Disclaimer: I still do not own Harry Potter or Twilight. They belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Stephenie Meyer, and Summit Entertainment.

Warnings: No beta. No outline. Selective canon. Also, slash and suicidal themes. The next update definitely won't be so quick, I had this one almost completed when I posted the first chapter, but we've come to the end of the line with what I already have written.

Author's Note: For clarification purposes I suppose I should mention that this story includes HP canon up through book 5. So that means no Horcruxes, no Hallows, no Harry/Ginny and different character deaths. As for Twilight, well, it starts around the same time as the first book did, but is obviously AU. No Bella, I think, though I will try to keep the character histories as canonical as I can with my limited knowledge.

Chapter Two

It was almost 3 weeks after the final battle when Harry had first realized something was wrong. The wrongness had struck him immediately upon waking up, primarily because he wasn't supposed to be waking up. He lightly traced the long, healed cuts running from his wrists to his forearms with one finger. Yeah, he definitely wasn't supposed to have woken up.

He'd pushed the wrongness to the back of his mind, and written off the waking up as human error, or a fluke, or maybe even - as Tonks had insisted it was - a miracle. Mrs. Weasley had cried; had sat by his bed for hours and sobbed, and Mr. Weasley, though quiet, had sat with him also, gripping his hand tightly. Shacklebolt had looked grim and Fred and George hadn't joked and when he had seen a tear escape from even McGonagall's eye he'd choked out an apology and promised never to do it again and had even attempted to smile.

He managed to keep his promise for almost ten months, but there was no Hermione to nag him into keeping it, and no Ron to always be around, and no Remus to offer gentle support and guidance and there had been no Sirius for years. And try as he might to ignore it, he could feel the wrongness still- pulsing in the back of his head, heavy and knotted in his gut, itching under his skin.

The coolness of the black depths had soothed the itch, the pressure against his ears relieved the pounding in his head, and when he'd filled his lungs and stomach with the murky water he felt the knots there finally begin to unravel. When he awoke this time it wasn't a feeling of confusion and disappointment that accompanied the wrongness, but a crushing terror. Fear of his own body, his own self, overtook him and for a brief moment the hospital staff worried that panic would finish what the water had failed to do.

It was not to be though and 15 minutes after his respirations had returned to normal saw Harry apparating from his bed AMA before the Healers could clear him or the Weasleys could visit him or the young star-struck candy striper could bring him his slightly runny lime jello. Two days after that found him packing a rather spartan bag and boarding a plane to Australia.

Australia had turned to Germany had become Japan went on to Argentina continued to Singapore. Comparing photographs of happier days, Harry perhaps should have been shocked to find that while his scenery had continued to change, he had not. Shock was a feeling he could no longer muster however, and when 3, 4, 5 years after the battle he looked into the mirror at his still 17 year old face the closest thing he could summon to an emotion was a grim sort of smugness radiating from the place he associated with that long suppressed wrongness.

In his school days Harry had often been accused of seeking out trouble, an accusation he'd always felt was rather unfair. Yes, he was a bit too curious for his own good, and his overdeveloped sense of responsibility often had him doing things an 11 or 12 year old had no business doing, but more often than not, trouble found him. After all, it's not like he'd asked an evil dark lord to repeatedly try to kill him, and unlike some people he hadn't entered himself into any international tournaments with exceptionally high death rates.

Nowadays was a different story. In recent years depression often found Harry with an empty fifth or two of vodka by his side, anger was accompanied by a fistfight with a man twice his size, while boredom was appeased with social games of Russian Roulette. And on an appropriately rainy day in September 2004, a soul-sucking emptiness with a niggling undercurrent of wrongness found Harry Potter jumping from a cliff just outside of Forks, Washington on the Olympic Peninsula.

Despite having been awake less than an hour, by the time he found himself loaded into Dr. Cullen's sleek black Mercedes, Harry was thoroughly exhausted. He mentally changed his plan from arguing with the Doctor until he agreed to take him to a hotel, to going home with the Doctor and collapsing into a bed for an undetermined period of time. (Which was to be followed of course, by waking up and arguing with the Doctor until he agreed to take him to a hotel.)

Though the trip didn't take long, Harry was already half-asleep by the time they made the drive through the forest and up to the large house. He offered no protest as Dr. Cullen once again scooped him into his arms and lifted him out of the car. Nor did he take notice of the five vampires that met them at the door, speaking in tones so low as to be nearly imperceptible. He vaguely registered the feel of being transferred from the strong arms to a soft, warm bed and then he knew nothing more.

Harry was plenty used to waking up in strange environments- hospitals, hotel rooms, dirty bathroom floors in seedy bars- but it still took him a moment to gather his bearings and determine where he was. Eyes shut, lying perfectly still, the only indication of his shift to consciousness was a slight change in breathing. He quickly reviewed everything he could recall from the day before. Waking up in Seattle, the drive to the coast, parking his bike and walking in the rain. The unceasing feeling of devastating anguish. And then- and then the ridiculous and futile dive from the cliff's edge. But none of that explained his current position of waking up in a bed that was far too soft to be hospital issue without the annoying beeping of monitors surrounding him.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and pressed himself to remember more. Right, he had already woken up in the hospital. He recalled the uncomfortable but not unfamiliar feel of the ventilator doing his breathing for him and then the Doctor removing the tube in his throat. Wait- there it was. The Doctor. The vampire Doctor. And hadn't that come as a surprise. He had sensed the man's magical presence almost immediately upon waking up; but it wasn't until he'd felt the brush of cold fingers against his face and observed the lightning-fast pace the man set in fetching his ice chips, put together with his incredible good looks that Harry had pegged him as a vampire. The man had been surprisingly kind, and he'd seemed to be on the up-and-up; though even if he hadn't, it had been years since Harry had been able to muster enough energy to care about that kind of thing. Still, kind though he may have been, Harry couldn't believe he'd actually gone home with the stranger. He must have been more out of it than he'd thought.

He had to get out of here. Vampires or not, he didn't belong around other people. But before he could even begin to struggle to sit up he was halted by the opening of the bedroom door and the entrance of a very attractive woman. She had a pale, heart shaped face surrounded by long waves of caramel colored hair and a gentle, melodic voice.

"Oh good, you're awake. Alice said you would be, but I had wondered." She spoke softly with a very sincere smile on her face. "I suppose by now we should know better than to question Alice."

"Alice?" He found himself repeating back dumbly.

"One of our children. But I suppose I should introduce myself first. How remiss of me. I'm Esme Cullen, Carlisle's wife. You remember Carlisle of course." She looked to him for confirmation before continuing at his nod. "He'll be up shortly no doubt, he's just downstairs finishing a conversation with Rosalie at the moment. Our other daughter." She thankfully added before he could parrot her words back at her like an idiot.

"Carlisle says you'll be joining us for the week." She continued with an oddly hopeful look on her face.

"I wouldn't want to be an imposition." He found himself muttering inexplicably in reply. That wasn't what he'd meant to say at all. He shook his head slightly to clear the cobwebs and opened his mouth to correct this statement, but nothing came out. He didn't know why he was having such a hard time coming up with the words to tell this woman that he wouldn't in fact be staying here; after all he'd been cheerfully (and not so cheerfully) telling friends and strangers alike to bugger off for the last 7 years.

He'd only met her a second ago, but something about this woman's sweet face, her soft and elegant manner kept him from lashing out or hiding beneath his callous exterior as he had for so long now. He decided for the moment, to cease his worrying about how he was going to explain his leaving and just concentrate on sitting up. It was very disconcerting after all, talking to a relative stranger while lying flat on his back.

"Oh my, let me help you, dear. Carlisle says you shouldn't be putting too much strain on yourself right now. And of course you're being silly." She said, while placing fluffy pillows behind his back. "You're certainly no imposition. You've been a lovely guest so far."

Harry refrained from pointing out that until now he'd been unconscious for the extent of his stay. He was saved from having to come up with something to say by the sound of his door softly clicking open as Dr. Cullen joined them. He briefly wondered whether or not the blond man did that on purpose to make him more comfortable, as he seemed to otherwise move about with complete silence.

"Good morning. How is our patient doing today?" He inquired with a warm smile.

"Much better, I would say, though I'll leave the official ruling to your expert opinion." Esme responded while efficiently straightening the covers around him. Harry was sure she was tucking them so tight in a surreptitious effort to keep him from trying to leave the bed. "One thing's for certain, he's much too skinny for a young man his age. Poor thing, you must be starving, I'm sure." She directed her last comment to Harry. "I sent Emmett out to pick up some groceries, how about I prepare something for you to eat? Nothing too heavy, I should think."

Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm and once again Harry found himself dumbly nodding his consent before she glided out of the room and down to the kitchen. "I can't stay here." He blurted as soon as the Doctor and he were alone, finding it much easier to be rude when not faced with the motherly woman's sincere smile and imploring eyes.

"I thought we had already come to an agreement on that last night." Dr. Cullen replied with a very innocent sort of expression. He did not hesitate in his inspection of Harry; checking surgical wounds, dispensing antibiotics, and gently moving limbs about in a manner Harry knew was designed to test his range of motion.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Actually, what I recall is deciding to talk about it outside shortly followed by me passing out in your car." He immediately felt his paranoia rising. "Did you slip me something?" He demanded, having been quite accustomed to being drugged with sleeping potions 'for his own good' during the two years between Sirius' death and the final battle. But the genuine look of surprise on the Doctor's face told him he was wrong and he quickly found himself apologizing sheepishly for his bizarre suspicions.

Dr. Cullen smoothly waved off his apologies, claiming they weren't necessary, but it was apparent from the look on his face that he was worried about his patient's state of mind. Harry supposed he couldn't blame him there. Between his mercurial moods and the incident that had led him to Dr. Cullen's hospital in the first place, most people would have probably been concerned for his sanity. Not to mention he doubted the good Doctor had failed to notice the faint white scars that marred his wrists. He wondered if the older man was regretting bringing him home yet.

What was wrong with him? These people were doing something to him, they must be. He hadn't apologized for any of his actions, crazy or not, in years. Not to anyone living anyway. He begged forgiveness of the dead on a daily basis. Night after night he looked for his absolution knowing it was in vain; he could not make his penance until he was allowed to join them. He was broken away from his depressing musings by the graceful reentrance of Esme, carrying his breakfast and followed by 5 other unbelievably beautiful people.

Author's Note 2: Wow, thank you so much for all the lovely reviews. I must say they go a long way in making me not feel like a blithering idiot. I started writing this story because in my enjoyment of other HP/EC stories around here I noticed that no one was really bothering to deal with the timeline difference between the HP and Twilight worlds, and I found myself pondering ways that Harry, having turned 17 in 1997, could come across Edward in 2005. Then the bunnies started chewing and here I am. Aaaaand…I still have no idea where I'm going with this. Seriously. I need baddies for conflict. Should I go with something from the Potterverse? Do you think James the tracker would be too easy for Harry? I know next to nothing about the Volturi, but I could study up.