his voice steady.

He offered his patient a faint smile, then quickly set down the gloves and scissors on the tray. Before Mr. Martin could even speak, Carlisle was already heading to the door.

Stepping into the hallway, he saw him immediately.

He didn’t know what Harry was doing here, but he didn’t mind.
He was glad to see him — especially after what he’d witnessed that morning at the café… with that stranger. The thought still left a sharp, bitter sting behind.

He led Harry into his office to speak privately. Closing the door behind them, he gestured to a chair. Harry sat, but didn’t look at him. He seemed to be searching for words. In the end, he didn’t say anything — he simply handed over the file he had been gripping this whole time.

Carlisle took it.

His eyes immediately snagged on the photograph tucked between the pages — and for a heartbeat, everything stopped.

“Alice…”

The silence in the room grew heavier, but Harry’s voice cut through it.

“In the forest… when I was running from James and stepped wrong,” he began, voice calm, “I had to hide for a moment to fuse my ribs back together before I could move on.”

Carlisle involuntarily remembered.

“James felt like he had the upper hand,” Harry continued. “And like every fanatic who loves the sound of his own voice… he talked.”

The words came slow and quiet, but they chilled something deep inside Carlisle.

The tone, the subject, the mention of James… it all provoked an instinctive, wild, visceral fear — and something else.

Protection.
A poised, dangerous readiness.

If it were up to him, no vampire would ever touch his Harry again.

Harry went on, as if unaware of the storm he had stirred in him.

“He said he once had prey… years ago. A girl who escaped him. An old vampire worked at the institution where she was held. She had visions. The old man… wanted to save her, so he turned her.”

Harry paused, then added quietly:

“He said the girl was Alice. He recognized her among you that night. And that he killed the old man in revenge.”

Carlisle didn’t move. He sat there with his fingers resting on the file, eyes fixed on the photograph.

Something tightened in his chest — disbelief, recognition, and a deep, unsettled sorrow.

The silence stretched until Harry broke it, softly:

“I thought you should know. She has the right to know her past.”

“This is how long it took to gather everything,” he added slowly. “Basil got me the last dossier — the records from the asylum.”

Carlisle’s head snapped up, eyes sharpening at the mention of the café.
“The man from the café?”

Harry considered it, then nodded. “Yes. He has no magic, but he was born into the wizarding world. We call them Squibs… never mind. He’s useful. Doesn’t question the supernatural, and he’s worked for me many times. That’s why I trusted him with this.”

Carlisle’s gaze softened, and a quiet wave of relief washed over him.

The ambiguous line he’d overheard — “One way or another, we tend to help each other out. Old habit. It’s always exciting and… enjoyable when Harry drops in.”
The sentence that had cut him like a blade, that had sounded so loaded, so unmistakably suggestive — now melted into something mundane. Professional. Friendly. Detective-like.

Every tense muscle relaxed, and the jealousy that had burned through him slowly evaporated.

Harry fell silent, watching him as if weighing how to continue.

“He doesn’t know why I asked for the document. He knows nothing about Alice. And… I’ve asked stranger things of him before.”

Carlisle felt the thread slipping. Harry’s tone had softened — cautious, almost guilty.
As though he were apologising.

Why would he feel the need to justify himself? What he had done was far more than help: he had uncovered Alice’s past, a missing story Carlisle himself had never managed to piece together.

And still, Harry looked like a man offering an apology.

Before Carlisle could speak, Harry continued quietly:

“If it makes you uncomfortable that he got this close to your family’s affairs… I can erase his memories of the case.”

Carlisle’s eyes flickered — with shock.

The idea that Harry would go so far just to spare him some awkwardness was both astonishing and painful.

He didn’t answer immediately. He simply watched the man whose presence meant far more than simple words could cover.

Carlisle slowly closed the file, his fingers lingering on the cover as if afraid the story would dissolve if he let go. At last he murmured:

“Thank you, Harry.”

His voice was quiet, but underneath it something deeper vibrated — beyond gratitude: a recognition that what Harry had done was not mere information-gathering, but an act of care.

After a beat, Carlisle straightened.

“I’d like you to come with me tonight,” he said, lifting his gaze to Harry’s. “I want to tell Alice all of this.”

A shadow crossed Harry’s expression before he answered.

“I’m not sure I should be there,” he said softly. “This is about your family, not me.”

Carlisle felt an instinctive answer rising to his lips, something he wasn’t yet brave enough to say.
That yes — his family could be Harry’s too, if he wanted…

But he only smiled faintly, masking the thought’s fragile outline.

“I think Alice would be glad to talk to you as well.”
After a brief pause, he added gently, “Please… come.”

Harry frowned slightly, considering — then slowly nodded.

The silence that followed was no longer tense.

Carlisle’s gaze drifted back to him, returning to the earlier subject.

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” he said. “You used the resources available to you. I see no reason to erase anyone’s memories over this.”

Harry looked mildly surprised, but didn’t interrupt, so Carlisle continued.

“We have people who handle things for us as well. Money, documents, backgrounds… from time to time, they notice we don’t change.”
A faint, wry smile pulled at his lips.
“We handle it one way or another. With money, trust — or in Jasper’s case, a bit of intimidation.”

He hesitated only a moment before finishing quietly:

“If you trust that man… that’s enough assurance for me.”

Carlisle had offered—without even thinking—to drive Harry.
Only after the man nodded did he realise how pointless the gesture was.
Harry could Apparate anywhere in an instant—yet he accepted.

And now they were sitting next to each other, in the soft hum of the car.

The silence was a little stiff, too measured. Carlisle directed his attention to the scenery outside, to the dark lines of the trees in the dusk, but his thoughts kept slipping back to the man sitting beside him.

After a few minutes, he noticed the air filling with Harry’s scent.
And something happened with it—something that surprised even him: his lungs moved slower, the tension in his chest began to ease.

As if the constant hum of thirst, desire, restlessness inside him quieted.
It didn’t vanish, just… fell silent for a moment, as if someone had gently pressed a finger to the string vibrating in his soul.

Carlisle cast a careful glance to the side.

Harry was looking out the window.
The faint light of the car reflected on his hair, on his face, and Carlisle suddenly felt that no matter what silence lay between them, he was still… all right.

His thoughts—though he tried to hold them back—kept circling the same point: where could he invite Harry? He’d been thinking about it for days. But now he decided he would ease into the subject first.

“Harry…” he began carefully, glancing sideways, “what are your plans for the summer?”

Harry looked at him, his face serious.

“I was thinking of going back to London…” Harry said slowly. “It’s been a long time since I was home.”

Carlisle felt horror wash over him.
He should have been watching the road, but he couldn’t follow the curve of the turns with his eyes. The thought that Harry might disappear from his sight for months sliced through him like icy dread. His chest tightened, his grip on the wheel grew stronger.

The car drifted slightly toward the edge of the lane.

Harry grabbed the handle on instinct, laughter bursting out of him.

“Watch the road, for Merlin’s sake!” he shouted. “I was just joking. I’m not going away for months.
I’m not causing a car crash with an innocent little joke!”

But Carlisle couldn’t laugh.

Something far too deep, far too honest had cut into him.

Carlisle abruptly corrected the car, hit the brakes hard, and pulled over to the side of the road. He leaned forward against the steering wheel, trying to gather himself.

“Just… give me a minute,” he muttered. His voice was rough, as if every feeling had struck him at once.

Harry turned toward him, and spoke softly, a little playfully:

“So this is how I need to find out you’re a terrible driver? If we ever actually go on a date… I’m driving.
Or we Apparate.”

Carlisle turned toward him almost instinctively. The remnants of fear still pulsed in his chest, but something else began to take its place. He swallowed hard. That smile, that almost tender look… it was difficult not to melt entirely.

“Harry…” he began, voice low and hoarse. “Where could I… invite you?”

Harry shrugged, a little shy but calm:

“Anywhere you want… give me a good pastry and I’m happy.”

Then the man’s expression softened into something sweet and strangely uncertain, as if even he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing.

He reached into his bag, pulled out a colourful, slightly crumpled flyer, and handed it to Carlisle.

“But there’s something I was planning to go to anyway…” he said, with a quiet note of gentle hesitation in his voice. “If you’d like, you can come with me.”

Carlisle took the paper.

For a moment he just stared at the image on it: the dome of the observatory, the night sky above it, the small explanatory text beneath.

When he saw the date, he smiled — a Saturday two weeks from now.
“When all seven planets are visible at once.”

The smile slipped onto his face without him meaning to.

“I’d love to,” he replied. Maybe too quickly.

Harry glanced at him sideways, a small, faintly unreadable smile hiding at the corner of his eye.

And in that moment, Carlisle knew he probably didn’t need to overthink fate’s little games at all.

Chapter Text

At first it was only a low, steady hum in the distance — an engine, slowly approaching the house.
Then, almost at the same moment, they all heard the other sound as well: the heartbeat.

The silence that followed became almost tangible. Rosalie put down the tool in her hand, Edward’s gaze snapped toward the door, and Jasper, as always, watched Alice’s reaction first.

Everyone knew Carlisle was coming — the rhythm of the motor told them that much.
But the heartbeat… that was new.
A living, breathing human was with him.

Alice sensed the questions before anyone spoke them. Every pair of eyes turned to her, as if she were the source of all answers.

She tried to look into the near future.
Tried to see them — the moment the door opened, the instant Carlisle stepped inside.
But when the vision dissolved into blurred shapes and fading colors, only a quiet sigh slipped from her.

“It’s just Harry,” she said at last, quietly, almost resigned.

The tension in the room eased. Rosalie shrugged, Emmett smiled as if nothing unusual had happened, but Jasper didn’t move.

Alice had long given up hope of ever seeing the future clearly when Harry was involved.
But even so, the haze was still better than the last person she had seen clearly with Harry face…

The others slowly returned to what they had been doing, but Jasper still watched her. He knew his mate well enough to sense that something was off. The distance she’d kept from Harry lately… it was bordering on fear.

Alice couldn’t tell him what she had seen. Not because she didn’t want to — but because she couldn’t.

When that figure had asked her for secrecy, it had felt as if some invisible force had locked her thoughts in place.

The engine stopped in the driveway.
A moment later, they heard it open.

Carlisle stepped in first — his movements carrying that quiet elegance that made one forget he wasn’t human at all. Before crossing the threshold, he turned slightly and, with an almost invisible, instinctive gesture, let the man walking beside him go ahead. Harry followed without a word, as if that subtle harmony between them was the most natural thing in the world.

Carlisle wore his usual elegant shirt-and-tie combination. All he needed was a white coat to slip into his top-doctor, family-man persona — but now, next to Harry, he finally looked his true age. A young man in his twenties, handsome, and somehow even more striking for the way every gesture aligned with the person beside him.
It seemed vampires, too, blossomed when they were in love.

Harry’s dark, slightly wavy hair, his green eyes, the lean, athletic lines of his body formed a pleasant contrast to Carlisle’s unnatural beauty. In Alice’s eyes, they were breathtaking together. A pair that not only looked right side by side, but truly belonged together — every small, instinctive motion suggested as much.

Harry’s heartbeat was audible now even from up close, quiet and deliberate. Every vampire instinct tightened at the natural sound — and then slowly settled again. They were used to Harry’s presence by now, yet there was always something about him that unsettled them, even if only for a heartbeat.

“Welcome home,” Esme greeted them, and her voice instantly shattered the tension. “Harry, I’m glad to see you again.”

Her smile was warm, sincere, carrying that soft, maternal kindness that could reach even the most closed-off person.
Harry couldn’t help returning the smile.

“Good evening, Esme,” he said quietly, his tone carrying that gentle politeness that always clung to him. “Carlisle asked me to join him… regarding a matter.”

As he spoke, he glanced toward Alice, and for a moment, his smile faltered — still kind, still soft, but a flicker of uncertainty ran beneath it. As though he, too, had sensed that Alice had been withdrawing from him lately.

Alice tried to remain discreet but Harry had already seen it.
And though his smile didn’t change, something flickered in his eyes… recognition, perhaps, or simply that polite, perceptive curiosity with which he always observed the people around him.

Jasper’s gaze finally slid from Alice to Harry.
Alice knew: Jasper had long noticed the subtle distance between them.

His look flashed toward Harry now — quick, but unmistakably assessing — as though, for the first time, he was genuinely weighing whether this man could be a threat.

Harry gave him a short, friendly nod, but Jasper remained utterly still.

The tense moment broke when Carlisle spoke.

“Alice.” His voice was soft yet firm, carrying that quiet authority that always steadied them. “Jasper."
"Would you join us in my study? There is… something we need to discuss.”

Alice didn’t understand why Carlisle had called them — but she followed him and Harry toward the study.

When they entered, Carlisle’s lips parted as if he meant to speak, but he hesitated.
"Harry… would you…?" he began, but the words didn’t come.
Harry understood from that alone.

His wand slid out from the sleeve of his sweater almost imperceptibly, and he murmured soft Latin words.
Suddenly it felt as if the world outside had been sealed off.

"Ah…" escaped Alice in recognition. "That’s why we couldn't heard anything from this room before?"

Harry gave a faint smile, nodded, and sat down in the armchair beside Carlisle’s desk, leaving the couch for them.

"You never know what someone considers private," he said simply, then lifted his gaze to Carlisle.
There was something unusually quiet, almost reverent in the gesture — a waiting sort of respect.

Carlisle stood silently for a moment, then stepped to the desk.

His fingers tightened as he looked at the file Harry had placed there earlier. Alice watched his hand slowly settle atop the folder.

"Alice," he began at last, voice soft and slightly hoarse. "Harry… while he was running from James, he learned some things from him. James realized who you were that night in the meadow..."

Silence filled the room. Jasper tensed faintly beside her, but Alice’s gaze remained fixed on Carlisle’s face.

"Indirectly… James is the reason you became who you are now," Carlisle continued, brow furrowed. "Harry investigated your past."

He lowered his eyes for a moment, then gently pushed the file toward her.
"If you want to know who you were… it’s all here."

A moment of stillness.

The sentence sounded both like an offering and a warning.

Alice’s throat tightened. Her eyes followed his hand as he withdrew it from the folder, as if granting her the final decision.

She slowly reached for it. She had always wanted to know her past — her real name, her origins, everything.
Her fingertips brushed the cover, then she opened it.

The first page caught her eye: the birth certificate.

Her name… her full name...
"Mary Alice Brandon," she whispered, barely more than breath, as though it only became real when spoken aloud.
She kept turning the pages, sinking deeper into the details of her life: Biloxi, Mississippi, a middle-class family…

Alice couldn’t tell if recognition or disorientation was pulling her under. A past she had never seen now unfolded before her. She almost felt the scent of salt rising from the paper.

Page after page grew darker, more painful: a mental institution…

And then something changed.

The letters blurred. The sounds faded.
The room dissolved around her, leaving nothing but white noise...

It was as if the electroshock mentioned in the file hit her now; every nerve trembled.
Alice no longer knew what she was seeing or feeling.
Only the blinding whiteness burning from inside.

"No… I don’t want to… not again…" she whispered, but her voice was swallowed by the noise.

Panic surged through her, her uneven breaths breaking the silence.

And then Jasper was there.

Without a word, he reached for her, arms wrapping around her, pulling her close. The gesture was as instinctive as breath.

In the next moment, she felt it — Jasper’s calming influence, strength flowing through him, filling the room and then her mind.

The white noise faded. Sounds trickled back in.

The world became tangible again.

Alice’s lashes fluttered as she breathed. She rested her head on Jasper’s shoulder, letting his quiet, heartbeat-less peace seep into her.

The paper still lay before her, but she no longer dared touch it.

Jasper didn’t speak. He simply held her, refusing to let go.

Gradually, Alice calmed. Jasper’s fingers remained entwined with hers, and she squeezed them gratefully.

"Thank you, Jas… thank you," she whispered.

He smiled faintly and kissed her softly.

"Anytime, Alice."

When he released her, Alice gaze shifted across the room — to Harry, who stood silently with his back turned, studying the spines of the books.
There was something deliberately restrained in his posture — as though he was consciously giving them space, careful not to intrude.

But in Jasper’s eyes she didn’t see restraint now. She saw the silence — the moment before anger.

"You had no right," he said at last, soft but heavy. His voice was so serious Alice almost shivered. "You had no right to dig into her past like that."

Harry didn’t move.

"You should have told us," Jasper continued, looking directly at him now. "You should have said what you heard from James. Instead of… putting this in front of her like that."

Silence coiled in the room, taut and waiting.

Carlisle’s lips parted as if to intervene — but he didn’t.
Perhaps he sensed it wasn’t his place.

Harry turned slowly.
There was no defensiveness in the movement, only attention, as he looked from Jasper to Alice.

Alice spoke before the tension could snap:

"Jas… he only meant well," she said, though her voice was still unsteady, faltering at the end.

Harry frowned slightly. There was no anger in his eyes, only quiet understanding. He nodded.

"You’re right, Jasper," he said softly, without the faintest trace of self-defense. "This wasn’t the right way to do it."

He straightened, then bowed his head slightly toward Alice.

"I apologize, Alice. I had no right to interfere in something that should have been yours to discover."

After a brief silence, he added — softly, but with a weight that could not be ignored:

"It won’t happen again. I won’t involve myself in  affairs anymore."

The sentence sliced through the room like air being pulled out of it.

Alice froze; Jasper’s eyes widened in shock — this wasn’t what he meant.

"Don’t…" Alice whispered before anyone else could speak.
Her voice trembled, but it was honest. "Don’t say that."

She looked at the folder in her hands, gripping it hard.
"This… what you found… this is my past, Harry. You gave it back to me."
A thin smile tugged at her lips. "It was just… too much, all at once."

Harry’s gaze met hers from across the room. Still standing by the bookshelf, he seemed not entirely part of their circle.

Alice leaned forward slightly, as if reaching for him.

"Please… come sit with us again."

Harry hesitated, then nodded slowly and walked back, taking his seat in the armchair.

Alice barely noticed Jasper’s hand still resting over hers, steadying her emotions, quieting the storm.

"That mental institution…" she whispered suddenly, almost to herself. "They thought I was insane. They locked me away."

Her voice broke.

Carlisle sat down on her other side and spoke gently:
"You weren’t insane, Alice. They were afraid of what they couldn’t understand."

Jasper held her tighter while Harry watched them silently.
There was uncertainty in his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure whether he still belonged here...

Carlisle noticed Alice’s finger still resting on the file. Her eyes were wide, and when she spoke, her voice was almost childlike.

"Maybe I really was crazy… or maybe they made me."

Her words fell like shards of glass. Jasper immediately moved closer, holding her, but Carlisle saw the panic in her face.

Before he could speak, Harry’s voice filled the room.

"Maybe," he said.

The air froze. Jasper stiffened; even Carlisle felt something tighten in him.

Then Harry continued: "But honestly… I think everyone’s a little crazy."

His words fell slowly, carefully, as if he weighed them to avoid hurting her, yet refused to lie.

"For example, I’ve got plenty of issues. I'm a little addicted to adrenaline, … and you really don’t want to meet me during a depressive episode."

Carlisle didn’t move. Every nerve in him listened.

It was a small moment — delicate, precious.

Because Harry rarely spoke about himself. And when he did, it was always honest, stripped of any defense.

"Part of my family was filled with lunatics anyway," he added quietly. "Maybe manic depression, maybe fanaticism — though in the wizarding world, no one ever diagnoses it properly. They even accused me of inheriting the Black madness myself."

Carlisle noticed Jasper exhale, his muscles finally easing.

Harry now looked directly at Alice.

"But tell me, Alice… if you were your nineteen-year-old self again, and you had two paths before you — which would you choose?"

His voice was soft, but Carlisle felt the weight behind it.

"One path is pretending you don’t see the future.
You don’t try to help anyone the disasters would hit. Maybe guilt eats you alive. Maybe you harden. Maybe you live some kind of imitation of a life.
You could suppress your ability… maybe."

Alice whispered, uncertain:

"But then everything I saw… would mean nothing."

Harry nodded.

"Yes. But you could have peace. For a while."
He paused briefly.
"The other path is not giving up. Staying true to yourself. Maybe painfully, maybe in agony — but you make it.
You can find your way here — to this family"

"To here?" Alice whispered, as if she couldn’t believe it.

Harry smiled — for the first time, openly.

"Yes, Alice. I honestly think you’re just crazy enough to go through all of that" — he nodded toward the file — "just to end up here."

Alice let out a faint, foggy smile.

"Crazy… that’s for sure."

"Maybe," Harry agreed gently. "But tell me — could you have seen this future? Or is it fate? Does it matter?"

Alice’s eyes slowly cleared. Jasper held her tightly, resting his forehead against hers.

Then she let out a soft, chiming laugh.

"Tell me, Jas… would it bother you if your wife turned out to be a little crazy?"

Jasper smiled and brushed a hand through her hair.
"You could be completely insane… and I’d still love you."

Carlisle watched them, feeling something stir in him.

It was irrational, yes. He barely knew Harry.

And yet — everything he had seen of him, the care, the unfiltered honesty, the way he tried to heal even in the middle of pain — only drew him deeper.

If he’s insane, then he’d be Carlisle’s crazy Harry — if Harry let him, Calisle thought with a bittersweet smile.

The room gradually quieted. Alice rested against Jasper, Harry stepping back as if afraid to disrupt the fragile calm.

But Carlisle couldn’t let the moment slip away.<
"Thank you, Harry."
Harry only nodded.

The house was quiet.
Everyone was occupied in their own way. Rosalie was fixing something in the garage, Emmett’s laughter drifted through the walls as a low rumble. Edward wasn’t home — he was spending the night at Bella’s again. Alice and Jasper were talking with Esme in the living room; the information Harry had shared a few days ago still gave them plenty to discuss.

Carlisle was sitting at his desk when his phone rang.

For a moment he glanced at the clock: midnight.
Not unusual for the hospital to call at this hour — but when he looked at the display, the motion froze in his hand.

Harry.

For a heartbeat he simply stared at the name. He hadn’t even known Harry had his number. He himself had asked Rosalie for Harry’s, but never quite had the courage to use it.

He answered quickly.

“Harry?”

The reply was quiet, but sharp: “Carlisle. Are you free? I need medical help.”

He stood up from the desk at once.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

“No…”
A quiet breath on the other end, a wet sound — maybe mud, maybe leaves. “Do you know anything about horses?”

Carlisle fell silent in surprise.

“Me? No… Jasper does. He knows them well.”

“Good.”
Harry’s voice was a little hoarse — maybe tired — but steady. “Then bring him with you, please. And Alice too. She’d never forgive me if she missed this.”

Something pulled tight in Carlisle’s chest.

“Where are you now?”

“In the forest.” A short pause. “Just head east. You’ll find me anyway…”

The line went dead.

Carlisle held the phone in silence for one more moment, then rose to his feet.

“Jasper. Alice. Could you come?”

Alice was already on the stairs before her name fully left his mouth.

“Is Harry in trouble?” she asked, grabbing her coat.

“I don’t know,” Carlisle replied.

The trees grew densely along the mountainside, the darkness almost something one could bite into.
Carlisle ran silently beside Jasper and Alice, the moonlight barely filtering through the branches. All his senses reached forward — toward Harry.

The bond vibrated — Harry was somewhere ahead of them, drawing closer.

But something felt wrong. They were deep in the forest now; only the soft carpet of moss and the scent of wet earth remained.

"What is he doing out here at this hour?" flashed through Carlisle’s mind. "Why isn’t he in bed, safe and warm?"

Then he sensed it. His scent, the beat of his heart.

And not just his. Two other heartbeats — fast, fragile rhythms, thick with fear.

Before he could see them, he heard Harry’s voice.
“Come slowly! She’s already terrified.”

Then, in a completely different tone — soft, the words almost rocking back and forth:
“It’s all right… shhh… they’re here to help…”

When they finally stepped out from behind the trees, the sight stopped them in their tracks.

Harry was crouching on the ground, wearing simple sweatpants, a dark T-shirt, barefoot. His black hair fell in soft, messy waves over his forehead; his face was muddy, yet somehow peaceful.
In front of him lay a huge, snow-white unicorn. A pregnant mare. Fear shone bright and wild in her eyes.

“Oh my god…” Alice whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

Jasper moved forward slowly, speaking to the creature in a deep, calming voice. “Shhh… easy now, beautiful…” He was already using his gift to soften the fear.

But Harry lifted his head and warned him sharply:
“Don’t try to touch her!”

Jasper froze. Only then did they notice that Harry wasn’t touching the animal either. His hands hovered above the mare’s belly, suspended in the air, only a few centimetres from her skin.

Carlisle stepped closer, worry tightening his features.
“How are we supposed to help if we can’t touch her?” he asked quietly.

Harry didn’t answer. He only looked up for a moment — and Carlisle saw the exhaustion in his face, the dark circles under his eyes stark against his pale skin. In his emerald gaze there was a soft kind of pain he couldn’t understand.

“If you’ve never killed, she might allow you to touch her,” Harry said thoughtfully, his voice low. “Tell me… have you ever killed a human, Carlisle?”

Carlisle paused. His gaze dropped to Harry’s hands — suspended in the air, never touching the unicorn’s skin.

And somewhere in that silence, Hermione’s earlier words echoed back to him: “Harry had to make hard decisions in hard situations.”

Now he finally understood what that truly meant.

Something tightened inside him. Not disgust, not fear — something closer to painful compassion.

He watched Harry. Jasper was now crouched by the unicorn’s head, almost motionless, pouring calm into the trembling creature.
"And they…? They cannot touch this being? When every instinct in them fights to help…?" ran through Carlisle’s mind. "How unfair…"

“No. I haven’t,” he said at last, quietly.

Carlisle slipped out of his coat and draped it gently over Harry’s shoulders. The young man was cold — as if he’d been sitting barefoot on the ground for hours.

Harry glanced at him briefly, as though about to thank him, then stretched out a hand.

“Come.”

Carlisle didn’t hesitate. Harry took his hand and drew him closer.

“Try to let her see your hand first,” Harry murmured. “So she can pull away if she wants.”

Carlisle obeyed. His hand moved cautiously toward the animal. Fear flickered in the unicorn’s eyes — but Harry kept whispering, soft as if weaving a dream into the air.

“I know... I know.. He’s a vampire, yes... and every instinct tells you to fear him… but he has never killed. Not once. Not in hundreds of years. You won’t find a soul more innocent… and right now he’s the only one who can help your foal.”

The unicorn slowly lifted her head, snorted, then pressed her nose into Carlisle’s palm.

He stroked her snowy neck. The touch felt like brushing moonlight.

But then the physician in him rose to the surface. He straightened, turning toward the mare’s swollen belly, where faint, restless movement stirred beneath the skin.

A new life…

Harry turned to Alice. His voice was softer now.

“And you, Alice?”

Alice trembled as she answered.

“I… I haven’t either.”

Harry nodded and reached a hand toward her.

“Then come. We’ll need you too.”

The mare was beginning to struggle for breath. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her body damp with sweat and the mist of pain.

Alice replaced Jasper at the mare’s head, gently stroking her forehead, whispering soothingly. Jasper knelt beside Carlisle, who was carefully palpating the mare’s belly.

“Breech,” Carlisle murmured, brow furrowing.

“We should try turning it,” Jasper suggested, though uncertainty tinged his voice.

Carlisle leaned forward to check.

“That won’t work,” he muttered. “It’s already in the birth canal.”

Jasper shook his head, whispering: “The cord will tear…”

Harry spoke then, his voice deep and slightly hoarse: “It already tore. When I called you.”
He turned his head toward them, cold sweat shimmering on his forehead.

“I’m keeping the foal alive,” he said quietly. “Just… get it out, please.”

Only now did Carlisle notice how rigidly Harry held himself — almost shaking. Magic vibrated around him like heat in the air.

“I’m suppressing the contractions,” Harry said again, teeth clenched. “But if you can manage it, then… I’ll let them come. To hold the foal... it's enough hard to me now...”

His voice faded, ending in a long, exhausted sigh.

“Let the contractions come,” Carlisle said, moving to the mare’s hind legs. “We’ll need them now.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the magic humming around him fell quiet — and the mare’s body convulsed. She let out a sharp, trembling breath as the contractions returned.

Alice stayed by her head, stroking and whispering:

“You’re doing so well… just a little more, sweetheart… just a little more…”

Jasper watched, tense, every line of his body aching to help, but still not touching the mare. His gaze flickered to Carlisle.

“You'll have to pull,” he said grimly. “But at the head… you’ll need to help more.”

Carlisle nodded. He could already feel the small hooves beneath his hands.

The mare’s whole body trembled. The contractions grew closer, stronger. Carlisle guided the foal with utmost care — and noticed Harry following every movement on the other side, his hand suspended in the air, as if invisible threads bound him to the foal’s tiny form.

“Don’t be disturb…” Harry said quietly. “The silver… that’s her blood.”

Carlisle nodded, not looking away, just working. Jasper murmured at the mare’s neck, his deep voice a steady path through the pain.

“One more, beautiful… just one more… you’re doing perfectly…”

Then something shifted beneath Carlisle’s hands. A small body slid free into the world, wet and trembling.

“We have it,” Carlisle breathed.

The foal didn’t move. Harry’s hand still hovered in the air, fingers trembling.

“You help it with oxygen too?” he asked, though he already guessed.

Harry only nodded, lips pressed tight, eyes locked on the foal. His arms shook as though the weight of the magic was splintering him apart.

“Let it go, Harry,” Carlisle said softly but firmly. “It’s born now… it has to live on its own.”

For a long moment, only the wind moved through the trees.

Then Harry drew a deep breath — and nodded. Slowly, he lowered his hands.

The silence that followed hit them like a shockwave. The tension in the air snapped all at once.

The mare moved immediately. Her nose slid along foal's tiny side, as if checking whether it was truly there, truly breathing.

“Careful!” Carlisle warned instinctively — the mare’s movement was almost too sudden.
He caught Harry by the shoulders, pulling him back, out of the animal’s path.

Harry stumbled — and fell against Carlisle’s chest. The older man’s hand stayed on his shoulder. He felt the trembling, the exhaustion, the cold running through him now that the magic had faded.

The mare let out a low, rumbling snort and lay beside her foal.
The foal lifted its head — and as though touched by light itself, a soft, pearlescent shimmer rippled beneath its skin.

Alice was kneeling in the fallen leaves a few metres from the animals. She watched them almost without breathing. Her voice was barely more than a whisper:

“But… the foal is golden…”

Carlisle and Jasper looked over at the same time.
The newborn moved, and when the light slid over it, indeed — its coat shone like gold.

Harry, still leaning against Carlisle’s arm, smiled faintly.

“Yes… it will turn silvery later,” he whispered, his eyes half-closed. “For now… it’s like this…”

Then, with a small, tired smile, he turned toward Alice.

“Are you satisfied? I found you a unicorn.”

Alice laughed immediately, the sound bursting out of her — and in the next second she threw herself at him and wrapped him in a hug.

“This… this is unbelievable, Harry!” she laughed, glowing with joy. “A real unicorn! And you… you saved it!”

With that sudden movement she literally pinned Harry between two vampires — stuck between Carlisle and Alice, he only blinked up at them with large, exhausted eyes, clearly overwhelmed by the entire situation.

Jasper, smiling softly, reached out and gently drew Alice back.

“Let him breathe, sweetheart,” he murmured, and Alice — still laughing — obediently stepped aside.

Harry then lifted a hand uncertainly, blinking tiredly as he asked in a small voice:
“Alice? Are… are we all right? Are you still angry with me?”

Alice froze. She stared at the man who had always seemed confident and unshakable — and now he was leaning against Carlisle’s chest, tired and unsure, asking her if she had forgiven him something.

She did not understand how it was possible that Harry, who had always seemed so certain, now appeared so fragile. Harry had no idea why she had kept her distance from him; he only felt the tension between them. And he wanted to fix it, to make amends with Alice, even though he had no way of knowing what wrong he had committed against her.

Something stirred in Alice’s chest.
Harry, who had spent his night finding her a unicorn, he was someone who needed protecting.

She stepped closer, gently squeezing his hand.

She cleared her throat, as if the words were forming more heavily than they should.

“I wasn’t angry…” she began hesitantly, fighting against the invisible restraint. “I was scared, Harry… something happened in my vision, but… I don’t understand it. And I can’t talk about it. It won’t let me.”

The expression hung in the silence: it won’t let me.

A slight crease appeared on Carlisle’s forehead as he bent over Harry in worry.
He didn’t say anything—he simply drew the man closer, as if his chest could offer him some kind of safety.

Harry’s gaze was tired, yet something flickered behind it—a sliver of recognition, a trace of understanding born from old experience. He nodded slowly.

“What you’re saying…” he spoke softly, “sounds like something that is… well, for lack of a better word: set in stone. A future that doesn’t want us to touch it. That’s a bit concerning.”

Alice flinched. Carlisle’s arms curved fully around her now—not just steadying her, but holding her, shielding her. His face remained serious, his dark eyes flicking between Harry and Alice with sharp focus.

“What do you mean, ‘set in stone’?” he asked quietly, but with unyielding precision. “And Alice… how concerning was this future?”

Harry gently touched Carlisle’s arm, as if to soothe the tension gathering in the air.

“Let’s not talk about this now, not here…” he asked. He looked up at Carlisle with a faint, weary smile. “Hey, you just helped bring a unicorn into the world. Can we enjoy this moment? We’ll deal with the rest later.”

Carlisle’s expression softened by a shade—still concerned, but Harry’s voice managed to ground him somewhat.
He knew something dangerous lurked in the folds of the future, something none of them yet understood, but for now, at Harry’s request, he let the thought go.

The moment mattered more.

Harry finally exhaled, his voice still soft, slightly hoarse.

"Can I get a ride home?" he muttered quietly. "The evening… ran a bit long."
He stifled a yawn, his shoulders sagging under their own weight.

Carlisle let out a faint laugh. Gentle, silent, more vibrating in his chest than escaping into the air.
He wasn’t even looking at the mare or the foal anymore — his thoughts were only on Harry, lying in his arms.
If that made him a veterinarian for the moment, so be it.

He carefully turned Harry toward himself, the man barely keeping his eyes open.

"Would you let me carry you now?" he asked softly. "The car’s a fair distance."

Harry just muttered something, then with a slight motion turned under Carlisle’s arm, already swinging up onto his back.
Carlisle’s instincts saved him from a fall — he caught Harry’s thighs just in time, steadying him.

For a moment he froze, startled — Harry had already wrapped his arms around his neck and rested his head on his shoulder, as if it had always belonged there. His breathing was slow, heavy.

Alice and Jasper watched them from between the trees, a few steps back. Alice’s gaze still lingered on the foal, while Jasper’s lips curved in a barely perceptible smile.

Harry mumbled something at Carlisle’s shoulder, half-understandable:

"Giddy-up… gonna fall asleep right here…"

Carlisle’s chest filled with a strange, warm pressure he couldn’t name.
He just started walking, the man on his back, heading toward the forest’s edge under the moonlight.
Behind them, the golden foal rested against its mother’s side.

As they moved through the trees, every sound softened, leaving only the slow, steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing.
The warmth of the man on his back pressed against him, his breath brushing Carlisle’s neck, and he had to restrain himself from closing his eyes under the weight of the moment.

The bond between them stirred gently — not intrusively, just… present.
As if Harry’s entire being was wrapped around him like a warm blanket.

Carlisle simply moved forward, one arm holding the man, the other holding onto his own quiet madness.
The knowledge that they had just helped bring a unicorn into the world — and that Harry, this mysterious, stubborn, yet beautiful creature, now rested on his back — felt like an improbable, dreamlike mixture of wonder and madness.

Sweet madness.

Chapter Text

It must have been around two o’clock when a knock disturbed the silence.
Hermione didn’t even lift her head from the book; there was hardly any question who could be standing on the other side of the door. She only loosened the protective charm for the Cullens—and only halfway.

As she walked toward the entrance, the thought flickered through her mind: what's up with Harry?
He was home, that much she knew, but she hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning, and he hadn’t left behind a single cup—which was already suspicious, coming from him.

She opened the door. Carlisle, Alice, and Jasper stood there—polite, slightly tense.

“We don’t mean to intrude,” Carlisle began quietly. “We’re looking for Harry.”

Hermione stepped aside to let them in.

“Did he happen to mention… Alice’s vision? The one that was… hm… not exactly favorable?” Carlisle asked.

“No, he didn’t,” she replied. “But sometimes it’s refreshing to hear news before the house is actually on fire.”
She nodded toward Harry’s bedroom door.
“I think he’s asleep, not wandering around the forest. A stray cat is easier to track than he is.”

Alice’s lips twitched into a smile.

“He might not wander as much anymore… he was looking for a unicorn.
Imagine—we helped bring a unicorn into the world,” Alice whispered. “Harry saved the foal…”

Hermione smiled, as if she’d just heard a familiar, long-known bit of mischief.

“Oh, I see. Tell me all about it while we wait for him. But if you think Harry only goes into the forest because of unicorns, you’re mistaken. Sometimes he’s after plants… sometimes wolves…”

She paused for a moment, thinking. Harry could be quite reckless, so a warning couldn’t hurt.

“Speaking of which—if you were to hunt down a white wolf, he’d be very upset.”

Alice and Jasper froze at the same time—one could almost hear their thoughts tripping over the sudden contradiction.

Hermione returned to the kitchen, signaling them to follow.

“He’s been sleeping since yesterday,” she said, putting water on for tea.

She hummed thoughtfully as she continued,
“But hearing about the unicorn now… it makes sense he hasn’t woken yet. Keeping alive a soul that should already be passing on… isn’t easy. Whenever someone works against fate, it takes a toll. Sometimes it doesn’t work at all.”

Then her tone softened.

“Harry is fine. Just exhausted. He’ll be his sparkling self again soon.”

Carlisle nodded.
“Then we shouldn’t disturb him further, if he’s still asleep…”

“You aren’t disturbing anything,” Hermione waved off. “I’d like to get to know you all better anyway—I’m going home next month. Harry will be the one staying.”

She went to fetch a few things, then stopped short at the fridge.

“No eggs… no pancakes then.”

Alice cleared her throat delicately and handed her a shopping bag.

Forest berries. And an entire dozen eggs.

Hermione laughed.

“That was impressively foresighted.”

“As long as Harry isn’t involved, I can see the future clearly,” Alice winked. “And Carlisle can make pancakes.”

Hermione smiled at Carlisle.

“Then I’ll hand the kitchen over to you.”

Carlisle raised a slightly uncertain eyebrow.

“I can make pancakes… I’m just afraid I might turn your kitchen upside down.”

“This is Harry’s kitchen,” Hermione laughed, pressing the ingredients into his hands. “If something smells good, he’ll come out. He’d come out for smoke too, but let’s avoid that, shall we?”

Alice burst out laughing, and some of the tension eased from Jasper’s expression.

Carlisle got to work seriously on the batter.

“It won’t be a disaster,” Hermione thought. “Probably.”

She sat down beside Alice and Jasper.

“I’ll keep the… hm… children occupied in the meantime,” she added playfully.

The smell of pancakes slowly filled the house.

Hermione inhaled appreciatively.
“Mmm. Promising.”

Not five minutes passed.

The bedroom door creaked open a crack.

Harry emerged—rumpled, barefoot, half asleep—and stopped in the doorway, blinking toward the kitchen.

Where Carlisle, with complete naturalness, flipped a pancake with easy confidence.

Harry’s eyes went wide.

Harry woke to a smell.
A warm, sweet scent drifted softly into the room, as if someone were deliberately trying to pull him out of his nest.

He grumbled into the pillow and rolled over, hoping the smell would fade on its own.
It didn’t. It only grew stronger. And his stomach—ever the shameless traitor— growled loudly in response.

He had no idea how long he’d slept.

Lately, none of his nights had been peaceful… more precisely: only the ones when Carlisle didn’t have a night shift. When the man was farther away.
Ever since they had “recognized” each other again, the newly-rekindled soulbond had become a constant, subtle pull. Not painful—just distracting.

Slowly he pushed himself upright, rubbed his face, and for a moment still considered lying back down.
Then the smell of pancakes hit him again.

When Harry stepped out of the bedroom, he squinted against the light. Blinked. Then blinked again, as if his brain were struggling to process the sight—Carlisle in the kitchen, spatula in hand, flipping a pancake mid-air.
The image was both surreal and strangely peaceful. "Making pancakes? That’s new…"

Then he spoke, voice quiet and a little hoarse.
“What are you doing here so… early?”

“It’s two in the afternoon, Harry,” Hermione remarked from the sofa, in a tone that didn’t welcome argument.
“That’s well into the ‘not early’ category.”

Alice lifted a hand to her mouth to hide a giggle.

Carlisle kept his eyes on the pancake—and on Harry, alternating— as if trying to assess how he felt, whether he was comfortable with all this.

“We didn’t want to disturb you,” he said at last, softly. “We only wanted to talk. Hermione said you’d been sleeping deeply since yesterday.”

Harry stepped farther into the room. The smell of tea leaves, warm batter, and berries wrapped around him; his stomach gave a quiet, waking growl—at least part of him was conscious.
He stopped beside Carlisle and stared at the pancake cooking in the pan, as though it were some strange, calming spell.

“I want cinnamon in it,” he muttered. He reached for the shelf, grabbed the spice, and pressed it into Carlisle’s hand.

Carlisle nodded. “If you’re tired, we can talk later. There’s no rush.”

Harry shook his head—slowly, as though his muscles were only now deciding to cooperate.

“Now’s fine… I just… need a few minutes before… my brain works. I’ll grab a shower.”

He gave a crooked little smile, as if he were finally waking up.
“If I smell burning, I’m going back to bed.”

Hermione was in the middle of a conversation with Jasper about the intersections of wizarding and Muggle history when Harry returned from the shower.

His damp hair had already soaked through his shirt, and he dropped onto the stool by the counter as if having “breakfast” after two in the afternoon were the most natural thing in the world.

Carlisle set the pancakes in front of him.
Harry started eating immediately—at a frankly alarming pace.

A smile tugged at the corner of Hermione’s mouth.
"Maybe they were like this back then too…" she thought. In the past when she only overheard scraps, half-finished sentences—yet she always felt there was a natural, effortless rhythm between the two men.

And now, for the first time in a long while, that rhythm seemed to be finding its place again.

Their bickering drifted quietly into the living room, but just enough to draw Hermione’s full attention.

“Where’s your vampire speed?” Harry teased, mouth half full. “It’s disappearing faster than you’re making it.”

Carlisle shot him a sideways look, gentle humor in his eyes.
“I may be fast, but the batter doesn’t cook any quicker for me.”

A moment later he added,
“Judging by your pace, though, you might be some sort of pancake-devouring monster.”

Harry’s hoarse laugh echoed through the kitchen.

Hermione’s chest tightened for a moment—a warm, nostalgic ache.
"If only they would stay like this. This is how I’ll remember them when I leave…"

Jasper softly cleared his throat beside the couch.
“May I ask… why you’re sad?”

Hermione slowly turned away from the kitchen and met Jasper’s cautious, respectful gaze.

“I don’t even know if I’m sad,” she said quietly. “Maybe… I’m just hoping.”

A small pause.
“That Harry will be alright. That they will be alright.”

That was when she noticed the faint, barely-there tension in Alice’s shoulders.
The girl sat unusually still, as if holding something back.
As if the air around her were a shade thicker.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

“What exactly happened?” she asked softly. “What’s wrong with your vision?”

Alice flinched; Jasper immediately leaned closer, instinctively, protectively.

“I… I can’t even talk about it yet…”

Hermione felt her stomach coil slowly, unpleasantly.

Before she could ask more, footsteps sounded from the direction of the kitchen.

“What did we miss?” Harry asked quietly.

Harry glanced around the living room.
The couch was already occupied, so he conjured two armchairs — one for himself, one for the blond vampire.

He noticed the stunned looks the Cullens exchanged, but a far heavier conversation awaited them than deal with a trivial summoning.

The future… had never been among his favourite topics.
He had always preferred to run in one direction when it came to that subject.
To Death.
Though he had managed to avoid it for the past fifty years.

After the last time — if he never met it again — he would have considered it far too soon.
He only hoped this wasn’t one of those times.

These days he lived almost seriously. Almost risk-free.
Except for the James situation.
And the potion poisoning…
Alright, not even close to risk-free.

But lately, he mostly researched, taught, and occasionally wandered the forest at night looking for unicorns and shapeshifting wolves.

He shook his head as he sat, setting his tea on the table.
Hermione caught the motion.

“What are you shaking your head at?” she asked with a half-smile.
“Let me guess — you were thinking you haven’t done anything lately that could make the future ominous.”

Harry answered with an innocent grin.
“Compared to before… nothing lately.”

Carlisle and Alice watched him quietly as Harry sipped his tea.

“We tried to talk to Alice about her vision,” Carlisle said at last, slowly.
“But something seems to be blocking her. Something stops her from speaking about it at all.”

Harry nodded. He understood.
Alice simply couldn’t say what she had seen.

Carlisle’s gaze, warm gold and full of concern, was waiting — almost pleading — for Harry to offer some explanation at last.
That look, as if he feared Harry might collapse dead any second… Harry didn’t blame him.

For someone whose future had always been crystal clear, free of question marks… this must be terrifying.
He could empathize.
But he wasn’t going to panic over a hazy vision.

“What did you mean when you said it might be a ‘set-in-stone future’?” Carlisle asked, intent and steady.

Harry smiled.
It wasn’t an easy answer.

“If something is carved in stone,” he began slowly, “then we simply can’t interfere with it. Trying to would be like fighting against fate itself. In other words, worrying about it is pointless.”
He tried to close the topic there.

Carlisle moved at once, as if to protest; Alice tried again to speak.
Her lips parted—then closed—like an invisible force clamped them shut.
The restriction vibrated around her; she strained against it, but nothing came.

“That’s enough, Alice.”
Harry’s voice was different now — deeper, firmer.
More serious than moments before.

“Don’t force it. What’s coming cannot be changed.”

Silence fell between them.
Cold. Cutting. Dense.

Alice’s eyes widened.
The tone.
The rhythm.
The sadness beneath it.

The same.
The same as in the vision…
Only now it came from Harry’s own gentle, familiar eyes, not from that dark silhouette wearing his face.

A chill of pure fear shot through her; it froze her limbs.
Jasper’s arms wrapped around her immediately, protective, instinctive, sensing the panic rising in a sudden wave.

“Harry…” Alice breathed. “This…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence.
She couldn’t speak it aloud.
The restriction smothered the words even harder now.

Harry looked at her slowly, almost with pity.

Hermione drew in a sharp breath, almost offended.

“Harry…” she began, her voice already carrying a note of reprimand.
“You’re taking this far too lightly.”

Harry lowered his head, staring at the rim of his mug.

“That’s not it,” he replied quietly. “I just… don’t want to panic over something we have no control over.”

Hermione pressed her lips together — that all-too-familiar disapproving expression Harry knew far too well.

Carlisle spoke then, almost under his breath.

“There truly is no way… to learn at least how alarming the future might be?”
His voice trembled ever so faintly.
As if he were worrying in Harry’s place.

Hermione’s gaze drifted, thinking.

“There are several ways to predict the future,” she said at last.
“But all of them are far vaguer than a proper vision.
Perhaps… tarot could work.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and he even laughed.

“Tarot?! Seriously? I never thought I’d hear you say that! If I recall correctly, you’ve declared more than once that Divination is the most useless branch of magic ever invented.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, and the look she gave him was enough to make Harry swallow the rest of his grin — though far too late.

“But I do respect true Seers,” she said firmly.
She gently patted Alice’s hand.
“You can’t teach Divination if you don’t have the gift. Alice might be able to get an answer with a tarot draw.”

Harry looked at Alice with doubt tightening in his stomach.
She stood so close to death, hovered so close to it, that he was certain: if she drew tarot, it would show up.
And he wasn’t ready — not yet — to talk about that.

But Alice looked up, and in an instant her eyes brightened.

“I… I’d love to try,” she said, hope trembling in her voice.
“This uncertainty is becoming… unbearable.”

Harry instinctively leaned back in his armchair.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he muttered. “Tarot… sometimes just makes things worse…”

Hermione’s gaze sharpened suddenly, and Harry saw the realization there: she’d seen through him.

“Harry…” Hermione began more cautiously, “you don’t have to, if you’re not comfortable with it…”

But it was too late.

Alice leaned forward, as if a single breath could pull Harry back into the center of the topic.

“It could help,” she said, almost pleading.
“We’d finally have something… anything to hold onto.”

Carlisle joined her, his voice soft with worry.

“It would give us peace of mind as well. Even just to know what to expect.”

Harry sighed.
He saw their faces — the tension he didn’t want to worsen.
Hermione’s quiet concern.
Jasper’s careful watchfulness.
Alice’s trembling hope.
Carlisle’s quiet fear.

There was no escaping this.

“Alright,” he said at last, with a resigned growl.
“But… believe it or not, I don’t keep all that junk on me. Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring what we need.”

Harry stood and retreated to his room, planning to speak with Thinky, the Grimmauld Place house-elf.
He would find the necessary items from Harry’s school trunk in no time at all.

Barely ten minutes had passed, and everything they needed was already laid out on the table before them. Alice and Hermione were bent over the book side by side, arguing in hushed tones about different spreads as though the fate of the entire world depended on whether they used the Celtic Cross or some obscure alternative layout.

Harry only shook his head at the sight and started back toward the kitchen with his cup. More tea. His second within the hour.
But the thought circling in his mind kept repeating the same refrain:

"This is going to be a disaster…"

The footsteps behind him were quiet, careful — exactly the way Carlisle always moved whenever he was trying a little too hard not to disturb him.

“Does it worry you?” the man asked softly.

Harry exhaled heavily. He didn’t turn immediately; he let the bitter scent of the tea fill his chest first.

“You rely too much on knowing the future,” he muttered at last. “And tarot is… vague. Building anything on symbols that can mean ten different things at once… it’s not ideal.”

He turned with the cup in hand.
Carlisle’s golden eyes were tracking every small movement with tense attention — and in Harry, the familiar, warm, tingling pull flickered to life, unbidden, the way it always did when their eyes met.

So he smiled. Briefly, a little tiredly — but honestly.

“All right, let’s get it over with,” he said. “If this makes you feel calmer, fine… but I take no responsibility for anything.”

His heart whispered that he truly shouldn’t be doing this.

But turning back and refusing that waiting face… would have been even harder.

Carlisle watched in silence while Alice and Hermione finally settled on the seven-card spread. Harry responded only with a dry, exhausted snort. He probably would’ve snorted at anything even remotely related to cards, futures, or “intuition.”

Still — Harry didn’t like any of this… but he was doing it for them. To calm them.
The realization struck him unexpectedly deep.

Alice began shuffling the deck slowly, Hermione giving soft instructions beside her.

“Just focus on Harry… and ask a simple question,” Hermione murmured.

The cards slid softly beneath Alice’s fingers; Hermione leaned forward over the thick tarot book. Harry sat in the armchair, elbow on the armrest, looking very much like someone waiting for an appointment — resigned, with a bitter aftertaste.

Alice placed the first card.

“Past. The Tower,” she whispered.

Hermione flipped pages, quoting quietly:

“‘Loss… life-changing tragedy…’”

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Fine, no arguments so far, but can we focus on the future?” he muttered.

Alice set down the next card.

“Present, near future. The Lovers.”

Her eyes flicked instinctively to Carlisle, and the man’s chest tightened with a warm pull — the soul-bond almost singing inside him. Especially with Harry sitting so close; if he focused, Carlisle could probably feel not only the fresh, bright scent he carried but also the warmth of him.

Harry snorted.

“Heart’s path, huh? Tarot really isn’t subtle,” he grumbled. Then he snapped his head toward Carlisle, as if he’d sensed the unabashed staring — a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes.

“Don’t get cocky. Decent pancakes or not, you can still crash our date…”

Carlisle let out a soft laugh. Alice’s head shot up.

“Date?! I didn’t know there was a plan—”

“Focus, Alice. If you predict we’ll crash in Carlisle’s car, there won’t be any date…” Harry muttered.

Carlisle smiled. Harry’s cynicism could always cut through tension — or at least distract from it, which sometimes amounted to the same thing.

Alice turned back to the cards and laid down the third.

“Obstacle. Nine of Swords.”

Carlisle felt the air shift; Harry was looking at the card differently too — something serious slipping through the playful surface.

“Put it back,” Harry said quietly. “And shuffle again.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed sharply, almost accusingly.

“Harry…”

“Just do it,” Harry sighed — not hostile. More like someone afraid the world would speak something aloud before he was ready to hear it.

Alice put the card back, picked up the deck, shuffled with quick, practiced motions — and drew another.

She placed it down.

The same card.

Harry hummed, an cautious, bittersweet smile tugging at his mouth.

“Okay… yeah, you’re a real seer,” he said to Alice.
A shadow crossed his face.

“Obstacle. Nine of Swords,” Alice whispered.

Harry nodded slowly, then added:

“You probably can’t see this clearly, Alice… This card is heavy. A situation with no easy escape. Sacrifice, fear, suffering… the whole thing’s bad news.”

Carlisle disliked every implication the card carried, but he didn’t dare interrupt.

Harry leaned back with theatrical lightness.

“All right, let’s breeze through the end,” he said with that half-smile that always sent a ripple through Carlisle. “Alice, lay out the rest. Face down. I’ll flip them.”

Alice glanced up for a moment, as though feeling the future crack under her feet, then obediently placed the next cards. Four… five… six…

Her hand froze at the seventh.
The movement tightened.

“I feel…” she whispered. “There is no seventh. As if nothing is there at all.”

Something cold uncoiled in Carlisle’s chest. The absence of a future… was more dangerous than any bad card.

Harry only shrugged with deliberately easy grace.

“If it’s not there, it’s not there.”
His gaze flicked to Hermione, who looked like she wanted to object.
“This is all the future’s giving us.”

He flipped the fourth card.

“King of Cups.”

Support. Care. Healing. Carlisle felt Hermione and Alice both inhale sharply at the same time.

The next card slid onto the table.

“Ace of Swords.”

Clear, cutting truth. Or pain. Something that would have to slice through a barrier before the world could become clear again.

Harry reached for the next card a fraction more slowly.

The Star gleamed on its surface when he turned it over: hope, healing, long-term recovery… but fragile, delicate.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Hermione was the first, her tone more official than at any point earlier.

“With the Nine of Swords… there will be a collapse.”

Carlisle’s throat tightened, as if something inside him had cracked ahead of time.

Alice continued:

“The King of Cups brings help. Someone capable of giving stability.”

Her gaze flicked toward Carlisle for the length of a single breath.

“The Ace of Swords clears the path… but not without a wound.”

Hermione pointed at the Star.

“This… is healing. A long process. But the right direction.”

Carlisle couldn’t tear his eyes from Harry.
The boy was smiling as if he genuinely wanted to convince them that everything would be fine.
That the future was dark, yes, but not hopeless.
That there was a way out.
That help would come; that there would be sacrifice, a fight — but also a solution.

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Harry said at last, drumming his fingers on the table.
“The Nine of Swords sucks, but… lucky me, I know a top doctor.”

Carlisle forgot how to breathe.

The tension in the room slowly loosened. Hermione leaned back; Alice gathered the cards, both looking somewhat calmer.

Harry, however, yawned. The movement discreet but just a touch theatrical.

“Well…” he rubbed his eyes. “Thanks for the company. But now… really, go. I’m definitely going back to my bed.”

His tone remained polite, but unmistakable: he was gently ushering them out.

Carlisle lingered for one extra moment as the others headed for the door.
The feeling clawing at his chest wouldn’t loosen: Harry was not as calm as he wanted them to believe.

But the King of Cups — the helper — had been there.

And Carlisle knew exactly whose card that was.

Hermione escorted the Cullens politely to the porch with a gentle smile. Carlisle’s gaze lingered on Harry for a brief moment, the faint worry still present in his eyes, though calmer now. The future looked ominous for Harry, but not fatal… for the moment, that was enough for them.

When the door clicked shut behind them, Hermione exhaled and turned back toward the living room.

“You know… I would have liked to talk with them a bit more,” she said as she stepped inside. “It was nice to see how much… they’re trying.”

Harry was still sitting in the armchair, in exactly the same position he had been left in. From hip to shoulder, he was rigid as if carved from stone. He only responded with a dull grunt, a half-voiced discontent Hermione knew all too well.

“Oh, Harry…” she sighed, stepping closer. “It wasn’t that bad. Though… it is interesting there’s no seventh card.”

Harry looked up at her, and Hermione only now noticed the gleam in his eyes — something tired, something irritated, something… dangerously revealing of himself.

“Of course there isn’t,” he said. His voice was flat, cold, matter-of-fact. “You can’t play the same card twice in a tarot spread.”

Hermione frowned.

“What do you mean by that?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He reached slowly for the sixth card, and as he moved, Hermione noticed the blood.

Harry’s fingers were red.

“Harry… what happened?” she asked sharply, already reaching for his hand.

“That stupid writing opened up,” Harry growled, pulling his hand back. “Cheating in tarot is such a lie that my hegem opened up because of it. You know… I must not tell lies…”

Hermione went pale, because the card Harry now held — the sixth card — was no longer The Star.

Death, black and white, stared back at them.

“You… transformed it when you flipped it,” her voice sharpened, accusatory, more than she had intended.

“Of course I did!” Harry snapped, and for the first time, he made no effort to hide his tension. “There is no seventh card. And the sixth is Death. They would have freaked out! And in my case… it was expected. It means nothing! If anything, I preempted it with the Star for healing…”

A heavy silence fell over them. Hermione slowly pointed to the Ace of Swords, still lying on the table, sharp, merciless.

“Maybe it’s time you started being honest with them, Harry,” she said quietly.

Harry didn’t look at her. He just wiped the blood from the edge of his fingers, the shadow crossing his face whispering that he was still very far from doing that.

The next week passed for Carlisle in a kind of excited anticipation. He was already counting down the days until their date.

Harry continued teaching the boys Occlumency twice a week, testing their fledgling shields. Progress was slow, but Harry said he had expected that… he was patient, Edward less so, but Carlisle couldn’t worry about that now.

The way to the observatory would have been quiet, but Harry never let the silence settle between them. He effortlessly took the lead in conversation, as if instinctively knowing he needed to hold Carlisle’s attention. He began talking about the planets.

“In the magical world, the positions of the heavens hold particular significance,” he explained. “Some believe that the movement of certain planets affects the success of spells.”

Carlisle listened with interest. “But how much influence can a bad planetary alignment have from so far away?”

A playful smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “There are spells that can only be spoken under certain constellations. And others… well, to put it mildly, they’d blow the house up if attempted at the wrong time.”

Carlisle laughed—not at the story itself, but at the ease with which Harry could speak of the most bizarre facts as if they were perfectly ordinary.

Under the dome, cold, clear air and quiet conversation greeted them. Harry headed for the telescopes, and Carlisle watched him from the corner of his eye—his movements as he leaned forward, his gaze scanning the sky.

Carlisle smiled but felt a slight annoyance as his attention split between Harry’s enthusiastic voice and the beautiful night sky revealed through the telescope. As if knowing exactly this, Harry glanced at him with those sparkling green eyes and teased:

“Don’t be silly… you can stare at me anytime. But for now, you can see all seven planets at once.”

He gently took Carlisle’s hand and led him to the next telescope, aimed at Neptune. Carlisle tried to focus on the image, but Harry’s closeness, the warmth of his fingers wrapped around his… perhaps even Neptune blurred for a moment.

Suddenly, Harry turned to him with a mischievous smile.

“How about a little game? I saw a moon today,” he whispered, “one that has a huge effect on magic… if you can guess which one it is, I’ll let you kiss me.”

“Just like that?” Carlisle raised an eyebrow.

Harry nodded, then after a moment’s thought, lifted his face to the sky. “I saw it too today, and my eyesight isn’t that good as yours. I think you’ll find it.”

Carlisle stepped to the nearest telescope while Harry quietly laughed and went out onto the terrace. The man lay on the warmer stone, tracing the lines of the Canis Major constellation with one hand. By the time Carlisle joined him, a satisfied smile had settled on his face, but he didn’t speak—he sat down silently beside Harry.

Harry pointed to the sky. “That one’s my constellation,” he said, pointing to Orion. “Middle name after my godfather.”

“Orion…” Carlisle repeated the name with a smile. “It suits you.”

“Don’t wear it out; I never use it.”

“Your godfather raised you?” Carlisle asked cautiously.

Harry’s face darkened slightly. “He should have. But Sirius was too reckless to stay out of trouble. I only met him at thirteen. Until then, my aunt raised me…”

Carlisle smiled, but it was clear Harry wouldn’t continue the conversation. A moment of silence hung between them, as if the air had thickened under the weight of the past. Carlisle took a deep breath, then looked back up at the sky.

“Would you help me draw it?” he asked, imploring.

Harry gave him a reproachful look—he was sure Carlisle knew every star in Orion—but he finally sat cross-legged in front of him and, holding his hand, traced an invisible line connecting the stars.

“There are the three stars in a row—the Belt,” he said, pointing with his finger horizontally: “Alnitak, Alnilam, Mintaka… there’s Betelgeuse, Bellatrix…” He felt Carlisle slowly inch closer. “Down there, Rigel and Saiph…”

Leaning over Carlisle’s shoulder, he followed the movements, then slowly tilted his face toward him. “Titan,” he said triumphantly, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. The kiss was soft, exploratory, and deepened only gradually.

Just as their lips parted, Harry whispered, playful and hushed, “You’re not even close…”

Carlisle watched Harry from up close; if he had leaned even a centimeter closer, their lips would have met again. He felt the warmth of Harry’s faint blush. Harry didn’t resist his kiss, though he was far from the right answer.

He felt how his lips curve into a hungry smile.

“Jupiter’s Io?” he asked, already leaning in for the next kiss. Harry’s lips played teasingly with his.

“Hm… no.” Harry pulled back for a moment.

“Deimos?” Without waiting for an answer, Carlisle captured the slowly reddening lips, though they finally pulled away.

“You’re not even trying, are you?” Harry asked softly, feigning reproach; the playful sparkle in his eyes betrayed that he didn’t mind.

“I am, very much,” Carlisle said hoarsely.

Harry just shook his head, amused. “Deimos is Mars’ moon, isn’t it? Not even visible, I think” He stood up, offering his hand to help Carlisle up in a kind gesture.

Carlisle forced a shy smile.
“Are you sure? I thought I saw it. It was round… like a moon…”
Harry just laughed.

“Which one did you mean?” Carlisle asked, still holding Harry’s hand as the other visitors moved on.

Harry gestured toward the sky with his free hand, in the direction of the thin crescent moon, his laughter still lingering in the air. “I never said I saw it through a telescope…”

Carlisle hadn’t felt such pure, effortless joy in a long time—not like when he laughed with Harry.