Three Hundred Years of Solitude

by Limely2000

Summary:

After three hundred years of solitude, Carlisle had long given up hope of ever finding someone truly meant for him. He never expected that fate might still have something left in store. Least of all did he expect that it would not be him who searched – but someone who would find him. A name, a shadow, a feeling shattered the silence of centuries. And neither he nor his family was prepared for Harry to step into their lives.

Chapter 1

“He had never thought that he could one day fall in love.”

Edward was not sure if what he felt was truly love. Bella barely knew him. And he… he did not know who he really was either. Now that Bella knew the truth – that he was a vampire – everything had become even more confusing. The world, which had been cold and clear until now, was now filled with questions, possibilities, and danger.

The silence of the hunt brought no peace. Edward’s movements were mechanical, as if only his body moved, while his mind wandered in another world. Bella. Her name wove itself into every thought of his, like a melody he could not silence.
Carlisle watched him, but did not speak. He only stepped beside him when Edward stopped at a fallen tree trunk, and spoke almost soundlessly.

– I don’t understand… – he said at last. – My first thought was to kill her. Her blood… it was like nothing else. And now… now I’m thinking that I love her. That I could lose her. That… perhaps I already have.

Carlisle slowly sat down beside him on the tree trunk. The wind tousled his hair, but he only stared into the distance, as if searching for something among the trees.
– With humans, it works that way, – he said quietly. – Through getting to know. Through choices. Feelings are not always clear, not always logical. But with us… sometimes it’s different. Sometimes… they burn. They destroy. Like a soul bond.

Edward lifted his head. The word was familiar, but he had never truly understood it.
– What… what is a soul bond like? – he asked cautiously. – I wouldn’t like to ask Rosalie about this.

Carlisle smiled, but his smile was sad.
– They say it’s just a moment. A glance. And from then on… you cannot focus on anything else. The world… shifts. It rearranges itself around someone. They become the fixed point.
Sometimes it’s good, – he continued more softly, – sometimes… it’s not. Because there’s no choice in it. And if there’s no return… then you just remain there. Forever.

Edward listened carefully, and his words cut deeply into his thoughts. For what he felt about Bella – it was not a choice. It was not logical. It just… happened.
Carlisle’s words were not only theoretical. Something deeper lay behind them.

– You experienced this? The soul bond?

Carlisle shook his head almost immediately. His face bore tense, forced calm.
– No. No. Of course not. I… I never have, – he said softly. – Three hundred years… and no one. It never happened to me.

Edward furrowed his brow.
– Never? – he asked, while he watched Carlisle’s thoughts. There was no violence in it – only curiosity. A slight pressure, like when someone taps lightly on an old piano, to see if it still plays.

Carlisle’s lips tightened.
– No… there was nothing there. Only me. It was always only… me.

But behind the words, something trembled. A thought he had not hidden quickly enough. Like an old book accidentally left open.

Edward tilted his head to the side, holding onto the thought like to a thread.
– Harrison? – he asked softly. – Who is Harrison?

Carlisle froze.
The name, like the tolling of an old bell, spread within him. First in his chest, then in his head. The pain struck suddenly, dull but growing stronger.
The world around him grew silent. The dark green silhouettes of the trees wavered. And then he saw him.

A shadow darted among the trees. Edward did not see – only in Carlisle’s thoughts. A figure, faint, like a memory carried forward by the wind from the past.

At first it was just a boy. Teenage, thin, almost fragile. His hair fell untidily onto his forehead, and he laughed – purely, sincerely, as if the whole world was just a game. Then he vanished, only to reappear – a little older now. His hair longer, his gaze darker. The laughter gone, replaced by a silence weighed with worry.

Carlisle’s eyes followed the figure, while the headache throbbed more and more strongly. Edward watched him, and the thoughts he perceived were no longer clear – as if he had slipped between the layers of another mind.

The boy disappeared again, then a taller figure stepped out from between the trees. The awkward limbs of adolescence, the movements that had not yet found their place. He turned, as if searching for something. Someone.

Then a young man emerged. His gaze was fixed ahead, determined, as if he already knew where he was going. His steps were firm, but his shoulders tense. The next moment he stopped – and smiled. A faint, sad smile, not for the present, but for an old memory.

Carlisle almost faltered. The pain was no longer only in his head – it throbbed in his chest as well.

And then he appeared. A beautiful man, whose face was mature, yet still young. His eyes deep as the time he had lost. He stopped. Looked at his trembling hands, as if he did not know what to do with them. And he wept silently.

Carlisle’s lips trembled.
– Harrison… Harry... – he whispered.

The man – Harrison – looked back at them. His gaze met Carlisle’s, and in that moment everything stopped. The wind, the trees, time itself.

Harry began to walk. Slowly, as if only wanting to go around the next tree to step to Carlisle. His movements carried desire, uncertainty, hope.

But as soon as he stepped behind the tree – he vanished.

Carlisle moved forward, as if he wanted to follow, but his legs would not obey. He only stood there, with the name in his heart, and the shadow in his thoughts.

Chapter 2

The silence of the Berlin library was like that of an old cathedral – reverent, dusty, as if even thoughts could echo. Harry sat in a secluded corner, bent over a thick, leather-bound volume. The title was faded, but inside the pages were lined with runes.

His fingers traced the edge of a page, hesitating. Should he take it? It would fit neatly into his collection. And yet… something felt off.

Within the ancient walls of the library, time seemed to pause – but soon he would have to return to the university, and reality would not wait.

The beads on his wrist clicked softly as he pushed the book aside. Hermione had made them for him – cool colors, smooth surfaces, as if they had been tailored just for him. He loved the darkness of the tourmaline, the faint pulse of the amethyst, the deep calm of the lapis. He had worn them ever since. He didn’t even look down, but his fingers instinctively found the familiar shapes, just for a moment, before he pulled out the letter to Hermione to finish it.

Hermione,

Still in Berlin. Still cold. Still too many people, staring too much, knowing too little.

I found a book in the city library – runes, old, dusty. I’m not sure it’s authentic, but there’s something… strange about it. Familiar.

If you have time, look into it. I know you’ll send me a novel in reply anyway, so I’ll have something to read once I finally leave this city.

The book’s title is Runen und Resonanz, if that helps.

And you? Still working too much, sleeping too little?

Write when you can.
– Harry

(P.S.: Don’t send me three scrolls’ worth of reply. One will do. But I know you won’t listen.)

He smiled faintly. Hermione always overwrote her letters, but Harry secretly liked that. There was something comforting in it. Something unchanging.

He closed the book, slid it back onto the shelf, and walked out. Exiting the library, he went straight to the nearby owl post office. A grey, rather surly owl carried the letter away.

Harry avoided people’s eyes. His hood pulled low, the collar of his coat raised high. He didn’t want to be recognized.

Walking along the crowded street, he pulled out his phone and started searching. Where next? Berlin was already too familiar. Too… comfortable.

An article popped up: “Top 10 Ideal Holiday Destinations – 2016.” Harry snorted when he saw Scotland listed among the top five. Of course. They still romanticize the fog and the castles.

His thoughts drifted as passersby brushed past him. A few glances lingered on him – young, handsome, mysterious. But he didn’t look back. He didn’t smile. He just kept walking.

And then… he stopped.

It was as if someone, miles away, had spoken an old name.

Harrison.

The word was not loud. Not direct. But Harry froze. His legs would not move. The air shifted around him, as though time itself had paused.

People kept walking. The world did not notice. But Harry… could not take another step.

Chapter 3

In Berlin, the days piled on top of each other. Harry’s mornings always began in the same place: at the corner café, where they no longer needed to ask before preparing his black coffee without milk.

Now he sat at the window, at the same spot as always, but his gaze wasn’t on the street—it lingered on the rim of the cup. He traced it with his finger, then suddenly froze. His head snapped up, as though he’d heard something.

Nothing. Surely nothing… This isn’t a call, he assured himself.

Out on the street, a cyclist nearly knocked over a mother with a stroller; someone shouted. A taxi driver honked.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment.

It was there again. That humming. Not from outside, not from the city. From somewhere behind him—or more precisely, within him.

Like a mosquito he couldn’t see, but couldn’t stop hearing.

He opened his eyes. Drained the coffee. It was too hot, but he didn’t care.

The university was lively, youthful, popular. In the lecture hall, someone chuckled quietly when he entered, but the sound died as soon as he appeared.

Harry wrote the topic on the board: Modern Thought and Ethics in the Seventeenth Century. The chalk snapped.

The beads on his wrist knocked together with the same sharpness, the two sounds too loud in the silence.

– Sorry, – he said, and though his voice remained calm, his fingers reached for the other piece a little slower.

Inside, however, something grated.

After lectures, he walked. Sometimes he slipped into bookshops, sometimes he simply wandered. In the evenings he tried to find programs—exhibitions, concerts, gatherings with friends—but they increasingly felt like scenery, empty backgrounds.

At first he noticed it only in silence. Then, even in noise. As if something were watching him, as if something were waiting for him to acknowledge it. He tried to brush it off—with logic, with routine—but the call only grew stronger. Harder and harder to ignore. The noise of the city no longer dulled it; it amplified it. As if behind every sound, something else lurked—something that didn’t belong.

The days passed. At the university, everything was fine, yet Harry grew more restless. Even in lectures his focus wavered; the students’ questions sometimes reached him as though from a distance. Evening programs no longer held him. Sometimes he set out for a concert but turned back halfway. Sometimes he wandered for hours, aimlessly, as though waiting for the city to respond. But it never did.

Berlin never sleeps. Ever. The city pulses like an overcompensating heartbeat—colorful, noisy, relentless.

Harry loved this city. Or at least he thought he did.

Morning was still quiet. In his apartment—an upper floor of an old townhouse—the light crept slowly through the tall windows. The ceiling ornate, the walls thick, but the space modern: clean lines, glass surfaces, dark wood. Beneath the floor, a silencing charm worked, keeping the city’s sounds out. Only silence remained. Too much silence.

Harry stood in the kitchen, stirring his tea. His movements precise, almost ritualistic. The radio played softly, some jazz—not his favorite, but better than his thoughts.

Then Hermione’s letter arrived.

The envelope was familiar, the handwriting even more so. The letter warm, as always. She wrote about the school, her garden, the strange dreams she had lately. Nothing concrete, nothing alarming—yet something had shifted. Between the lines, something unsaid lingered.

At the end was a single sentence that nearly stunned Harry:

“If you have time, perhaps you could visit once the semester ends.”

This wasn’t usual. Hermione had never asked him to visit—not like this. Harry couldn’t quite explain why, but something was wrong. It was as though another message lay behind the words. Something clenched inside him.

He read the letter again and again, as if the sentence might change. But it didn’t. It only grew heavier.

That night he went nowhere. He only sat by the window, watching the city, knowing: it was time to say goodbye to Berlin.

 

It was already past five when Professor Stein finally closed the last consultation notebook.
It had been a long day—two of his doctoral students had wanted to meet, one about the historical foundations of mass psychosis, the other searching for a new interpretative framework in the rituals of traumatic collective memory.
As head of the Department of Social Imaginaries and Identity in Modernity, such dilemmas were not unusual for him, but even he found today’s discussions heavy.

Stein was already reaching for his coat. Outside, rain hung in the air, and inside, the pale yellow of the neon lights shone ever more harshly across the office.
The day was over—or so he thought. Then came the knock.

– Come in – he said, perhaps a touch more wearily than he intended.

The door opened slowly, and Stein blinked twice in surprise.

Harry Morven.

Stein glanced at the door again, as if to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. In four years, this might have happened once, if ever—Morven stepping into his office. He never sought contact, never asked for concessions, and there had never been a single complaint. Always precise, independent, and… distant.

Stein pushed aside his keys and gave a nod.

– Herr Morven. I was just about to leave, but – he gestured toward a chair – please, come in, have a seat.

Harry nodded but did not sit. Stein’s gaze ran over the young man almost automatically—barely twenty-eight, he thought, still with a trace of disbelief. The kind of young lecturer students whispered about in hushed, heated tones in the corridors. Half the faculty knew of his striking looks—and not just the students. Stein had overheard enough murmurs, even noticed colleagues lingering too long near his lectures. Yet since Harry had joined the department, not a single scandal had ever touched his name. Every approach he turned aside politely but firmly. More professional than many colleagues twice his age. The young academic looked a little tired now, but the same restrained dignity still clung to him.

– I won’t take much of your time – Harry said quietly. – At the end of the semester I’d like to resign my position. I’ll be moving back to England. Family matters.

Stein nodded, though in his thoughts he could almost hear a small, quiet “what a pity” slip through. Still, he wasn’t entirely surprised.

– If the situation is really that serious… – he ventured cautiously – wouldn’t you rather leave earlier? A month… we could arrange cover if necessary.

Harry looked at him in surprise, but his answer was firm.

– Thank you. I appreciate it, truly. But it won’t be necessary. A month and a half is not long, and I don’t want to burden the university with this. My courses are on track; I’ll finish them.

Stein inclined his head approvingly.

– You’ve always been honorable. That’s what I liked most about you… well, that and your lectures.

– Very well – he said at last. – But if anything changes, please don’t hesitate to tell me.

Harry nodded. But Stein wasn’t ready to let him go just yet. This was a rare moment—and perhaps the last.

– You know, I was glad you chose us in the end – he said, with a touch of nostalgia. – At the time, it was a particular joy to bring you to our department. When both the Faculty of Humanities and the Chemistry Department were vying for you… well, it isn’t often we win against them. It was awkward and glorious all at once.

– Too much risk of explosions there – Harry answered dryly, and for the first time today, a half-smile crossed his face. The first genuine reaction Stein had drawn from him.

Silence settled between them. A pleasant, not uncomfortable quiet. A sense of something ending, already palpable. At last Stein gave a slow nod.

– Then so be it. But if you ever come back, you’ll have a place here. You’re still young. I don’t like to emphasize it, but to lecture like this under thirty… it’s rare.

– Listen. I’ll send you a recommendation letter by email. If you need it anywhere, I’ll gladly provide it. But – he smiled faintly – honestly, I’d be happier if you never had to use it. I’d rather welcome you back. Anytime.

Harry stood in silence for a moment, then nodded firmly. His gaze softened, as though genuinely moved.

– Thank you. That… means a lot.

The professor let his eyes take him in one last time, trying to fix the memory. The door was nearly closed when he called out again.

– And Morven…

Harry turned.

– I still don’t know how you’ve managed to avoid every faculty scandal with that face.

This time Harry didn’t just smile—he answered, gently, tiredly, and almost cheekily:

– Plenty of practice. And I learned early how to say no.

Then he disappeared behind the door.

Chapter 4

Carlisle’s days passed in their usual order. Hospital shifts, calm conversations with the family, the quiet attentiveness spreading through the house. Outwardly everything remained unchanged – he himself made sure it stayed that way. He gave no cause for questions, did not allow anyone to grow suspicious.

And yet, in every moment, there was something he couldn’t ignore. It was as if an invisible thread stretched from his chest out into the world, a constant, subtle vibration that only he could feel. The soulbond. A word he had never wanted to believe could apply to him now rang relentlessly in his thoughts.

Discipline kept him safe. He never showed it—not to Esme, not to the others, not even to Edward, who already bore heavier burdens than anyone else. Bella and Edward’s slowly unfolding relationship demanded enough attention from the family, and Carlisle could not allow his own feelings to disrupt that balance.

But no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, the memory of that hunt returned again and again.

The silence of the forest, Edward’s questions, and then—the name. Harrison.
The moment when the world shifted around him, and he saw him. Not a dream, not a vision, but reality—at least within Carlisle’s heart. That boy, that man, changing shape before his eyes until he finally stood there, young yet mature, with a gaze that held everything Carlisle had never been given.

Now, whether walking the hospital corridors, standing at a patient’s bedside, or watching over his family at home, he felt the same pull, quiet and insistent, like a thirst he had learned to master long ago. His self-control had always defined him.

He remembered all too well how uncomfortable it had been when, a month earlier, he had failed to hide this restlessness.

 

One month earlier

They were already heading back from the hunt where Carlisle had seen him between the trees. Nearing the house, Carlisle suddenly stopped.
– Edward – he addressed him unexpectedly. – Could this stay between the two of us?

Edward halted, his face showing both confusion and protest.
– But Carlisle… – he began softly. – That was very unusual. I felt it in you, that… it was different from anything before.
Carlisle nodded, keeping his eyes on the dark silhouettes of the trees.
– I know. But until we understand what it means, I don’t want to burden the others with this.

The boy’s lips parted, then slowly closed again. At last, with only a small nod, he signaled his agreement. Yet as they came closer still to the house, he stopped again.
– You won’t be able to keep it secret – he warned Carlisle. – Something happened with Alice’s visions…

And he was right.

The moment they entered, every gaze turned toward them. Alice sat motionless on the couch, her eyes glassy as if she had just awakened from a vision. The air in the room felt thicker, almost tangible.

– What happened? – Esme’s voice was gentle, but worry trembled in it.

Rosalie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a crooked smile on her lips.
– You two look like something’s up. – she remarked sharply.

Edward lowered his head, as though studying cracks in the floorboards—giving himself away. Carlisle cast him a fleeting glance; secrecy had never been possible, not with Edward’s presence alone.

Alice broke the silence.
– Something blurred – she said, her voice unusually uncertain. – The future grew misty around you, Carlisle.

Carlisle drew in a slow breath. There was no more escape.
– Something did happen – he said slowly. – Edward and I were speaking about soul-bonds… when suddenly… I felt something strange.

Rosalie’s eyes flashed toward Edward, accusatory in their sharpness. But Carlisle pressed on.
– A name surfaced in my thoughts – he said quietly, as though the weight of the word pressed him down. – Harrison.

As he spoke it, it was as if an invisible thread tightened within him. Instinctively he placed his hand on his chest.
– It feels… as though something is gently pulling – he confessed, furrowing his brow.

Rosalie crossed the space in a heartbeat, laying her hand over his.
Do you feel pull? – she asked softly, with uncharacteristic concern in her voice.
– Yes – Carlisle answered, knowing denial would be useless.

Rosalie’s gaze darkened, but her words rang clear.
– This is a soul-bond, Carlisle.

Silence filled the room, heavy and motionless, until Esme and Alice spoke at once, their voices brimming with excitement.

– Carlisle, darling – Esme smiled, her eyes almost glistening with tears. – This is wonderful news. At last you’ve found something that is truly yours.

– It makes sense now! – Alice’s face shone with delight. – This is why I couldn’t see clearly. It’s only just coming together!

But Rosalie’s face remained grim.
– This is not how it’s supposed to work – she said slowly, emphasizing every word. – You shouldn’t feel the pull until you are face to face with the other half of your soul.

Carlisle already knew that… but Alice’s joy was irrepressible. She nearly vibrated with it.
– Maybe you glimpsed your mate ahead of time! That would explain why I couldn’t see clearly!

But he only shook his head.
– Whatever happened, it changes nothing. I cannot go chasing after a faint feeling. If I’m meant to meet him, fate will arrange it.

With those words, he closed the matter—though he knew his family would not easily let it go.

 

Since then, a month had passed, and the family’s stares no longer burned into his every movement. He had told them the truth: he had not gone chasing a shadow, and he would not. The name that had surfaced within him, he buried deep. He would not let every recollection ignite that dangerous longing.

It would be fine – he told himself. He had to concentrate on the others. Their lives, their safety mattered.

And yet, even now, standing in one of the hospital offices by the window, he used all his strength not to think of a single name… of a single impossibly compelling pair of green eyes.

His thoughts were finally broken by a knock. The door opened, and a smiling nurse poked her head in.

– Dr. Cullen, imagine this—you’ve got a letter, – she said brightly, stepping in with an envelope in hand.

Carlisle took it with a polite smile. The envelope felt surprisingly thick. Curious—handwritten letters had long since been replaced by emails.

He sat down at his desk, his fingers slowly tracing over the paper. A small, innocent distraction. Exactly what he needed now.

It was easier to think of the words for a moment than of what he so desperately tried to forget: the man’s face, and the impossibly green eyes —that still burned inside him.

Chapter 5

The rain tapped softly against London’s stones.
Witches and wizards hurried along the streets near Diagon Alley, pulling their cloaks tighter around themselves.

A figure walked along the pavement. A long, dark cloak covered him, hood drawn low over his face. His steps were quiet, unnaturally silent.

– Impossible… – whispered a young man beside a bench.
– But but Potter… maybe he’s home again… maybe because of the anniversary…

The figure didn’t look at them. He was used to the whispers. The half-sentences. The murmured name that had become legend whenever he appeared in England…

"Then I really am here," he thought. "And nothing has changed."

The Ministry of Magic’s Atrium had changed, but the feeling remained the same.
The scent of magic, the weight of history in the walls.
The man walked silently through the hall.

He stopped before the Department of Mysteries. Beyond the glass wall, the world was cool and eerie.
He sat down in one of the offices. He did nothing – let the quiet whispers carry word of his presence.

Then soft tapping broke the silence.
A cane.
Steps.
Slow, but purposeful.

The door opened. An elderly lady stepped in. She was fragile, but her posture straight. A green scarf, silver bun, sharp, watchful eyes.
She stopped short, then sighed.

– Harry, if you want to visit someone in the Department of Mysteries, you send a letter, you don’t just break in.

The man only slowly lifted his head. From beneath the hood, a faint smile appeared.
– Hermi… you called me. I thought I’d surprise you. You used to like surprises.

The woman only leaned on her cane, watching him in silence.
She didn’t answer right away. Deep lines rested at the corners of her eyes, but her smile was familiar. Not weary, more… carrying peace.

– Harry, my dear… – she said softly, as if recalling an old melody. – The moment you set foot in the country, within half an hour an owl arrived at the Ministry saying “the famous Boy Who Lived’s grandson has returned home.”

The man laughed. The kind of laugh where you can’t tell if it heals or hurts.
– Ten minutes later they were at your door, weren’t they?

– And they begged me to persuade you: go visit them. One of them… I think he wanted to ask if maybe some kind of diary of your “grandfather” had survived…

The man leaned back. The hood slipped down onto his shoulders.
His hair was dark, his face young – but his eyes… they were old. Endless old.

– Merlin, Hermione… that was a very long time ago.

The woman slowly sat beside him, every movement small and deliberate.
– I suppose time doesn’t pass the same way for us, Harry. They still believe. And this year it will be the 350th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts…

Harry shuddered painfully at the memory, but the woman’s smile was gentle.
– They don’t bother me as much, they’ve learned I don’t remember everyone. It worked to my advantage. The whim of an old woman, you know…

Harry almost whispered:
– You were never whimsical.

Hermione’s face darkened.
– Let’s continue this somewhere quieter, Harry…

 

The house was warm.
Not from the fireplace’s heat, but from the presence of books rustling softly, the scent of parchment hidden on shelves, the memories tucked among old things.

In the storage beneath the stairs, stacks of books still stood, marked with slips of parchment: “For later review – not urgent.”
As if everything had only dozed off for a long afternoon.
Only time… had stretched long.

Hermione went straight toward the kitchen, the soft tapping of her cane on the wooden floor beating out a rhythm of memory.
– Don’t just stand there like a statue, Harry. I know you haven’t forgotten how to move – she called back, without looking at him.

Harry slipped off his cloak, hung it on the rack – still leaning slightly to the left, just as it had years ago.
– Tea? – Hermione asked from the kitchen. She didn’t wait for an answer. It was natural. Everything was.

Harry sat at the dining table, placing his hand on the surface. The beaded bracelet gave a faint chime as it touched the wood.

– I’ve thought a lot about whether to even tell you – Hermione began, setting down teacups – But then I realized that was foolish. Because if anyone, you aren’t here just for your fame.

Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione silenced him with a single look.
– No need to respond. Just… listen. All right?

He nodded. Hermione sat down across from him slowly, as if granting herself time as well.
– It began a few years ago. At first only… little things. Distortions of time. Names, dates… everything was in my head, but not in its place. I knew what I was looking for, but not when, or how I had set it aside. Frontotemporal degeneration. That’s what the doctor said.

– Hermi… – he began again, unable to hold it back.

– Harry, no! – Hermione’s voice snapped, not in anger, but desperation. – Don’t start pitying me. I’m not to be pitied. It’s just… sometimes I don’t know what I’ve done already, and what I only planned to. Some data… blends together. As if my mind only decided afterward what had really happened and what hadn’t.

She set her hand on the table. It trembled. Not much, but enough.
– I can’t work properly anymore. Not the way I should. My assistants… – a faint smile flickered across her face – these young ones are so clever, Muggle techniques, search programs, Merlin knows what else. One of them… found someone.

– There’s a man. An American doctor. Not a neurologist, but… he wrote a study, an extensive, detailed work on exactly this type – she gestured softly to herself – frontotemporal degeneration. Far more comprehensive than anything I’ve found in the wizarding world.

Harry leaned forward, his voice instinctively gentle, supportive:
–If you need medical connections, travel, funding, or if anything needs to be researched – whatever you ask…

But Hermione had already lifted her hand. Her fingers trembled, but the gesture was firm.
– That’s not why I called you here, Harry.

She rose. Slowly, deliberately, she crossed to the bookshelf.
From a thin file she pulled out a single sheet of paper – one printed page.
She returned and silently laid it on the table before him.

Harry bowed his head, staring at the picture like a man seeing a ghost.

A man looked back at him. White coat, clean, orderly surroundings.
He wasn’t smiling, yet he didn’t seem cold. His face was beautiful, almost frighteningly precise – but in his eyes there was something. Depth. Something even time hadn’t worn away.

Hermione spoke softly:
– He is Carlisle Cullen…

The air froze. They locked themselves inside a single moment.

Crack.
A hairline fracture ran across the bottom of the teacup.
A bead on the bracelet split silently in two.
The side of the teapot gave a quiet snap, and the cup slowly shattered, tea spilling across the table.

Chapter 6

Notes:

I don’t know about you all, but I’m dying for Carlisle and Harry to finally meet. Sadly, I’m a wicked woman and you’ll have to wait a little longer 😈 But I promise—it’ll be worth it. In the meantime, here’s the next chapter! We’re dipping into the past a bit, so buckle up for some backstory.

The earth was dark, damp and sticky, the church bell tolled dully in the misty forenoon. At the edge of the field the grain was already swaying, but the yield was poor – according to Aunt Petunia surely because of the curse. The boy did not know what she meant by this, but he knew they always looked at him while saying it.

Harrison was seven years old, and already by then he had learned that no one would protect him. His uncle, Vernon, once told him: – Mercy it is that you can even be here, no other favor shall be given to you.

And Petunia every Sunday at mass, when they knelt between the pews, with a sigh almost groaned: – The punishment of our sins… – Harrison always knew it was about him.

His days passed between two places: in the church, where he knelt silently among the rows of pews, and in the fields, where he bent quietly to the work, or dug around the chicken coops, like a small shadow unseen by anyone.

And there was Dudley.

Dudley Dursley never hurt him quietly. His slaps always made a sound, his fists landed with laughter, as his friends urged him on: – Hit him again! Look, he’s not even moving anymore!

Harrison learned to run fast. Too fast for a boy who supposedly was worth nothing.

That day too he ran. His ankles were muddy, the air cool, the wind only brushed the grass as he dashed across the narrow path of the churchyard. Behind him the laughter drew closer, Dudley’s panting, the pounding of heavy feet.

And then he saw him.

A boy stood at the edge of the churchyard, near the path behind the back crypts. He was blond, thin, lanky – perhaps twelve years old, but he seemed even taller. On his face there was no fear, no contempt – only calm curiosity. When Harrison looked at him, the boy beckoned. A small, inviting motion, as if to say: “Here. Come on.”

Harrison did not think. His body decided for him. He ran to the boy, who stepped aside and pointed at a barrel near the stone wall.

– Just hide behind it – he said softly.

Harrison jumped in, almost curling himself up behind the straw-filled barrel. His heart pounded, he could hardly catch his breath. He heard Dudley and the others rushing off the other way, and only hoped they had not seen where he had vanished.

By the time he dared to look out again, the boy was gone.

 

The next Sunday mass was cold and long. The stones of the church had taken on the dampness of the autumn morning, and the floor drew the chill up through Harrison’s shoes as if it had been made especially for him. The pews were crowded as always.

Reverend Cullen mounted the pulpit slowly, his movements dignified, his voice deep, sharp, like the toll of the church bell. His gaze slid over the pews like one who not only sees, but measures. Harrison tried not to fidget.

And then he saw him. The boy.

He sat near the gallery, in a pew reserved for Reverend Cullen’s family. His hair was neat, his posture disciplined. He did not smile. He did not even glance at Harrison. But Harrison now recognized him: it was him.

The blond boy who had beckoned. Who had hidden him. Who had saved him from yet another beating.

And he was Reverend Cullen’s son.

A chill ran down Harrison’s back. It was as if the memory had frozen into his very bones, now suddenly seen in new colors. His lips pressed together. No one wanted to come into Reverend Cullen’s sight, people said in the village.

According to Aunt Petunia he was a holy man. With holy severity.

And for the first time in his life Harry had to agree with Petunia. Shivering.

When the people rose to sing the psalm together, Harrison remained motionless a moment longer. His small fingers tightened on the edge of the pew. He vowed never again to cross his path.

 

At the back of the churchyard thick, ancient trees grew over the old tombstones. Here Harrison fled whenever he managed to slip out from under supervision. At the Dursley house there was nothing like this – only the cold stone of the kitchen and the shadow of heavy hands.

On this day he crouched at the foot of a moss-covered cross, arranging pebbles in lines with his fingers, like tiny constellations. He did not hear the footsteps right away.

– They say you’re a good observer – spoke a quiet but clear boyish voice behind him.

Harrison froze. He turned back slowly. The boy was standing there. His blond hair fell a little into his eyes, but his movements were attentive, measured. He was not much taller, but something confident radiated from his posture.

Carlisle Cullen.

Harrison jumped up quickly, lowered his gaze. – I shouldn’t be here. – he was already about to leave, but the boy moved.

– Wait! – he called after him almost desperately. – I’ll teach you to read.

Harrison stopped short. The words tumbled from the boy’s mouth strangely, too quickly. Like something he had long kept inside.

– What? – he turned back suspiciously.

Carlisle stepped closer, then halted. He held himself as if he had learned to pray, not to converse.

– I know that… that your uncle doesn’t want to teach you. I heard what he said. And I saw you when you stared at the words of the Bible.

Harry’s face flushed. – I don’t care about them. I was just looking.

– I’ll teach you anyway – Carlisle answered softly, but with a determination that unsettled Harrison. – I know a place where no one disturbs us. It’s not far. There’s an attic, and some books too. My father doesn’t go up there.

Harrison measured the boy distrustfully. At the Dursleys such offers always ended in a slap. But Carlisle didn’t look like someone who would hit. Rather… as if he were alone. Truly alone.

– And what do you get for this? – Harry asked.

Carlisle shrugged with a faint smile. – Company.

The word cracked through the silence like something forbidden. Harrison just stood there, his fingers clutching the edge of the church stone. Then he nodded slowly.

 

– You almost learned the alphabet as quickly as I did, –Carlisle said, as they leaned over an old, worn book in the attic. His cynical half-smile was not unkind; rather… defensive. As if he hid behind the mockery so it would not show how much the other’s presence meant to him.
Harrison shrugged, trying to mask his pride. – The book doesn’t hit.

Harrison’s days slowly settled around three constant pillars. At dawn he worked the fields, the handle of the hoe rubbing his palms raw and bloody. In the afternoons he knelt in the church, in long, silent devotion beneath the stern words of sin and repentance. And in the evenings… he studied in the attic.

With Carlisle.

In the grayness of life, only these hours were colored. Though he was forbidden to tell anyone – especially Aunt Petunia – Harrison still felt that something was happening. Something important.

Chapter 7

A few years later, everything changed.

At first, it was only a stranger who appeared in the back pew of the church. He wore a long, black cloak, its hem muddy, his face pale and sharp. He sat almost motionless, only his eyes moving, watching. As if he knew him.

Then one day, as Harrison was walking home from the fields, the man was waiting. He stood by the dusty roadside fence, still as a statue. Nothing betrayed that he knew who would pass by – and yet, he was there.

– Potter – the man spoke when the boy drew closer. His voice was deep, dry, and left no room for contradiction.

Harrison stopped. He studied the stranger: the cloak, the plain clasp at his throat, the flat, dark object in his hand.

– Why… do you know my name? – he asked at last.

The man did not answer. He simply stretched out his hand, and in his palm lay a smooth, dark-gray stone. It looked ordinary.

– Take it – he said quietly.

Harrison reached out, hesitant. For a moment he thought this was some kind of game – or a test. Then his fingers brushed the stone.

The world seemed to draw in a breath.

The stone quivered beneath his touch, then slowly rose into the air. It began to spin faster and faster on its axis, as though pulling strength from nothing. The air turned metallic, his hair stood on end.

And Harrison… laughed.

Honestly, with childlike wonder, as he never had before. He laughed aloud, as if the weight of the earth had suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

The stone gave one last spin, then slowly sank back into his palm.

The stranger only watched him. He did not speak at once. On his face – until then carved from coldness – a shadow seemed to pass. The shadow of recognition.

– You’re… a wizard too? – Harrison asked, his laughter still trembling in his voice.

The man nodded, grave.

– Yes – he said. – And now you know what you are.

Harrison looked down at the stone. The air still crackled faintly around him.

– I… – he began.

– Exactly the same. Your mother too – the man said softly. He did not look at him, only forward, as if remembering. – When she first saw magic… she laughed just like that. As if she had come home.

Harrison fell silent.

The word “mother” did not hurt this time. Not the way it usually did. Somehow… it felt good. Even if he did not fully understand why.

– What’s your name? – he asked at last.

The man paused a moment before answering.

– Severus Snape. I came to take you to a place. A place where no one will strip away what you are.

Harrison looked again at the stone resting in his palm.

And for the first time in his life, he did not feel like less.

From then on, everything sped up.

Severus Snape offered no explanations – only told his uncle that Harrison was to serve, “where his mother had served.” The aunt asked no questions. Perhaps she was relieved. Perhaps she simply didn’t want more strangeness in the house.

Harrison needed no convincing.

 

The world he had known crumbled to dust, but beneath the ruins was not emptiness. There was magic. Wonderful and terrible magic. Like fire: it warmed, but it burned as well.

He quickly learned that magic was no game. Not an escape, but a weight. Magic was as much light and life as it was destruction and death. And there was someone… someone whose name they would not even whisper. A shadow beyond the walls, a secret in the teachers’ words.

But Harrison knew. He knew who Voldemort was.

And he knew he could not escape him.

Every summer they sent him home. At least, that was the word: “student service leave.” But to him, it always meant the same thing – a return to soil, to rain, to dust. And… to him.

Carlisle.

In the early years, he still greeted him like a boy greets a stern friend. But summers passed, and Harrison grew. So did their conversations. No longer just letters and books, but questions, worlds, thoughts.

Carlisle hungered for what Harrison had seen: a wider world. But Harrison could not tell him. Not in a village like this. Not to a man who was the son of such a father.

He could not say he was a wizard. That magic pulsed in his every step. He could not reveal it, no matter how much Carlisle might believe. Because belief… did not always mean acceptance.

And yet he could not silence the thought that tore at him every summer’s end, when he had to say goodbye again:

that one day it might be Carlisle standing in Reverend Cullen’s pulpit, while Harrison burned at the stake – not as a boy, not as a friend – but as an instrument of Satan.

And perhaps he would not be saved.

 

The fields were already golden in the sun, the air hot and drowsy, but Harrison’s throat was dry only from thoughts. The same road, the same dusty gate, the same barn, the same creak when he shoved open the carved, cracked wooden door.

Home again.

At least… that was what he was supposed to feel.

But the house drank in the heat in silence, as it always had. Aunt Petunia’s mouth was pressed by that deep-rooted sternness, and Dudley looked at him the same way as ever – like a fly too tiresome to swat.

And yet, when the first evening came, Harrison stepped out behind the house, sat by the old well, and felt it. In the smell of the earth. In the dense layers of the air. Something ancient, whispering, protective.

Now he knew what it was.

His mother. Lily. The girl the village remembered only faintly, if at all. But who had shed blood for him. And with it had planted in this dusty world a magic even Voldemort had never fully understood.

Blood protection.

Harrison had learned: as long as he returned home, as long as he claimed this place as his own, that protection would live on. His mother’s magic would live on. He himself would live on.

And that… changed everything.

Voldemort had returned.

People did not speak of it. Or only too softly. Most pretended it was nothing more than a bad dream. For what would it mean if it were true? If the Dark Lord had truly risen among the living?

Harrison only watched them. He listened to sentences cut short, to sudden changes of subject, to the half-spoken name they now feared even to whisper.

He knew the truth.

And as every year, he returned here – to this house, this soil, this story he had always hated. Yet here was something he found nowhere else. Not Aunt Petunia. Not grim-faced Uncle Vernon. Not habit.

Something else.

Because here he was only Harrison. Not the Chosen One, not the Boy Who Lived, not a wizard.

Just a boy. A boy with an attic full of memories and books.

He no longer sought Carlisle’s company. Not like before. Not now, when Voldemort had returned.

His life had grown too heavy.

Carlisle… he was always just a summer. Another world. Another life.

Harrison told himself Carlisle surely no longer longed for his company. He was grown now, occupied with other duties. Surely he did not wait for summers anymore. And even if he had longed… Harrison could not do it to him. He could not drag him into the world that was consuming him.

Carlisle, meanwhile, had grown more assured in his calling. His movements were precise, his words calm, his face serene. But Harrison saw the cracks.

For the first time in years, Carlisle spoke aloud what he had always felt:

– Sometimes… it’s hard to agree with my father’s faith – he confessed one evening, behind the church, when only the two of them were there. – He says the Lord sent fire to cleanse the world. I only see people screaming as they burn.

Harrison did not answer. He could not tell him that fire did not always burn in the Lord’s name. Sometimes it was hatred that lit the flame.

And Voldemort had returned. And Harrison could do nothing. He could not intervene, could not expose the wizarding world. The laws, the oath, the protection… all worked against them.

He was present at every execution.

Even the Muggles, who knew nothing of magic, felt something ominous approaching. In villages and towns tension sprouted: hysteria, unrest spread in the communities, people spoke of ever stranger occurrences. The number of trials and burnings grew, the air heavy with fear and foreboding, as if the world itself sensed Voldemort’s return.

And Harrison – whose soul already carried too much blood – did not look at the victims. He looked at Carlisle.

The way his posture, once straight, slowly bent. The way his neck strained, his lips pressed into a tight line, his fingers curled into fists beneath his robes. Every verdict, every pyre carved another crack in him.

And Harrison saw. He saw him breaking inside. And he could do nothing.

Not magic, not Voldemort, not Death Eaters – but something far more insidious: his father’s faith. The crimes committed in the name of truth.

And Harrison only stood there, voiceless. Alone in the crowd, alone in his world.

And with every scream… he watched Carlisle.

Chapter 8

The darkness of the evening had already swallowed everything, only the church bells rang out one last time as Harrison began walking home. The sky was tiredly dark gray, a faint light still filtered through the trees, but the air was heavy – the weight before a storm.

He intended to cut across in front of the Dursleys’ house when a voice caught him:

– Harry.

Harrison stopped. He didn’t need to look back to know who it was. Still, he gave himself a moment before slowly turning around.

Carlisle stood at the edge of the road, half in the shadow of the trees. He didn’t smile. He just looked at him, his gaze deep and dark.

– Why didn’t you come to me when you got home? – he asked softly, though there was a tension in his voice.

Harrison shrugged, intending to walk past him, but Carlisle suddenly grabbed his arm, almost pulling him into a thicker, hidden grove at the edge of the field.

– You were too busy, weren’t you? – he asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

Harrison looked away. – It seemed like you were too. I thought… I didn’t want to bother you.

– You’re never a bother. – Carlisle’s voice was firmer now, the air almost trembling from it. – I’m never too busy to see my best friend. My brother.

Harrison licked his dry lips, still not meeting his gaze. Carlisle, however, didn’t let go of his hand. In fact – he squeezed it once.

That was enough.

Harrison’s face contorted; an involuntary hiss slipped from his mouth as his fingers pressed against the wounded area – the deep, still-hot scar he had gotten when Voldemort returned. The blood of my enemy… taken by force…

Carlisle loosened his grip a little, confused, then looked at his arm. – What was that?

Harrison shook his head. – Nothing, just… I bumped it.

But Carlisle no longer listened. Quietly, with determination, he rolled up Harrison’s sleeve. Harrison tried to pull his arm back, but the other hand remained on his wrist.

He looked at the scar. The fresh, still faintly bleeding line, not looking like an accident. And it wasn’t alone. There were others. Old wounds. Thin, longitudinal marks. One especially deep, irregular – as if bitten or pierced by a thorn.

Carlisle’s eyes widened as he took them in. – What is this…? – he asked, now with anger. – Did a relative do this? Uncle Vernon? That woman?

– No. – Harrison’s voice was faint, reluctant. – I… got this before I came home. Where I serve.

Carlisle slowly lowered Harrison’s hand, but his gaze didn’t leave him.

– This isn’t service, – he said. – This is something else.

Harrison said nothing.

Carlisle’s fingers ran along his arm again, as if trying to erase the scars, or rewind time.

Then he looked into his eyes. Deeply, for a long moment.

– You don’t have to go back there. – His voice was soft now, yet unwavering. – If they hurt you… then stay.

And Harrison felt then how tempting the thought was. To stay here, not go back, not face whatever war might await him there. But he knew it was impossible.

– I can’t – he whispered. – I can’t do that. – He met Carlisle’s gaze, silently pleading for understanding. It wasn’t lack of will, but the weight of duty too great.

 

The silence thickened, pressing down. The birds had gone quiet. Even the wind seemed frozen.
And then… he felt it.
The cold. Not a physical chill, but that other kind. Starting from deep inside. Freezing the heart and twisting memories. The kind of cold where there are no tomorrows. Only guilt. And loss.

Harrison froze.

So did Carlisle. The man’s eyes widened, his hand trembling on Harrison’s arm, their touch fragile, yet clinging.

– What is this? – he whispered. – It’s like…

– … I’ll never be happy again, – Harrison finished.

Carlisle stepped a fraction closer, as if closing the distance might say what words couldn’t. His fingers moved slowly along Harrison’s arm, seeking some kind of answer, or at least something solid in this blurred moment. His eyes were lost.

– What… what’s happening to me?

Harrison didn’t wait any longer.

– Step back, – he said. – NOW.

Carlisle barely moved, so Harrison shoved him roughly aside. The man stumbled, and in the next moment he sank to his knees in the damp leaves, his shoulders shaking.

Harrison drew his wand. In a fraction of a second, his fingers closed around it instinctively.

There was no time to think.

And there was no need.

Memories hit him, bright and strong. An attic. Summer warmth. A boy’s voice attempting Latin over dusty tomes. A laughter no one else had heard. A look that lingered too long. A feeling unnamed.

And then:

– Expecto Patronum!

Light burst into the darkness.

A stag leaped from Harrison’s wand – shining, gold-white, pure – cutting through the advancing darkness among the trees. The first Dementor, black and cloaked, recoiled, turning silently back, followed by the second, then the third.

The Patronus surged after them. The darkness receded. The feeling that all joy had been false slowly drained from the air. Like a dream.

Harrison stood, gasping. His wand still in hand. The stag remained in the clearing, back to him, guarding the path until the danger had completely passed.

Then… it vanished.

Harrison lowered his head slowly. His wand trembled in his hand. His breathing was uneven.

Carlisle still knelt on the ground, gripping the grass with both hands as if it anchored him to reality.

– That… was a stag, – he whispered hoarsely. – Made of light…

Harrison stepped closer, crouching beside him. Their gazes met.

– A Patronus, – he said softly. – Protection. A spell fed by the happiest memory you can summon.

Carlisle nodded slowly, tears welling in his eyes that he didn’t try to wipe away. He just looked at Harrison, with a frightened, childlike recognition.

– Your memory… – he whispered. – The memory that’s so strong in you… it… it need to be beautiful.

 

At the edge of the village, thick fog swirled, as if it too sensed that something fateful was unfolding. Voices came from the village, the anxious chatter of people. Perhaps they had seen the light Harrison had caused.

Harrison's heart pounded.

The sounds drew closer, and suddenly Harrison wasn’t looking at the crowd but at Carlisle. At the man who had been taught all his life to hate everything magical – everything Harrison himself was. The fear came not only from the voices but from him. What if Carlisle now turned away?

– If they catch me… – Harrison began, but his voice faltered.

Carlisle’s gaze, empty moments ago, suddenly regained focus. He sprang up and wordlessly snatched the wand from the boy hand. In one swift, decisive motion, he hid it among the tree roots.

– We’ll retrieve it here later, – he said, already moving. He leapt, embracing Harrison tightly, as if searching for refuge in the hug – or unwilling to let go ever again.

The next moment, he grabbed Harrison's hand and pulled him close.

– This way, Harry – he whispered. – Maybe we can avoid them.

And he was already pulling the still-stunned boy with him, through the fog, away from the sounds.

But it was already too late.

 

The villagers stood before them, their faces empty, bearing the mark of Dementors. As if something was missing from them – happiness, memories, humanity. For a moment, they froze when they saw Carlisle.

– The son of Reverend Cullen… – someone muttered.

The silence was broken by Vernon Dursley’s voice, sharp and accusatory.

– There he is! That little devil! It was him! – he pointed at Harrison with a trembling hand. – I’m sure of it!

Harrison tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. Two men grabbed him, and Carlisle was taken as well.

The great hall was dark, the candlelight barely illuminating the high vaulted ceiling. Frescoes lined the walls, telling sacred stories, but now they seemed to stare at them with accusing eyes.

Harrison Potter and Carlisle Cullen stood on the dock. The platform rose like a stage, but there was nothing celebratory about it. Only waiting, tension, the threshold of death.

A circle of people surrounded them. Whispers, prayers, and fear mingled in the air.

Reverend Cullen stepped forward slowly, his cloak heavy behind him. He stopped before the dock and looked at his son for a long moment.

– Carlisle… – he finally spoke. His voice was dull, as if every word carried weight. – You know what this means. If you are guilty, you will burn too.

Carlisle lowered his head. From the corner of his eye, he looked at Harrison, who stood silently beside him. The Reverend’s voice didn’t rise, yet every word was heavy.

– What were you doing in the forest with Harrison Potter?

Carlisle’s lips moved, but no sound came out. He knew: any answer would only bring the ropes closer. And the truth – that they had met in secret – could not be spoken.

Harrison lifted his head. His gaze locked on Vernon Dursley’s face. The man was red with rage, his fingers trembling on the edge of the platform. Harrison knew: whatever he said, Vernon would throw him onto the pyre. Suspicion alone, against his family’s honor, was enough – and he would be sent.

He closed his eyes for a moment. He knew they had seen them together, and that alone was enough. Carlisle would be condemned too.

And Harrison made a decision.

He should not die here. He had a duty. But if he ran now, Carlisle would remain. And he would burn. He could not allow it.

Before Carlisle could respond, Harrison stepped forward and pointed at the blond, as if accusing him.

– What were we doing there?! – he shouted, his voice filling the hall. – I lured him! I wanted him to be my accomplice!

The crowd stirred. Carlisle looked at him, frightened, not understanding. He opened his mouth to speak, but Harrison did not allow it.

– His faith is too strong! – he shouted again. – I could not convince him! I could not seduce him! But I tried! Because I… I am a servant of the devil!

The crowd roared. The Reverend’s face tensed, his hand clenched. Carlisle’s eyes widened, fixed on Harrison, his tongue on the verge of refutation, but Harry would not allow it.

Harrison quickly swept his gaze over the frescoes. There it was – the snake, the fall, the expulsion.

And then he spoke. Hissing, painfully, as if the words themselves were a curse.

– Forgive me, Carlisle – he hissed in the language of snakes. – I could not do otherwise. Just believe I deceived you. But… live.

After a moment of frozen silence, hysteria erupted from the crowd.

– Speaking in snake-tongue!

– That’s the devil’s voice!

– Throw him into the fire! Burn him!

People shouted, stones flew toward the dock, some fell to the ground, as if the foreign voice could infect them too.

Carlisle stepped forward, but two churchmen grabbed his arms. The man’s eyes were fixed on Harrison, his lips silently forming the words: "Why?"

The next moment, hands seized them. Harrison’s shoulder was roughly yanked, pulled back to be taken to prison. But most importantly, Carlisle was taken too.

Not to condemn him – but to protect him from Harrison.

Notes:

Hey everyone! 🎉 I'm dropping two chapters today because... it's my birthday! 🥳 I’m planning to update once or twice a week, so you can expect the next chapter sometime next week.

I really hope you enjoy the story — it’s my very first fanfic, and I’m ridiculously insecure about it 😅 So if you have a moment, please leave a comment! I’m absolutely starving for feedback, and every little message means the world to me 💬💖

Thanks for reading, and see you in the next chapter!

Chapter 9

Edward was already waiting for her outside the house that morning. As she stepped out the door, Bella’s heart beat faster: there was a lightness and elegance in every move of his that she still hadn’t gotten used to. She paused for a moment on the steps, almost wordlessly trying to take in the sight. And Edward’s smile—that dazzling, radiant smile—enchanted her in an instant.
– Good morning – Edward greeted her, his voice soft, yet steady.

On the way, Edward admitted he’d be glad if Bella introduced him to Charlie as her “boyfriend.”

Bella pulled her hand back nervously, then slipped it back into his arm again, as if trying to soften her words.

– I don’t think that’s really necessary…

– Why not? – On Edward’s face, innocent curiosity and stubborn intent formed a strange mix.

– Because… it feels so… official… and he already knows you…

– I meant as the boy you’re dating.

Bella stared hesitantly at the trees by the roadside.

– I have no idea if that’s even needed… But I don’t want you to have to pretend because of me.

Edward leaned closer, his patient smile reassuring.

– I’m not pretending, Bella.

She bit her lip. Deep down she knew Edward was much more than a simple “boy.” The words slipped from her almost inaudibly.

– I thought you were really something much more to me.

Edward’s gaze warmed, but all he said in response was:

– Charlie doesn’t have to know every detail.

Bella almost choked on her own laughter, her chest tightening with the strange mix of embarrassment and happiness.

 

At school, Edward had already arranged everything: they could sit next to each other in every shared class. Bella felt both protected and exposed at the same time, as if every eye in the classroom were fixed on them. And yet, Edward’s presence made up for everything.

Their first class was literature. The room buzzed with chatter, unusually lively despite the morning fatigue. Bella looked around, then leaned closer to Edward.

– Everyone seems a little more excited today, don’t you think?

Edward smiled, but a small crease appeared on his forehead as he listened.

– A new teacher is coming – he noted quietly.

Bella looked a little surprised.

– Really? I hadn’t heard about that.

Edward’s eyes darkened for a moment before he added thoughtfully:

– Alice didn’t mention it either…

The whispering was louder than usual, everyone speculating about the new teacher. Edward’s gaze grew distant, focused.

– Apparently he came from Germany… – he leaned closer to Bella’s ear. His voice was softer than the noise, yet perfectly clear. – He taught at Humboldt University. – After he spoke, his body tensed, as if even he was surprised by the information.

In the background, Jessica’s laughter rang out. – Probably some old German guy… – she whispered to Mike.

Angela seemed much more enthusiastic. – Either way, we’re lucky to have a university professor teaching us…

– Unless we can’t even understand him, then he’ll just butcher English – Mike snickered, and several others laughed along with him.

Then the noise died at once.

A figure appeared at the classroom door: slim but sharp posture, simple jeans, a blue shirt, a black T-shirt underneath. His black hair clung damply to his forehead, and his eyes… Bella almost involuntarily gasped. Green, such a luminous shade they seemed to glow even in the dull light.

The man quickly glanced around, as if to check if he was in the right place.

– Good morning, is this Advanced Literature? – he asked at last. His voice was deep, deeper than anyone would expect from such a young face. He clipped his “r” sounds, the ends of words seeming to dissolve. An accent. British, maybe? Bella was almost sure.

Jessica shivered for a moment at his voice, then pounced on the situation. – Yes, this is it! Oh my God, are you a new student? They didn’t even say a new student was coming!

– Grab a seat, man – Mike added with a grin. – The teacher will be here any minute, some old German guy. You don’t want him to be the one introducing us.

The stranger’s brow furrowed, but smoothed almost immediately. He didn’t answer, just walked to the blackboard. Under the desk, Edward’s fingers tensed as they brushed against Bella’s hand.

– That’s him – he whispered so softly only Bella could hear. – The teacher.

The man took a piece of chalk, writing his name with a short stroke: Herold Morven. The white dust scratched faintly against the black surface. When he turned back, a faint smile touched his lips, but never reached his eyes.

– Good morning. I’m Herold Morven, and this year I’ll be teaching literature.

A ripple of embarrassed chuckles went through the room. A hand shot up.

– You… you’re a teacher? Really?

Laughter. Awkward, but good-natured.

Morven nodded. – Yes. Despite my age, I’m not a trainee, and I’m not a new student. But the question is understandable. – Another student cut in:

– They said some German professor was coming…

– An old guy… – someone whispered at the back, setting off another wave of laughter.

The corner of Morven’s mouth twitched faintly. – I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you. I’m not an old German man. I’m from England, but I spent the last years in Berlin. If my accent is distracting, I’ll do my best to keep it under control.

This time they didn’t laugh—mostly smiled. He stepped back to the teacher’s desk, took out a thin book, and scanned the class.

– But let’s begin. Why do we study literature? – he asked.

Silence.

– Let’s make it simpler. – His voice was calm. – Why do people tell stories? – He looked around, but no one wanted to answer yet.

– Alright, let’s take Little Red Riding Hood – he continued. – The lesson is simple: don’t talk to strangers. But if we look a little deeper, it says much more about the world in which the tale was born. It’s a story. And at the same time, a mirror. Not just of what they feared, but of what they believed in. The question isn’t what we learn from a story—it’s what the story reveals about those who told it.

The silence now was different—attentive. Morven stepped back to the desk.

– That will be our starting point. Today we’ll see how these stories change—how fear becomes entertainment, how memory turns to myth. And along the way… maybe they’ll tell us something about ourselves too.

The silence was tense, but not uncomfortable: more like everyone was trying to taste something new.

Bella tilted her head, then whispered quietly to Edward.

– Maybe his classes will be interesting.

A fleeting smile crossed Edward’s lips.

– Could be. One thing’s certain: he’ll hold the class’s attention… one way or another.

His gaze shifted to Jessica, who was already watching the man with near-admiration.

Bella leaned closer to Edward. – If he hadn’t spoken, I would’ve thought he was a student. Though he looks older. How old do you think he is? Twenty-six? Are you alright?

Edward’s eyes stayed locked on Morven, then slowly turned back to Bella. – Twenty-eight – he said softly. – At least, that’s what he claims. Though he doesn’t look it… twenty-four at most. But I’d be the last to blame him for that. – He winked faintly, and Bella’s heart skipped a beat.

– For a moment I thought – Edward continued, now only for her – that I couldn’t hear his thoughts. But… they’re just quieter than most people’s.

Bella narrowed her eyes playfully, tilting her head. – And what is he thinking now?

Edward grinned. – That he’d rather be anywhere else than locked in here with a few hundred hormone-driven teenagers.

Bella stifled her laughter, but light sparked in the corner of her eyes.

Notes:

Hang in there, everyone — we're so close to the moment our two protagonists finally crossing paths. But after all these years, they can’t just sprint into each other’s arms in the rain... or can they?

Chapter 10

Filtered light spilled through the windows of the consulting room, softened by the clouded morning. The space was coldly clean, with greyish abstract prints on the walls, nothing ostentatious. Hermione adjusted her cardigan with a small, deliberate gesture as she sat down. There was a trace of almost childlike uncertainty in her, though she knew perfectly well why she was here. Carlisle welcomed her with a gentle smile and extended his hand.

– Mrs. Weasley… I’m glad we finally meet. – His voice was polite, attentive.

Hermione didn’t speak for a moment, then answered with a faint smile:

– Please, just call me Hermione. “Mrs.” feels far too formal.

Carlisle inclined his head.

– Very well, Hermione.

It brought no change to her expression. As if she truly heard it for the first time. Hermione nodded. So it wasn’t there… she had suspected as much. For a heartbeat it hurt, more than a little – but after so many other things had been lost over the years, she had learned, in a way, to let this go too.

The conversation moved slowly, but smoothly. When Carlisle asked health-related questions, Hermione tried to stay composed, but as she began describing her lapses in thought, her sentences broke apart with a faint, almost imperceptible hesitation. It was as though a memory – or an idea – surfaced, only to twist into another shape as soon as she gave it voice.

– Sometimes… – she exhaled. – Sometimes I know exactly what I’ve been researching. I know the method, the sources, the theory. But by the time I write it down… – a resigned gesture – something else ends up on the page. It seems just as precise. Just… not the same.

Carlisle watched her thoughtfully.

– No eighty-year-old ever wishes to face the thought of dementia, though in your case… it’s something different. Your mind is still remarkably structured, only… as if two systems were running at once.

– Yes. – Hermione’s nod was weary. – Perhaps it’s simply… too many memories carried for too long. A change of place might help, though Forks’ weather is rather familiar. – She laughed lightly at her own remark.

For a while silence lingered. Then Hermione added quietly:

– Fortunately, my grandson came with me. Harry. He’s teaching at the school now. It’s so good to travel with him… he’s always attentive.

Carlisle nodded politely, but there was no flicker of recognition in his face. Not even the faintest trace.

 

Harry heard the echo of his own footsteps in his head, as if the corridors of the school were hollow and empty—though they rang with laughter, chatter, and the sharp tap of shoes. But behind it all, they were there. The golden eyes, the translucent gazes, the movements too soft to draw attention. Alice and Jasper on the upper floor, Emmett in the parking lot, Rosalie near the lab.
And Edward. Edward, who might as well have been a Legilimens, because Harry had felt the pressure against his shields all day. Not a second of peace, as though he had been interrogated without pause, carefully stacking harmless thoughts to the front. Exhausting—but better than being exposed.

The whole day had been like a slow-burning torture, suffocating. Harry had held his breath from morning till night. He did not tremble. He taught. He watched. He even smiled. But when the house door shut behind him and he took off his coat... his body began to shake.

He never made it as far as the kitchen. The tears slid down his face silently, unnoticed until he saw them drop onto his palm—like he could not understand how it was still possible for this to happen to him.

That was when Hermione appeared, quiet and unhurried. She laid her hand on his forearm, said nothing, just guided him gently to the living room couch and sat beside him. She waited.

– There were five of them – Harry whispered at last. – Five Cullen children. Each one more perfect than the other. And all of them Carlisle’s children. And… his wife. – His voice broke. – He has a family. An immortal family. And I knew this could happen. I did. But… I wasn’t ready for this, Hermione. Not like this.

His fingers tightened around the old, worn bracelet on his wrist until his knuckles whitened.

Hermione spoke softly but with clarity:

– My dear… listen to me for a moment. He didn’t leave you. He didn’t choose someone else over you. He… – she searched for the words, then continued gently – he doesn’t remember you. His memory was taken. He has no idea who you are. Or what you are to each other.

Harry said nothing. He only stared at the bracelet. Then he bent forward, his hand trembling as he reached for the teapot.

– Tea? – he asked hoarsely.

Hermione nodded, but did not smile.

 

Carlisle had already suspected on the drive home that there would be no peace waiting for him. Ever since Bella had entered their lives, the family reacted more sharply to every newcomer – as if the fragile façade they had kept for so long could be torn apart by the slightest disturbance. And now… Alice had said nothing beforehand. Mrs. Weasley had arrived a week earlier, and she had brought her grandson with her. The boy who had appeared at the school as a teacher. Herold Morven. The name itself was unsettling. Too close to something he had carefully buried deep inside.

When he stepped into the living room, he was not surprised: they were all waiting. Jasper sat with folded arms, Rosalie balanced her legs on the armrest, Edward was pacing, Esme’s eyes radiated concern. Alice, silent as always, stared off into the distance from her corner.

As soon as he entered, Rosalie raised her voice.
– Quite a surprising day we’ve had – she declared with arms crossed. – In the morning they promised us a renowned German professor, and instead we got a cheeky British boy. Too young to be a teacher, but confident enough to put Edward in his place.

Edward growled, offended. – He only told me not to distract Bella…

Jasper studied him from the side, then spoke quietly:
– It wasn’t anger you felt. More like… something else. As if you were a schoolboy again, caught in the act.

Edward’s eyes flickered for a moment, then his lips closed. Carlisle knew this state well: when his sons were confronted with something about themselves they did not want to admit.

– Did you hear thoughts from him? – Jasper asked, turning to Edward.

– Quieter than from others – Edward admitted reluctantly. – But yes. I listened all day. He seems ordinary. Maybe just thinks a little too much of himself.

Jasper nodded slowly. – He felt strange to me too. I could hardly sense anything, and yet… it was there. As if he had wrapped every emotion tightly, deciding to let none of it out.

Carlisle asked instinctively: – Suppressed?

– No – Jasper shook his head. – More like… restrained. Like someone sitting silently through torture, smiling all the while.

Rosalie pulled a face. – Well, that sounds perfectly healthy. Maybe he’ll be the next poet to lament his life in epic verses.

Edward spoke again, quieter now but firm. – But why is he here? A stranger no one knew about. Not even Alice… – His eyes flicked to his sister.

Carlisle knew the moment had come. He could not delay it any longer. He straightened and spoke. – Herold Morven, yes. He moved here because his grandmother is seeing me for neurological treatment.

Edward frowned. – You took on a private patient?

– That’s… new – Alice added, surprised. – Since when do you do that?

– It’s not my habit. This is… a special case – Carlisle said softly, his gaze distant.

– Two years ago I published a study on the progression of a neurological degeneration and possible treatments. It has been one of my research areas for decades, though I’ve only identified a handful of cases. By citing my own previous work, I try to conceal my true identity so the results don’t raise suspicion. There are certain disorders I study this way, but always the ones that remain out of the spotlight.

Rosalie leaned back, her tone edged with suspicion. – And why take on a private patient now, of all times?

– Mrs. Weasley wrote to me – Carlisle said simply.

– And what’s her illness? – Edward cut straight to the point.

– Frontotemporal degeneration, rare but – let’s say – all the more troubling – Carlisle began. – Her knowledge and memories seem tangled. She understands what she hears or reads, but once the information runs its course through her mind, something changes, and the result is not what one would expect. As if a different answer always comes back. A kind of mental interference.

– Not unusual for a woman in her eighties – Jasper remarked cautiously. – Couldn’t it just be dementia?

– Not classic dementia – Carlisle shook his head. – And she is still active in the scientific community. She wants to finish a paper she has been working on for thirty years. That’s what matters most to her, and what she clings to. That intellectual work is the brightest point in her days.

– That’s why you agreed to treat her? – Esme asked.

Carlisle nodded, something deeper flickering in his eyes.
– I feel the same about my research. That desire to finish what you’ve begun. That’s why I help her. Because I see myself in her.

The family regarded him in silence.

– And Herold?

– Harry only came along – Carlisle said with a faint smile. – Her grandson was kind enough to accompany her.

Alice’s eyes sparkled. – An interesting pair.

Carlisle looked out through the window. – Yes… very.

– Carlisle, darling… – Esme’s touch was gentle on his arm. – Don’t you think you should meet Mr. Morven properly? You know, Herold… Harry, as you called him before. Maybe this isn’t as coincidental as it seems.

For a moment, the name – Harrison – lingered in the air like the fragment of a forgotten melody. The next second, Carlisle’s voice was once again cool with professional calm.

– I’m certain Mr. Morven is a remarkably talented young man – he said slowly, almost coldly. – But we have no reason to complicate matters. Not every new face means fate is intervening.

And all the while he knew: he was trying to suppress this feeling just as he had once suppressed his thirst.

Chapter 11

The classroom was dim this time. Harry held the book in his hand, but more as a prop than anything else – he didn’t intend to read aloud. The students’ attention was scattered, as always, but something kept drawing Harry’s gaze back: the last row, where Bella Swan and Edward Cullen sat side by side.

Too close.

Not physically – they sat within the rules. But Bella leaned in, almost resting on Edward’s shoulder, whispering. Edward smiled and bent his head toward her, as if sharing a secret. Harry couldn’t hear the words, but the gesture was far too intimate.

As if no one else existed. Or as if they simply didn’t care.

Harry’s fingers tightened around the book’s cover.
– Since we’re already on Romeo and Juliet – he said – why don’t we hear a key passage? Something important. Something beyond the romance. Something that shows what Romeo represents in this story.

Some students flipped through their books.

– Mr. Cullen, please – Harry asked evenly, though there was a metallic edge to his voice.

Edward didn’t look down, didn’t search the pages. He raised his head and met Harry’s eyes – and began to recite:

“With love's light wings did I o’erperch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.”

For a moment the classroom held its breath. Most of the girls audibly sighed. The blonde in the first row, who had been idly fiddling with her pen, now blushed. Bella’s eyes lit up.

Morven, however, did not smile. He didn’t move – didn’t let himself be swept away. And Edward felt it. The words had been spoken, the effect should have been there – but something didn’t land. The familiar game, played a hundred, a thousand times, failed this time. Why? Because Morven wouldn’t allow it. Because he didn’t believe.

– Thank you, Mr. Cullen. Perfect delivery… but what do these words actually mean? – Harry’s tone wasn’t hostile. It was more like water poured into wine. – What happens if we ignore the feeling, and look at the intent?

Harry leaned forward, closing the book. – It’s a beautiful quote – he said slowly. – Romantic. Brave-sounding. Rebellious. – He paused, then glanced at the class. – And what’s the problem with it?

No one answered.

– According to the passage, Romeo climbs the wall because love conquers all. Because he dares risk everything to see Juliet – even though death may await him.

Edward narrowed his eyes.
– This shows Romeo’s courage. His willingness to fight for love.

– Or… that he doesn’t understand boundaries – Harry cut in. – That he spies on Juliet, then suddenly appears and demands feelings he has already decided upon, though the girl has not. He never asks, “What do you want?” He only declares, declares, declares.

His voice dropped, sharper now. – And Juliet? Where is her choice? A boy sneaks into a girl’s garden at night and says: “I love you, so I’ll do anything.” And the girl? She falls for him before she knows anything about who he really is.

Edward didn’t reply, but something twisted inside him. This… wasn’t a mistake. Morven wasn’t only talking about the characters. He was looking right through him. Impossible, Edward told himself. But the words had struck exactly where he was most vulnerable.

A flicker of tension crossed Bella’s face. Unease. Maybe she, too, felt the shift.

Meanwhile, the teacher continued: – We love to romanticize, because passion is beautiful. Danger is exciting. But don’t forget: this story is not about love, but tragedy. Romeo is not just in love. Romeo is selfish. And blind. And Juliet, too. Because they are teenagers. Because they don’t know themselves. – Passion is powerful. But if we never question how it shapes expectations, then we repeat the same mistakes again and again. That is why, this semester, we’ll look beyond the feelings. Because literature – at its best – is a mirror. And it doesn’t always show us a beautiful face.

The class was silent. Edward’s eyes no longer sparkled. Something had shifted – maybe understanding, maybe the spark of a challenge. He no longer saw an unimpeachable teacher. He saw someone dangerously perceptive. Someone who refused to be swayed by words – only by intent. And, he realized with a jolt, someone he could not read clearly. And that unsettled him.

Morven spoke again, this time to the class, not to Edward: – All right, let’s move on. For today, let’s just look at the end of Act Two. For tomorrow, I want a short reflection: “Why do we believe Romeo loves Juliet?” And: “What if we didn’t?”

Edward already knew what he would write. Something flawless, structured, with quotes. But for the first time… he doubted it would be enough.

 

– I hate that we always have to walk back – Hermione muttered as she kicked off her shoes at the door. – Honestly, if anyone really cared about their poor, sick grandmother, maybe they’d at least drive her home from treatment. Once in a while.

Harry didn’t look up from the counter. He mumbled something under his breath – Hermione caught the words “manipulative old hag,” but not clearly enough to argue.

– No – he said shortly at last, already reaching for the kettle. – Tea? – though he was already making it.

– It’s a ten-minute walk. And the nurses always peek through the window until you get home.

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. – And how do you know that?

– I made sure of it – Harry shrugged, filling the kettle. – A little spellwork, some extra vigilance. Better than handing out maps of your routine.

Two mugs clinked together, and the sound of water filled the silence. Hermione studied his movements – precise, but strained, as if pulled too tight.

– You know… – she began carefully, as if testing thin ice – we’ve been here a month. And you still haven’t… reached out.

The porcelain cracked between Harry’s fingers – softly, almost naturally, as though it had always been fragile.

– Damn it – he hissed, vanishing it with a flick. – That was the last one without flowers.

– I’m sorry – Hermione said honestly, but without apologizing. – Especially since you could’ve fixed it before banishing that poor cup into the void.

Harry set the next mug on the counter a little harder than necessary.

– Do you always grieve your suppressed feelings with crockery? – Hermione asked sweetly.

Harry grunted something noncommittal.

– You know I’m not pushing – she continued, more softly. – I’d be here anyway. Just… this wasn’t the deal. Not this silence.

Harry turned away, his shoulders tense.
– He should feel me here… but he hasn’t reached out. So I wait…

– And what happened at school today? – Hermione tried to ease the tension.

Harry shrugged. – Idiots. One thinks Scotland isn’t part of the UK. Another thinks Einstein was a rock star. And one teacher claimed magic – – he caught himself quickly – – mythology is just a distraction from rational thought.

– So everything’s the same – Hermione said with a half-smile.

Harry took the two mugs and finally sat across from her.

– Something bothers me – he admitted at last. – That girl. Bella. I think… she’s fallen in love with that vampire.

Hermione nodded slowly. – And?

– The problem – Harry leaned over his tea – is that Edward seems… drawn back to her.

– Drawn back? – Hermione repeated in a weary, motherly tone. – Is that some British euphemism for deadly attachment?

– Maybe – Harry’s mouth twitched in a tired half-smile. – But it’s not sweet. Not romantic. It’s catastrophic.

Hermione nodded gravely.
– Maybe it really is something else. Neither of them knows what they’re playing with. And if they don’t stop in time…

– Then it’ll end in tragedy – Harry finished.

– What do you plan to do?

Harry glanced past the sofa, out the window, where damp fog clung to the treeline.
– I don’t know yet.

Chapter 12

Carlisle found himself thinking of Herold Morven more and more often.
He had never met the man face to face, and yet… it felt as though he was everywhere.
Like seawater, leaving ripples wherever it drifted. The town, the school, even the hospital had begun to speak of him.

And still, Carlisle never examined the pull within himself. He never asked, never sought him out. Because he didn’t want to know.
Or perhaps because he wanted it far too much.

 

Out of habit, Carlisle ordered twice—one tray of coffee, and a small assortment of pastries.
It was a convenient excuse to distribute among tired staff, so no one noticed that he himself never ate or drank.

When he stepped into the small bakery on Main Street, a familiar scent caught him off guard: strong, bitter, and yet strangely homelike.
Black tea. Real Earl Grey. English, freshly brewed.

The surprise was so sharp he spoke aloud without meaning to: – Well, black tea?

The girl behind the counter laughed as she packed pastries into a paper bag.

– Oh, yes! The new literature teacher asked for it. Harry. He wondered if we could get some English tea, and said he’d come here often if we did. He made it so strong it’s almost like coffee. – She shook her head with a smile. – He left five minutes ago.

Carlisle’s fingers tightened against the tray. By a hair’s breadth. For a moment he nearly turned on his heel to follow. But he did not. He must not. Because the man he had seen in the woods – with emerald eyes, human still – had stirred something in him he could not put into words. Not even to the Coven.

 

One afternoon, walking home from the hospital, Carlisle took a habitual detour along the main street. In a bookshop window, a new display of fresh titles had been arranged.

Two students lingered outside. One held a book: The Happy Prince and Other Tales.

– Are you sure this will be any good? – asked the other, uncertain.

– Professor Morven said Wilde’s tales are quite special, – the first answered, almost eagerly. – That they’re entertaining, but deeper than they first appear.

– Fairy tales, and serious at the same time?

– Yes. He said they can really move a person.

Carlisle’s steps slowed without his noticing. His attention fixed on the students, then the book. The Happy Prince. A title he had known long ago, but now it seemed to carry a different meaning.

And there it was again, the name he had heard so often. Morven. The man seemed to cast invisible ripples into the fabric of the town.

A faint, unsettling sensation stirred in Carlisle’s chest: curiosity. Not only about who this teacher was – but how he could so easily leave traces behind in others.

 

Another time, the name arose within the hospital itself. The ward rounds were nearly over, Carlisle half-listening to his colleagues’ routine remarks. Only two rooms left, nothing of note.

Then, from the nurses’ station, a voice carried across.

Baritone, youthful, rich – almost smiling as it spoke.

– It would mean a great favor to me, if it’s not too much trouble, – the voice said, politely insistent, with just a hint of pleading.

Carlisle stopped short. The tone, the inflection… he knew it. He himself had used that same cadence when he wanted something to be granted.

The head nurse’s reply came back at once:

– Oh, no, not at all, Mr. Morven.

– Please, just call me Harry, – the man returned lightly. – It’s not a long way my grandmother has to walk, but I’d feel easier knowing such watchful eyes were on her. If I saw correctly, the house is even in full view from here…

A shiver of tension ran through Carlisle’s body. Only a few steps, and he could see him. A handful of movements would be enough.

But his feet did not move.

What if it truly was him? His mate. How could he claim such a bond? How could he bind his life to someone whose time still stretched ahead of him? A man for whom every moment carried new choices. Would Carlisle undo his fate? Expose him to what he himself had carried for centuries – thirst, loss, that quiet sorrow known only to one who has watched friends and loved ones vanish into time?

And if he yielded to the pull… if it was indeed him… if he recognized his mate in him, then there would be no turning away. No question left, only consequence. But what could he possibly give him…?

Carlisle turned back silently, following his colleagues the other way.

 

It was Edward on whom he saw the man’s influence most clearly.

As if Morven instinctively pressed at Edward’s weakest points, precisely where it stung most. Not out of malice – rather by the nature of who he was. Carlisle found it almost amusing at times, how Edward kept losing the perfect composure he displayed to everyone else. Not that Carlisle would ever have admitted this aloud, least of all near Edward.

One evening came to his mind, the very one that had finally driven him to make a decision.

Rosalie tossed aside her fashion magazine with elegant disdain, turning toward Edward, who paced the living room with a crumpled paper clenched in his hand.

– I have a question, – Rosalie said, her voice cool and measured. – From now on, should we expect the Edward Cullen: Chronicles of My Soul special edition after every literature class?

Emmett burst into raucous laughter; Alice hid her smile behind her laptop. Edward gave no sign of hearing, threatening to shred the paper between his fingers.

– Ridiculous, – he muttered tensely. – This isn’t critique, it’s personal.

Carlisle laid aside his book and looked up.

– What is it about, Edward?

Edward stepped over and thrust the essay at him in silence. Carlisle smoothed the pages, scanning the lines. The family watched. A faint smirk curved Rosalie’s lips; curiosity flickered over Jasper’s face.

At last Carlisle raised his eyes.

– It’s beautiful writing, Edward. The emotional depth, the care for language… it’s remarkable.

For a moment relief softened Edward’s expression – until Carlisle went on:

– But it isn’t what the teacher asked. You didn’t answer the assignment. You circled around it instead.

The room fell silent.

Emmett’s laughter broke it. – So you got a C? That’s historic! Morven actually marked down perfect Edward!

– Very funny… – Edward growled.

Rosalie sighed. – I like this teacher. Finally, someone who doesn’t swoon at Edward’s glittering words.

– I think he’s brilliant, – Alice added airily.

But Carlisle’s attention had caught on the handwritten notes along the margins. Not scolding – guidance. Questions. Open doors.

“What does the chosen passage suggest about the role of the female figure in this scene?”
“Why does Juliet fall silent when Romeo speaks of the future?”
“Where can you sense society’s expectations shaping their dialogue?”

Carlisle’s brows lifted slowly.

– He wrote questions in the margin, – he murmured.

Rosalie tilted her head. – What did you expect? That he’d just slap a grade on it and lean back?

– Most teachers don’t, – Carlisle replied, his tone sobering. – They don’t care if the student grows, only about the mark. Edward is only angry because he thought he could get away with it – and for the first time, he couldn’t.

– Also, – Alice added, as if only just remembering, – he’s aesthetically flawless. – Her voice was playful, but serious underneath. – His posture, his clothes, his gestures…

Rosalie gave her a suspicious look. – You really only noticed his aura, didn’t you?

– That too, – Alice winked. – But someone has to appreciate the whole picture… and those gorgeous emerald eyes.

Carlisle froze. The air thickened suddenly around him. The vision. The woods. The eyes. No one had ever mentioned, until now, that Morven’s eyes were green…

 

In the dim half-light of his study, Carlisle sought calm between the shelves of books, but the pages could not hold his attention. His thoughts kept circling back to the same place: Herold Morven. The man he had never seen, and who yet was everywhere.

A man who bore the same nickname as his soulmate… whose emerald eyes might well be the same as the man’s in the forest.

Carlisle’s fingers drummed softly on the desk. He must not… it was forbidden. And yet the realization cut sharper with each passing day: he had to see him. If not in person, then at least by writing to him.

But first, Edward must bring Bella home that weekend. He owed his family the attention they needed – especially now, when everything once more hung on a delicate balance.

After that… he could delay no longer.

He would seek out Herold Morven.

Chapter 13

The air tasted metallic, as if the lightning hadn’t just torn open the sky but something deeper — something that had remained hidden until now. Bella stood trembling in the doorway, and Charlie’s eyes locked onto her, frozen like stone.

– Let me go, Charlie! – she blurted out. She knew how cruel it sounded, but fear had long since taken control. – This didn’t work. I’m sorry, okay? I hate Forks. I hate it, I hate it!

The words echoed through the walls of the house — the same words her mother had once shouted, walking out that very door years ago. Charlie didn’t move, stunned into silence, and Bella seized the moment: she yanked the door open and ran into the night.

Out in the dark yard, she felt as if a shadow were following her. With every step, danger seemed to lurk just behind. She practically threw herself into the truck, slammed the door shut, and gripped the steering wheel with shaking hands.

Moments later, Edward was beside her, silently driving through the glow of the highway. His fingers wrapped tightly around hers, as if afraid she might vanish if he let go. Bella turned her head toward the window, but all she saw were blurred streaks of light sliding down the windshield. Just hours ago, she’d been laughing — Alice’s energetic throws, Emmett’s devilish swings, Esme’s gentle refereeing… it all felt so distant now, like it belonged to another life. And then James appeared. Since then, everything had fallen into darkness.

– Why did it have to happen like this? – she burst out suddenly, her voice trembling. – Why me? The world is full of people — why does he want to kill me?

Edward pulled over to the side of the road. The hum of the engine faded, and silence pressed down on them. His grip on Bella’s hand didn’t loosen, and guilt flickered in his eyes.

– It’s my fault – he hissed. – I was a fool to expose you to this kind of danger. If I hadn’t protected you, it would’ve ended right there.

– That’s not what I meant – Bella protested, tears stinging her eyes. – It’s not your fault… but why me? Why did I catch his attention?

Edward was quiet for a moment, then spoke softly. – I entered his mind. James sees himself as a hunter. Tracking is his life — his passion. And then there was you: one vulnerable human, fiercely guarded by an entire family. To him, it’s the perfect game. The most thrilling hunt he’s ever known. And if your scent hadn’t been so maddeningly tempting… he might not have noticed you at all.

Edward shook his head in disgust. – But now… you’re all he cares about.

Bella’s heart pounded. She could still hear her own shout at Charlie’s door, still feel the cold shadow of James’s gaze on her skin. Even sitting in the car, she didn’t feel safe. And the most terrifying part was not knowing what scared her more — James returning, or the way she’d shattered her father’s heart with those words.

– I’m sorry – she said at last. – But I’ll protect you. No matter what it takes.

 

The storm had quieted early, but the air remained damp. Harry couldn’t stay in bed any longer. Shadows stirred in his dreams, and that strange, inner restlessness hadn’t left him since arriving in Forks. He went out for a walk, hands in his coat pockets, head down, wandering the road and stepping around puddles.

The streets were deserted, yet the air buzzed — the silence wasn’t real silence. The rain hadn’t fully stopped. He’d barely walked a few meters when he spotted a car parked at the roadside. A strange feeling struck him — not fear, but something instinctive, something that wouldn’t let him walk away.

As he stepped closer, he recognized the girl — Bella Swan. And beside her, the boy: Edward Cullen. His gaze held both coldness and something else… something dangerous. Harry walked up to the car and tapped on the window.

– Good evening – he said quietly.

When Bella looked up at him, her face was a mix of fear and guilt.

– Would someone care to explain why a young girl is wandering the streets at night with a boy? – Harry asked in an overly teacher-like tone, his expression deliberately neutral. – Miss Swan, you should be home right now...

Bella’s glance was uncertain. Her eyes flicked to Edward, as if waiting for permission to speak. Edward’s eyes were dark, his face sculpted and rigid. He stared at Harry with blinding self-control. In his mind, something wild and raw was raging — and the teacher’s presence only intensified it. But he couldn’t slip.

– Bella… is traveling to Phoenix – he said coolly. – Alone.

– I know, I know. I probably shouldn’t interfere, but… – Harry looked them over. – This isn’t the best time for adventures. I’ll escort her home.

– That won’t be necessary – Edward growled.

Harry’s eyes flashed. – I’ll do it anyway. You two go ahead — I’ll follow in my car. Or Miss Swan can ride with me.

Bella hesitated, but eventually returned to Edward’s side. Harry followed in his own car, and when they stopped in front of the Swans’ house, he saw Bella trembling.

– Dad… thinks I’m going to Phoenix alone – she whispered.

Harry sighed. He saw how scared she was, how shaken. – Alright. Mr Cullen – he turned to Edward – Please get in my car. I’ll take you home later. Just… give us a few minutes.

Edward gave him a sharp look, stepped over to Bella, whispered something to her, then got into Harry’s car.

Harry walked Bella to the door. Charlie opened it — his face tense, hair disheveled, clutching the phone in his hand. Clearly, he’d already tried calling her.

– Mr Swan – Harry nodded. – Bella was a bit confused. It didn’t seem like the best idea for her to leave right now. Maybe things will look clearer in the morning.

Charlie stared at his daughter for a long moment, then nodded, lips pressed tight.

– Don’t be afraid, Miss Swan. Believe me — everything will be alright.

Bella’s heart pounded in her throat — at least until she looked into Harry’s green eyes. A strange calm radiated from him. Something that wasn’t… human. Not magic. Not hypnosis. Just a moment. A glance. And Bella’s heartbeat slowed. Her breathing steadied.

Harry stepped back, and only then did he notice Edward’s gaze from the car.

 

Edward sat in the passenger seat, tense and silent, fists clenched on his thighs. He watched Bella and Morven speaking at the door, heard Charlie’s heartbeat, his nervousness, Bella’s… her fear. And Morven’s — strangely calm, clear, and endlessly tired.

He didn’t know why, but this man… irritated him. Not like humans usually did — he didn’t crave his blood. He just… existed. In his movements, in his voice — as if behind every silence lay something ancient, suppressed, and disdainful.

While Morven still stood at Bella’s door, Edward pulled out his phone and spoke quietly.

– Alice, Morven caught us. We just brought Bella home, and he’s driving me back. Emmett, stay at Bella’s house, please. Don’t ask — just… be there.

– Heard you – Alice replied. – He’s already moving.

 

“Stupid teenagers.” The thought shot through Morven’s mind, almost contemptuous — but there was no real anger in it. Just weary adulthood.

Edward, however, felt a surge of irritation. “Teenagers?” he fumed inwardly, but he sensed something else in the man. Something deeper.

Harry climbed back into the car and buckled his seatbelt. When he glanced at Edward, a flicker of the evening’s events ran through his mind — Morven’s interference had caused them no small amount of trouble.

The man furrowed his brow for a moment, then simply said: – Tell me the way.

Edward hesitated, then grumbled the directions.

 

Inside the Cullen house, the living room was thick with tension. Jasper stood in the corner like a stalking predator, eyes locked on the door. Emmett was still at Bella’s house but already heading back. Rosalie paced near the window, scanning the road with sharp, restless eyes. Esme leaned against the fireplace, arms tightly crossed.

– I understand why he did it. A responsible teacher… any of them would’ve reacted the same way – her voice trembled with worry. – But what do we do now? Where do we hide Bella, now that Mr. Morven knows?

Rosalie moved like a caged animal, pacing the center of the room.

– And how do we know who he’ll tell? He may be just one man, but he knows too much. Too curious. Too clever.

Carlisle stood near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable. His voice was calm, but carried that subtle, familiar edge the others had learned to recognize.

– This isn’t the end. Edward’s not here yet. We’ll decide the next step once he arrives. Until then… let’s act natural when they walk in.

Jasper leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Carlisle with quiet intensity. He sensed something the others hadn’t — not danger, but something else. Confusion, excitement, longing… a tangled, vibrating emotion that filled the room.

Carlisle finally moved. Slowly, almost imperceptibly. He stood, not as if making a decision, but as if driven by instinct, and walked to the window. He didn’t pull back the curtain, didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring into the dark. His shoulders tensed, as if something — someone — was approaching. A presence both familiar and eerily new brushed against his awareness. It wasn’t physical. It was resonance.

Rosalie stepped closer, sensing something was wrong. She read the signals pouring off Carlisle with feverish intensity, and froze when she realized what she was seeing.

– No… no, Carlisle – she said softly, urgently. – This is really not the right time.

– What’s happening? – Jasper asked, though the question was already pointless. He felt it. Carlisle’s emotions surged like a burning tide: confusion, desire, fear, longing… and a deep, ancient pain rising to the surface.

Carlisle’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak. He just stared at the approaching headlights.

The car turned slowly onto the road leading to the house. Carlisle’s muscles tightened. His eyes weren’t on the vehicle — they were locked on someone inside. Someone he hadn’t truly seen yet, but felt.

Rosalie stepped forward, grabbed Carlisle’s shoulder, and turned him to face her.

– Carlisle. Look at me. Focus. Yes, maybe it’s him — your mate, your fate, or whatever — but this is really not the moment. James is out there. With the nomads.

Carlisle struggled to tear his gaze from the car, but Rosalie’s voice finally pierced the fog.

– I’ll ask Jasper to smooth out the chaos in your head. Okay? Let’s handle this now, and afterward… afterward he’ll be there. He’ll be waiting for you.

Carlisle nodded, a slow, hazy, accepting motion. Jasper stepped closer, almost cautiously. The atmosphere in the room shifted under his influence — the tension didn’t vanish, but it slowed, softened. Carlisle’s breathing grew steadier.

The car came to a stop. The engine died. No one got out right away.

Alice whispered: – The man driving… he’s not ordinary. The future around him… I can’t see it clearly. It’s like… something’s blocking it.

Carlisle turned back to the window. No longer frantic, no longer hunted. Just watching. He felt something important had begun. And he knew: it was one step away.

 

The car rolled quietly up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Inside, the house remained still, but Edward could already hear the pulse of thoughts — fragments, old wounds, new desires, a disturbingly strong, swirling emotion… coming from his father. Carlisle had never been this chaotic. He was the man of peace, of silence. And now…

Edward clenched his fists on his lap. It was too much. Everyone in the house was tense, and Carlisle… he had almost given himself away. Just because this man — this stranger — had entered their lives.

Edward glanced sideways. Nothing remarkable. A plain black coat, a stubbled face, deep shadows under tired eyes. He looked worn. Human. Unremarkable. And yet… something about him unsettled Edward. Not his blood. Not his thoughts. Just his presence. As if he’d done nothing, and still, every movement disrupted the balance.

Edward didn’t understand why he was angry. Maybe because there was nothing special about him — and yet Carlisle trembled in his wake. This man wasn’t a choice. Wasn’t an option. He simply was. And that was unbearable.

Edward shivered. Because for the first time… he didn’t just see him. He noticed him. Morven. Or rather — Harry.

The man wasn’t confident. Wasn’t unshakable. Wasn’t the solid teacher Edward had known at school. Now his brow was furrowed, his lips chewed — a strange, deeply human gesture. A twitch at the corner of his eye, as if trying to suppress something boiling inside. And Edward heard nothing. Not a single thought. As if the man had gone silent before him. It terrified him.

And then he understood. This was different. This… was different for Carlisle. It wasn’t like Bella and him. Bella was something he wanted, something he believed in, something he felt — but it was a choice. A possible path. But what Carlisle felt now… and maybe Harry too… wasn’t a choice.

It was a bond. It was fate. It was inevitable.

And Edward suddenly grasped what Harry — Morven — had tried to teach him about Romeo’s mistakes. Because he, Edward, had believed he chose. Believed that feeling was enough. But this… what he saw now, what he was being pulled into… this wasn’t feeling. It was something deeper.

Carlisle and this man couldn’t choose. Their souls already had. But not now. Not like this. It couldn’t happen now. Bella… James… everything hung in the air. It wasn’t safe. Not now.

When the car stopped, Edward was out in an instant. The door slammed behind him, and he turned.

– Thank you, sir – he said, perhaps for the first time with genuine, respectful tone. – I can find my way from here.

Harry didn’t move. Then he sighed, took his hands off the wheel, and slipped the keys into his pocket. A slow, deliberate motion — not threatening, but firm.

– No chance, Mr. Cullen – he replied quietly. – I’m coming in. I’d like to speak with your parents.

– I understand, sir, that you’d like to speak with them – Edward replied, trying to sound as natural as possible – but they’re not home. They’ve gone away. Another time… would be much better. I’ll let them know when they return.

He headed toward the door, hoping the tension inside would be enough to keep Morven away. But when he looked back, he froze.

Harry stood beside the car, fists clenched, eyes closed, face turned toward the sky. As if trying to gather the last of his self-control. He let out a long, deep breath, then opened his eyes — and stared straight at the door. As if he could see through it. Not the trees, not the walls, not the barriers. But the one standing behind it. The one whose every cell answered his own.

– No chance – he said at last, softly but with unwavering certainty. – We’re dealing with this. Now.

And he stepped forward. Edward moved aside. Because he couldn’t not.

Notes:

Well, I can't drag this out any longer either...
I promise they won’t both do a dramatic turn away from the doorway. 😄

Chapter 14

Carlisle slowly opened the door.

Two figures emerged from the dark – Edward, rigid, his back straight, every move taut with restraint. But behind him… behind him stood someone else.

The man Carlisle had first only felt.
The one who plucked at some ancient string within his soul.

Harry…

Carlisle’s gaze ran over his face before he could stop himself.

Sharp, defined cheekbones. A nose with a graceful, almost artistic curve. Lips—soft, full, alive.

His black hair was longer than one might expect, falling slightly into his forehead, moving as if with a will of its own.

The dark strands made the pallor of his skin stand out all the more. A scattering of faint freckles clung there, as if remnants of the sun refused to let him go.

A pale shadow of stubble softened the symmetry of his features, made him look more human, more reachable—and all the more compelling for it.

He looked beautiful.

Not in the way an immortal could be beautiful, but in a disquieting way, with his human imperfections intact.

A kind of beauty that made it impossible to look away—and yet… something was off.

As though the whole impression did not quite fit together.

As if his face held a secret, the same face Carlisle had glimpsed in his vision in the forest—and yet not the same at all.

– Good evening, Dr. Cullen – Harry said. His voice was deeper than Carlisle had expected, and when he spoke, his lips moved in such a way that for a heartbeat, Carlisle forgot everything else.
There was something peculiarly alive in them, vibrating, as if the words were not merely sound, but part of some spell.

– There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.

And with that, he guided Edward inside, almost like a father would, not Carlisle.

Carlisle didn’t spare Edward a glance. All his attention locked on Harry’s movements. He searched for his eyes – craved them more than any other – but Harry moved just so, always keeping them from meeting.

Not openly, not obviously, but enough that Carlisle could never quite catch his gaze.

As if he refused to let himself be seen.
As if… he knew what was happening, and tried to keep the distance.

Carlisle cleared his throat and finally spoke.

– Yes… Edward called me, explained what had happened – he said softly, like a man afraid a louder voice might shatter something fragile. – Thank you for bringing him home.

Every part of him longed to ask Harry in. To stand just a step away and whisper: “Stay. Just for a moment. Please.”
But something inside held him back. A voice whispering: Not now. Not like this. Not in the middle of this chaos.

And he obeyed that voice.

His hand still rested on the doorframe. He watched, waiting—would Harry step inside, or remain where he stood? Like a man who knew precisely where he should not cross… and yet had already taken the first step.

Carlisle knew: if he wasn’t careful now, something irreversible would happen.

 

Harry didn’t wait at the threshold. His voice stayed quiet, yet carried an unyielding weight.

– I need to clear something up with you, Dr. Cullen.

Carlisle stepped aside automatically, giving way, while struggling to keep his calm.

– Please… just Carlisle – he murmured.

As Harry passed him, Carlisle caught himself leaning closer, trying to catch his scent – hoping it might explain why his body, his soul, his every sense was responding like this.

But the scent wasn’t what he expected.

Warm, natural, comfortably human – yet empty. It didn’t fit. Not with those sharp lines, those precise gestures, that quiet determination.
It was as if the scent belonged to someone else.
A lie, too perfectly crafted.

Harry entered the house and let his gaze sweep over the Cullen family, frozen in the center of the living room. His movements were calm, observant, deliberate – and yet… not.

His eyes paused on Esme, standing near the fireplace, arms crossed, her body half-turned toward the others. The tension in her shoulders mirrored the collective strain of the room.

Harry inclined his head politely.

– Mrs. Cullen, I presume? Good evening. Forgive me for intruding like this.

His words were courteous, his face touched by a faint, formal smile – and yet they rippled through the room like a stone cast into still water.

Everyone froze.

Esme forgot to breathe. Edward shifted behind her, as if desperate to stop time before something irreversible took place. Alice blinked, straining to see, but failing.

Carlisle’s heart – that metaphorical organ he should no longer feel – skipped a beat. His face gave nothing away, but inside he knew: the façade they’d built, the careful life, the practiced masks of centuries… all trembled at a single sentence.

Harry’s greeting to Esme wasn’t just courtesy.
It was a claim. A conclusion. A presumption.

And Carlisle understood: if Harry truly was his mate, then right now, he was seeing him in a moment that suggested – taken.

And Carlisle couldn’t say otherwise.
He couldn’t speak the truth he wanted.
No, Esme was not his mate.
No, she wasn’t the one he had waited for.
No, she wasn’t the one who had taught him how to breathe again.

Jasper stirred, as if struck by a wave. Carlisle felt his focus – probing his emotions, trying to piece together the churn of confusion, the fractured calm, the instinctive pull, the panic…

And he felt, too, the near-absence radiating from Harry.

No anger. No fear. No rejection. But no openness either.
Like a perfect shadow, shutting itself away.
Like a memory – too alive to be past, too distant to be present.

Jasper instinctively stepped back.

Carlisle gave Harry a small nod, silently asking him to follow.
In the living room, no one breathed – or perhaps they hadn’t for some time.

The door closed slowly behind them.

 

Carlisle led Harry toward the living room, trying to appear natural, but with every step he felt less at home in his own body.

– Please, have a seat. – he gestured politely toward the couch, though almost in the same motion he sank into the armchair opposite, hoping that, even briefly, he might finally catch his eyes.

But Harry didn’t look at him. Deliberately. Every motion thrummed with resolve, and with the certainty that he would give nothing away he did not choose to. His fingers rolled the beads of a simple bracelet – slow, faint clicks that echoed in Carlisle’s sharpened hearing.

The colors of the bracelet – black, violet, white, and the occasional muted blue – flashed in jarring contrast beneath the evening light. It was like Harry himself: a deliberately unsettling composition. Impossible not to notice.

The soft knock of beads against one another struck Carlisle like an itching, grating wave – and yet he couldn’t look away. His voice nearly trembled when he spoke, but he managed to shape the words:

– I’m sorry my son has caused such complications. We’ll make sure he understands what is proper behavior toward a young lady.

Inside, though, he whispered an apology to Edward. He knew it was unfair. He knew the boy walked his own tangled path – and whatever misstep Edward had made, it was dust compared to the storm raging inside Carlisle now. To sit here with Harry, to hear his breathing, to catch each restrained shift of expression, was far more dangerous than any adolescent drama.

For the first time since entering, Harry’s gaze flicked upward… but not to Carlisle. To Edward. He studied the boy as though searching for something in him. Something he clearly did not like.

Carlisle tensed instinctively. He couldn’t stop the thought: perhaps it was Edward who drew that look from Harry. Perhaps he had seen – or felt – something toward him. And the sheer idea that Edward had received Harry’s attention, something Carlisle himself could not have… cut sharp and selfish through him, foreign and raw.

– I need to make something clear. – Harry’s voice remained calm, but carried a shift, a weight. Now he declared. – It is not my habit to involve myself in hazy teenage love dramas. Everyone must make their own mistakes.

The air froze in Carlisle’s chest. In that single word – “mistake” – he heard judgment. Not spoken to Edward as a peer, but as a verdict. Harry spoke not as an adult, but as a judge. From a moral height.

– But today, when I ran into Miss Swan… – he went on, fingers tapping against his thigh, eyes glancing around the room – …I could not fail to notice the girl’s desperation. And that I cannot ignore.

Carlisle held his breath.

And Harry wasn’t done:

– Nor the two red-eyed vampires who shadowed our every step after we left her house. Or… – now, for the first time, he looked directly at Carlisle, his gaze slicing through the fabric of silence – …the third, who even now is coming toward this very house.

The room seemed to inhale all at once. Carlisle’s mind raced: who was it? Who had seen them? How had they missed it? How had Harry come this close to the truth?

And yet: a part of him, low, human, hopelessly weak, untouched for centuries, was not thinking of any of that.

It thought only:

"He finally looked me in the eyes."

 

The saying was true. No matter the scent, the face, the voice – a mate knows the other. It cannot be hidden. It cannot be denied.

And as Carlisle saw his golden eyes darken, his body tense… he knew what would follow.

The others knew too. A shift. A shadow. A lean forward – one moment too late.

Harry already had his wand in hand.

And with practiced, merciless precision, his foot pressed against Carlisle’s chest, halting his advance. The doctor froze, the motion breaking. The wand’s tip pressed against his throat, its end pulsing with blue light – angry, warning.

Harry’s voice was ice:

– Dr. Cullen. I don’t want to hurt you. But one more move, and I’ll show you what a truly unpleasant encounter means.

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

– As I said – he continued, eyes locked on Carlisle’s – a vampire is on their way here right now. Perhaps you should resolve your son’s drama before starting another.

Notes:

Maybe I update too often... 🔄 but I just can't wait... ⏳ I love seeing how much you like what I've dreamed up... 💭💖

Chapter 15

Carlisle moved. He almost fell toward Harry, as if Harry were the center of gravity, not the Earth. Yet even in his movement there was no aggression—only the all-consuming urge to reach him. To be certain. He stopped himself when he collided with Harry’s leg, not wanting to hurt him.

But Rosalie reacted instantly. Her fingers were harsh as she yanked him back, while Esme clung to his other arm. The golden-eyed vampire growled as they dragged him away, his gaze wild, pupils blown wide like those of a starving predator. He saw nothing but Harry. Everything else faded.

Edward and Jasper moved at the same time, as though responding to an invisible signal. Tension swept through the room like the pressure before a storm. Harry’s stance was taut, the wand in his hand—that strange object they still couldn’t place—seemed to vibrate, as if his entire being had turned into a threat. With a swift motion, Harry vaulted over the back of the couch to widen the distance. Edward clenched his jaw hard enough to grind teeth, while Jasper took a barely perceptible step forward, as though instinctively trying to neutralize the possibility of violence.

Edward’s head swirled with everything he had heard—or had not heard. Harry, or rather Morven, had just shouted the truth into their faces: I know what you are. Not in words, but with his movements, his presence, his eyes. And that terrified Edward, because he couldn’t comprehend this power. He felt Jasper shared that fear.

Alice stepped forward, her face tight, her eyes clouded for a heartbeat—and then a sharp, warning whisper escaped her:

– Stop! – Her voice rang harder than usual. – There will be no fight. Ten minutes, and Lauren will be here. She wants to speak about James.

Edward froze, Jasper too. Alice’s gaze was relentless—she had seen something. And whatever she had seen was likely more dangerous than Morven in this moment. The two boys held back, but Edward’s eyes still burned as he watched Harry.

Rosalie’s voice was rushed, tense, yet she tried to keep it steady as she set a hand on Carlisle’s shoulder:

– Hey… hey, Carlisle, calm down. It’s him. I know it. We all know it. But look at me… please… – Her voice cracked, though her eyes stayed on Harry. – You recognized your soulmate, didn’t you? He won’t be at peace until he can be near you… but he won’t hurt you. Just… let him touch you, let him calm down.

Harry watched them from behind the couch, ready to fight. His wand was still aimed at Carlisle, his grip steady, but his eyes were ice-cold. Severe. His face carried an impatient, frosty expression. When Rosalie spoke the word soulmate, his jaw twitched. For a moment he said nothing.

Then he clicked his tongue, as if suppressing the worst childish tantrum.

– Fine, fine… – he muttered, his voice cutting like a blade. – Foolish, instinct-driven bloodsuckers… always the same circus… I know he won’t hurt me. Let him go.

Rosalie and Esme hesitated a beat, then released him. Carlisle tore himself free like a beast loosed from its chain—but he did not attack. He was not savage. He was desperate.

Harry stepped back, pressing against the wall, wand still leveled at Carlisle, though his hand trembled now. Too close. Too intense.

Carlisle stopped before him, growling low—but it wasn’t the snarl of an attack. It was something deeper, instinctive, a hoarse craving accumulated over long decades. The sound of a wretched, angry, hopeless longing.

Carlisle gently pushed Harry’s hand aside, lowering the wand’s tip. His palm pressed against the wall beside Harry’s head, as if to cage him in. He didn’t hurt, didn’t demand. He only wanted… to feel.

Harry’s breath caught, but he didn’t move. He knew what was coming.

Carlisle’s face drew nearer. His eyes locked on Harry’s—questioning, aching, desperate. Yet he didn’t ask. His nose brushed near the hollow of Harry’s neck, and when he inhaled… he growled again. Deeper. Restless.

Still not right. Something was still wrong.

The others flinched at the sound. Edward and Jasper stepped forward, ready to spring—but Harry simply raised his hand, signaling them to wait. He didn’t look at them. He only tilted his head, baring his throat.

The gesture… intimate. Offering. Yet there was no desire on Harry’s face—only exhaustion. Recognition. And the necessity of surrendering, just now.

Almost instinctively, Carlisle buried his face against the curve of his neck. And then…

He felt it.

The true scent. The skin hidden beneath the magic. The soulmark’s real resonance, the pulse of the heartbeat, everything that could ever be home to him.

Carlisle’s knees buckled, his arm faltered, and he sobbed silently. No tears, but the sound that broke from him said it all. Relief, love, remorse, survival—all at once.

He cupped Harry’s chin gently, his gaze falling to the other’s lips. He leaned closer, almost touching, almost begging for a kiss to taste the certainty.

But Harry’s hand snapped against his mouth. Firm, gentle, but stopping him.

His eyes were stern, cold. Commanding.

– Now that you’re through this madness – he said icily – take care of your coven.

 

Carlisle finally stepped back, though Edward could see every muscle straining against the distance. His eyes remained locked on Harry’s face, as if afraid that if he looked away, he would vanish.

– My apologies – he managed, but his voice was so uncertain, so fragile, Edward barely recognized his father in it.

Harry was like a shadow, unmoving against the wall, his hand still resting on the wand, hard and measured, as though he hadn’t yet decided whether to put it away—or to use it.

Carlisle’s gaze flickered to the wand, and Edward felt the recognition ripple through him.

– A mage. A wizard. – The words weren’t a question but a statement. Calm, yet laden with shock. – You know what we are…

Harry said nothing. He only gave the slightest nod.

Edward stepped forward, Jasper tense beside him. Alice remained silent, her eyes clouding, blinking worriedly into the future.

– How can wizards exist, and we never knew? – Edward asked. – Carlisle, have you ever met one before?

His father still didn’t look at him. He only stared at Harry, with an intensity Edward had never seen. When he answered, it was as if tearing himself away from that sight.

– No. Never. – After a pause, he added: – I know of them through the Volturi.

And in that instant, something seemed to crack.

The bracelet on Harry’s wrist split, a few beads snapping softly. The sound was like shards of glass falling in a silent chapel. The colors—black, purple, blue, white—scattered across the floor.

Harry’s face grew harder still, sharper, as if no longer human but carved in stone, a mask of defense.

Jasper flinched beside Edward. A deep, raw pain slashed through him, searing and unplaceable. Edward felt it too. Jasper looked at Harry in shock, as if the agony had come from him—but Harry remained sealed. Nothing leaked. Nothing.

Like a perfectly closed box.

– Dr. Cullen, – Harry spoke at last, his voice freezing. The address cut like a blade, and Edward knew it wounded Carlisle most of all. His soulmate, denying even the smallest closeness, refusing to call him by name.

– This can wait. – Now Harry turned to Edward, a glint of mockery flashing in his cold, precise gaze. – On my way here, I gathered what happened. – His face showed no sympathy. – How did you manage to lead Miss Swan into mortal danger?

Edward dropped his eyes. His stomach twisted in knots. There was no excuse.

– How do you know what happened? – he asked quietly, tension thrumming in his voice.

Harry’s lips curled, almost into a smile, but it twisted into scorn instead.

– Oh, don’t tell me you’re surprised – he hissed. – You’re not the only one who can rummage through other people’s minds. – He paused for a moment, then tilted his head as if amused. – Didn’t it strike you as odd when the whole evening suddenly came back to you in the car? James, the hunt, Bella… I wasn’t exactly discreet when I broke into your head. Your mind is defenseless compared to how much you like snooping in others’.

Edward opened his mouth to reply, but Harry already turned away, unwilling to argue.

– Now let’s deal with this situation – Harry continued – and speak with our dear nomad, who may have more information about the threat named James.

The silence was heavy, and Edward could only wish he hadn’t seen the look in his father’s eyes—the pain that Harry’s every word had carved there.

 

Carlisle only spoke again when Laurent finally arrived. Standing in the doorway, his face was cool and expressionless as he regarded their guest.

By then, Harry had already withdrawn, blending completely into the shadows of the corner. Edward still knew where he stood, but if he hadn’t focused on him consciously, he might not have noticed him at all. He was like a shadow, a thought, a presence in the air. If Carlisle hadn’t felt him through the bond, he might have thought Harry wasn’t there anymore.

And yet Carlisle’s eyes sometimes, almost imperceptibly, flicked toward him, as though unconsciously tracking his every move. Edward saw Harry circling silently, nearly invisible, but always lingering somewhere at the edge of sight.

Carlisle’s voice was sharper than usual. Cool, precise, like a blade.

– What should we expect, Laurent?

Laurent halted, his gaze tense as he swept across the Cullens.

– I’m sorry – he said. – When your son defended the girl, I already feared James couldn’t be restrained.

Carlisle’s lips tightened.

– You can’t stop him?

Laurent shook his head, and Edward already knew what the answer would be.

– Nothing can stop James once he’s begun.

Laurent shook his head again. His face showed no contempt, only fear.

– You won’t be able to deal with him. I’ve lived three centuries, and I’ve never seen anyone like him. Whoever crosses him… it’s the end. That’s why I joined them in the first place.

The wording struck Edward. Them. Not us. He was no longer part of that coven.

– On the clearing, it seemed as if you were the leader, – Jasper said slowly, half under his breath, almost to himself.

Laurent lowered his eyes.

– That was only for show. – Then he looked back at Carlisle. – Are you certain it’s worth it?

Edward clenched his jaw. The question was disgustingly indifferent.

– I’m afraid you’ll have to choose – said Carlisle, his voice calm, though Edward could sense the threat beneath it.

Laurent understood at once. His eyes swept over those gathered.

– I’d be curious to see the life you’ve built here. – His tone softened. – But I don’t want to be part of this. I have no quarrel with you, but I won’t turn against James either. I’ll head north, look for that clan in Delani.

He hesitated a moment, his eyes glinting.

– Don’t underestimate James. He’s cleverer than you think, and his senses… unmatched. He moves easily among humans, and he never strikes head-on. I’m sorry… truly. But hell is about to break loose here.

Edward felt the ripple through Jasper when Laurent spoke those final words. Something shifted in the shadows—it could have been Harry—but again, no sound, no certain trace.

– Go in peace – Carlisle answered formally, his words ringing cold.

Laurent looked around once more, then left with a single nod.

The silence lasted only a second. Carlisle immediately turned to Edward.

– How far?

Edward closed his eyes, focusing. Jasper moved too, while Alice frowned in concentration.

– About three miles. Across the river, circling… maybe waiting for Victoria to catch up.

At that, Esme moved soundlessly to one of the walls and pressed a button. In an instant, metal shutters slid over the glass wall, sealing off the outside.

Edward searched for Harry. Somewhere in the house, he was there. Invisible, yet dangerously present.

And Carlisle… he was still searching for him with his eyes. Even now.

Notes:

Here comes the next chapter — we’re diving straight into the action! I know I’m still behind on a lot of the backstory 😅 The mystery might come off as neglect, but I promise I’m working on weaving the details in bit by bit. There’ll probably be another flashback tucked between the upcoming chapters — just to fill in some of the blanks.