Chapter Text
He was surprised when he found himself in the middle of… certainly somewhere. A walking distance from a small, unknown town named Forks. A peculiar, slightly ridiculous name for a town. No matter, he stepped into it under heavy clouds, rain misting through the trees, the scent of earth thick in the air.
Unseen, he wandered, surprised at the banality of everything around him, the town staying true to its name. He marveled, however, on the most curious, yet most unsettling thing. Magic here, for lack of better words, was different.
Even then, when he was that little speck of a boy locked away in a cupboard under the stairs, when he couldn’t yet name it for what it was, he could feel it, through the dormant protective wards around the house, the strange energy, something, magic, that seemed to be within him and everywhere around him, tightly woven to reality. Present.
Now, it was much more dormant, as if obscured by clouds, which would have been disappointing in and of itself if not for this constant pull that had guided him here in the first place.
This tug was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was unlike the compulsion of dark artifacts or even that of the Imperious. It was much more personal, reaching deeper than anything, a constant longing for something he was none the wiser of, and it had him both intrigued and cautious. It was insistent, but not intrusive, yet it was not a suggestion. It was –almost– gentle, but oh so demanding in its nature.
It was so contradictory at times.
He couldn’t fathom what could cause him to feel this, and feel it now. Why not sooner, why not later? Had he, unwittingly, done something to cause this or was it Fate playing him, again?
Simple things just don’t happen to Harry Potter.
Good things are even rarer to come about.
Trouble, however, he was very well acquainted with, and this screamed nothing but.
The pull guided him with certainty, yet its source remained elusive. There was something 'other’ about it, and Harry was almost excited. God knows he needed something to shake his routine up. Eternity can, for all uses and purposes, render one listless to the point of death. Pun intended.
As the rain quietened down to a stop, he passed past quiet pubs, small shops and diners, the air heavy and humid, sticking unpleasantly against his skin until the sensation was expelled by a wave of magic. The people, despite the dreadful weather, seemed lively enough, going about their business, sending greetings, some more for politeness' sake than others, to one another in a manner that showcased what was already implied in a town as small as this; that everyone knew, well, everyone.
An animal clinic caught his eye.
There was really nothing special about it. It had plain white walls, a worn –was that blue? Green? …pink?– sign that must have been some sort of color once, with big windows taking over most of the outer wall, their lower half blurred, enough to maintain privacy.
It was perfect.
It took little effort—charming the local veterinary clinic’s owner into believing he was their new hire was child’s play. Within an hour, he was Dr. Harry Evans, the town’s newest vet, just settled in a house near the forest —his long lost, late uncle's property, now, finally, in his possession— just three years out of college and with six years of experience in his leather jacket’s pocket.
The work was fairly easy; a spell here, a charm there, actual use of human techniques and medicine some times. The owner’s thoughts were excruciatingly easy to read, allowing him to figure out the prescription he had to give and the medicine he would need to rid the stacks off later, pretending he actually used it for treatment, and/or actually use under her watchful, but none the wiser, eyes.
The sound of his new title was strange to his ears, but not difficult to get accustomed to. Aliases, after all, had already been quite the go-to privacy measure for the biggest part of his life.
Six days passed without as much as a clue of where the pull led, the feeling of it too abstract to pin down any further. He had ended up venturing around, feeling not unlike some sort of fly trapped in a house and trying to get out, bumping onto the glass just shy of where the other half of the window was open, yet turning up to just bump against the bloody glass again.
But whatever it was, it was close. Very close.
He ran another scan on the back leg of the dog on the clinic's medical table, hand lightly patting its side absently.
It was an easy enough role to slip into. Animals were simpler than people, their needs instinctual, their thoughts untainted by the complexity of human nature. They did not question their reality beyond food, shelter, and companionship. It was a refreshing contrast to the centuries of tangled alliances and betrayals he had lived through.
They, also, did not make intruding questions, much too curious for their own good, unlike the gentleman in front of him under whom this police dog worked.
“What did you mention your uncle's last name was again?”
The chief's tone could be interpreted as uninterested at first glance, but really, Charlie was more perceptive than most. His suspicion, however, was more instinctual than anything else in the face of the unknown variable that he, Harry, was —one Charlie himself didn’t realize he had, easy to brush off if Harry were to respond in the right way.
“I didn’t, actually.”
He looked over the scan, seeing nothing he didn’t know already. The bone had certainly cracked a little, nothing a few weeks in a cast couldn’t fix, which he shared with the chief.
He saw Charlie nod in the corner of his eye.
“His name was Serius Black, my uncle. Never met him. I'm not even sure when he passed, really.” He added while getting the job done, the dog staring at the window quietly, tail swaying from side to side. Serius’ death had always been a sore spot, even after centuries, there were times when, in the quietness of the night and with a bottle of whisky for company, his mind still wandered on what ifs.
He watched Charlie’s expression turn more curious. “Black? Any connection to the Blacks over at La Push?”
It was Harry’s turn to cast a curious glance at him. What an interesting coincidence, Black was not the most common surname in these parts. Well, in his own universe at least. “That could both be and not be the case... To my knowledge he never did actually live here.” He wrote down some painkillers for the poor girl under his care.
Charlie petted her absently. Harry, though, could see the slight relief in the way some tension left his shoulders at the simplicity of the injury. “Well, I am friends with Billy Black, I could consult with him about it? I am sure he would like to know you, young man, especially if you are family. Family has to stick together.”
A genuine smile tugged at his lips, both at the kindness of his offer and the way he addressed him. For all that he looked in his twenties –and he was thankful glamours did exist, he would go crazy if he had to spent eternity looking like a seventeen-year-old–, he was far from a young man. It had been almost a century since someone had addressed him as such, a comment absolutely grating for half his existence, now endlessly amusing.
“I more than agree. Thank you, Chief, I would really appreciate that.”
He could see the hint of loneliness behind his eyes, he recognized something similar in himself every time he looked in the mirror, and a wave of sympathy flickered under his skin.
Harry walked home that evening with a quiet sort of amusement lingering in his chest. Charlie Swan was a good man, and despite the subtle edge of suspicion in his voice, he had offered kindness where many others might have remained distant. It was... oddly refreshing.
The rain had started again, a light drizzle that barely disrupted the town’s quiet hum. Harry didn’t mind it. If anything, it made Forks feel more alive—like the town itself breathed through the water-soaked trees and fog-draped streets.
His house sat at the edge of the forest, an old structure that had seen better days but was still sturdy. It was secluded enough that no one would question the oddities of his lifestyle, and that suited him just fine. He set down his things and moved through the space, absently casting a few charms to warm the air and dispel the lingering humidity. Then, his favourite part, wards.
The pull was still there. Persistent. Closer now, yet maddeningly indistinct, still.
Harry exhaled, leaning against the counter as he stared out the window, watching the way the trees swayed. He had felt many things over the centuries. The weight of loss, the sting of betrayal, the numb ache of time passing without consequence, the sparks of happiness in between stretching moments of despair. But this?
He could feel it winding through his magic, through the very core of him, like something calling him home.
And that was the most dangerous part, wasn’t it?
Because Harry Potter didn’t have a home.
Not anymore, not for a long, long time.
Maybe that’s why he couldn’t bring himself to ignore it.
The days passed with an odd sort of rhythm. The clinic kept him occupied, and Charlie’s introduction to Billy Black had been an experience in and of itself. The man had eyed him with something between wariness and curiosity, though he hadn’t pressed for details. Still, there had been something in the way he looked at Harry, as if he were trying to place him in a puzzle he didn’t quite have all the pieces for.
Harry let him try anyway. It wouldn’t matter in the end.
The Blacks here had no connection to his but in name only.
What did matter was that the pull was growing stronger. Or maybe it had always been that strong. Harry maybe was just starting to feel something close to what it really was like. Was it the proximity? Was it time?
Sometimes Harry felt like he was getting too engrossed into it. Almost alarmingly so. But he couldn't help it. Not when he felt it buzzing under his skin, not unlike his own magic.
He had travelled to Italy the following night, but the feeling hadn’t lessened, it hadn’t gotten worse either.
For someone as experienced as a person who always seemed to find themselves in all sorts of mess can be, Harry James Potter had no idea what to think.
It was always there now, threading through his every waking moment like an whisper in the back of his mind. Sometimes it felt like a breath at the back of his neck, other times like a steady heartbeat thrumming in his bones.
He left the clinic that evening with a lingering sense of something shifting. The rain had started again, light but steady, soaking into his clothes and clinging to skin. He let it be, walking the streets of Forks with no real destination, simply letting his instincts guide him.
The town was small, but even small towns had their own currents of intrigue, those of gossip and reputation. It didn't take long for Harry to catch wind of the town’s most peculiar residents.
The Cullens.
A family that didn’t quite fit.
Too perfect. Too beautiful. Too reclusive.
They lived in a house deep in the woods, rarely seen in town, save for a handful of occasions. Adopted children, all impossibly stunning. There was a distance between them and the rest of Forks, not one of hostility, no.
Harry listened. In diners, in the grocery store, through passing conversations in the clinic. He pieced together their image through the words of others.
Carlisle Cullen, the patriarch, a respected doctor at the local hospital. His wife, Esme, warm but elusive. Their children, each one eerily captivating, moving through high school like ghosts among the living. The eldest, Rosalie and Emmett, inseparable. Alice, odd and knowing, her partner Jasper, quiet and unreadable. And then there was Edward, who seemed to garner the most whispers, especially in relation to the Chief’s daughter.
The more Harry learned, the more that tug in his chest seemed to align with something—someone—amongst them. He didn’t know who, not yet. But the magic within him, the very core of his being, stirred whenever their name was brought up.
It wasn’t a coincidence.
It never was.
He took note of them in the same way one noted anomalies in an otherwise predictable pattern.
The Cullens were, by all accounts, an oddity in this small town. Too pale, too graceful, too detached. It wasn’t just their unnatural beauty that set them apart, but the way the world around them seemed to shift in their presence. People unconsciously gave them space, conversations quieted when they passed, and even the animals, perceptive as they were, grew uneasy when one of the Cullens stepped too close.
It piqued his curiosity, of course. How could it not? He had spent centuries navigating the intricacies of the unknown, unravelling the mysteries of magic, life, and death itself.
He watched, listened, and catalogued everything he observed about them. The way their golden eyes darkened over time, the way their movements were too fluid, too precise. The way they never ate, never lingered in crowds, always seemed to move together like a pack of predators in disguise.
They were something decidedly not human in a word where magic was barely a part of.
It didn’t take long to realize, probably fifteen minutes since he first saw them, most of that time spared to check over and over again what he knew was true, they were not just odd—they were something else entirely.
He had seen vampires before. Killed them even. But they were not like the Cullens. The vampires he knew were cursed creatures, bound by hunger and darkness, slaves to their own bloodlust. But these? They masqueraded as humans, lived among them, pretended to be something they were not. They had as much control as they could. That alone made them much more dangerous.
Except, if the rules here were different from his own world, which was highly probable, and that was the norm.
Despite the warnings that whispered in the back of his mind, he did not sense immediate hostility. They were cautious, not predatory—at least not towards the people of Forks. Still, Harry had learned long ago that just because something did not pose a threat now, did not mean it never would. But he also knew, much more intimately, that if something is posing a threat but not acting on it, even just seemingly, eliminating it was cruel, unjust, and not the wisest.
And then, there was the other thing—the feeling of being watched.
It wasn’t overt, nor was it constant, but there were moments when his instincts prickled, warning him of unseen eyes lingering too long. He wasn’t easily spooked, nor was he unfamiliar with being observed, but this was different in way he couldn’t quite grasp.
It was careful, controlled, but not entirely hidden.
Whoever it was, they were good. But Harry was better.
He did not act immediately, nor did he give any indication he had noticed. Instead, he let it play out, allowed the watcher to think they had the advantage. Things were getting interesting.
Of course he wasn’t deaf to the rumours about himself.
The town of Forks was small, and small towns had a habit of making mysteries where there were none. Harry had expected the murmurs, the glances, the unspoken curiosity. It was human nature, after all. And honestly? He couldn’t blame them.
The rumours started simply enough. Dr. Evans, the quiet new vet, polite but distant. No one had ever seen his supposed late uncle. He didn’t talk much about his past, either—only vague references to “travel” and an offhand comment about liking the quiet. But in Forks, vague wasn’t enough.
By the end of his second week, the theories had taken a life of their own. Harry thought back of them with great amusement.
“I bet he is a part-time writer," one of the diner’s waitresses had whispered over a tray of coffee cups, Harry had been a few tables away. “You know, one of those brooding ones who go off into the wilderness to find inspiration.”
Imagine, him a writer, the word would end. And, he did not brood. Fine, sometimes.
“I heard he’s some kind of ex-military,” a mechanic countered while adjusting his cap. “You ever see the way he moves? Too aware. That’s a man trained for something. Worse, seen things. But, he is too young...”
And then there was Mrs. Dalloway, the mechanic's wife, her golden retriever had a weird fascination with socks, who had declared after a single look at Harry: “That’s a man with secrets. Sure, he is good, even great at his job. A polite young man. But very, hm... Distant. And, he is alone, he has yet to speak of any family, friends, girlfriend... It’s odd.” He had almost rolled his eyes at that, but refrained, pretending the book in hands was more interesting than it could take credit. Well, she was not wrong.
“Or maybe he is just a private man, Margaret. I think you are reading too much into it.”
Harry, for his part, he could admit he did little to help his own case. When someone asked if he was a writer, he merely hummed in response, neither confirming nor denying. When one of the officers asked—half-jokingly—if he’d been in the military, Harry tilted his head and simply said, “Something like that.”
It was harmless fun, and if the town wanted to craft stories about him, well… he’d heard worse.
Besides, it kept them entertained.
And him as well.
He listened with interest as theories spiralled, some mundane, some wildly exaggerated. A runaway heir. A witness in hiding. A spy who had “seen too much.”
Harry found it all hilarious.
The first time he overheard the ‘secret agent’ theory at the grocery store, he nearly dropped the bag of oranges he had been inspecting. The idea that he, of all people, had the discipline for espionage was laughable. And the running-from-a-dark-past angle? Well, they weren’t entirely wrong, but the truth was far less cinematic than they probably imagined.
Actually, scratch that. His life was a goddamned show. A shitshow.
There was even the take of him being a man recovering from a tragic, forbidden love—though Harry had no idea where that one came from.
The truth was far more complicated, and much less dramatic in the way they would imagine it. But letting them think what they wanted was easier than answering real questions.
It eluded him though how some rumours weren’t that far off —of course it wasn’t like he was actually trying to hide, but was he really that easy to read? Time must not be capable of changing everything, at last...