Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I do not own Twilight, and I do not own the songs that I quote. Those are all properties of their respective owners, I am just using them for my own vile purposes, mutilating them as I go, etc., etc.

Note: New chapter? New chapter! Thank you to everyone who has read, favorited, followed, reviewed, and all of the above! Much appreciated. Also, I hated editing this chapter. A lot of the content was old and bleh. I apologize if it's a little bit too long and a little bit too boring.

A couple of things to be aware of: I am working on a new timeline for this story because my original focus had been the perceived relationship triangle between Harry and Hermione and Harry and Edward. I have officially settled for royally fucking with Harry's head instead. The relationship drama will still kinda be there, but far less so that I originally intended. I've also decided to dance with some skeletons in Edward's closet as well. And don't worry, I am going to be working on earning my M rating, I promise. One way or another.

Insert cackle here?

Chapter 3: Distant

When I try to open up to you, I get completely lost

Houses swallowed by the earth, windows thick with frost

And I reach deep down within, but the pathways twist and turn

And there's no light anymore and nothing left to burn

I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam

And no emotion that's worth having could call my heart its home

My heart's an autoclave

My heart's an autoclave

"Autoclave" by The Mountain Goats

Night.

Beyond the clouds, there hangs a sky full of stars. Beyond the clearing, a forest teems with life—still fresh remnants of spring turning over into summer. The whole world moving forward and him—forever standing still.

He breathed, but only under pretense. His heart did not beat. He lived on like a photo, frozen in frame. Ageless, he carried on in black and white, yearning for nothing and waiting for nothing.

Except...

Maybe one thing. Just one small dream—an end to the solitude. A hand to hold his own. Someone to be his and his alone.

Bella, oh Bella.

Where did we go wrong?

Edward thought back to her, the fragile human that violently restructured his existence. He forced himself to inhale the damp night. A light rain had passed through and he lay in his meadow, soaked to the skin. Clouds still hung in the sky. The night took a turn for the balmy, almost warm.

He remembered that this was the reason why Bella hated Forks—always wet. She would talk of the desert sun in Phoenix with such longing, as if to remind herself and everyone around her of her martyrdom.

It started out all right. Who knows, maybe it was even love. She—hypnotized, 'dazzled,' as she would say. He—a solitary ghost, looking for any reason to fight his primal urge to drain her of her blood and kill her.

Their fragile love seemed to only grow, until it hit the expected hurdle: she was a human and he, a vampire. She wanted to be turned, he disagreed. Anything, just not that.

At first, she refused his presents. But at some point she started accepting them, requesting them, expecting them even. It became compensation for denying her immortality.

"When will you turn me into a vampire Edward? I'm eighteen now."

"Nineteen, Edward!"

"Edward—I'm getting older!"

"Edward! Edward, please!"

No Bella, no dear Bella, don't you see? Edward wants to show that he is a good boy who can beat all the odds to maintain his fidelity to the cause. And the more she pushed, the more he dug in his heels. He wanted her to go to college, to go to the real world, to live, for God's sake, before she died. But no, no, always no. Edward didn't know at what point she stopped loving him for him, and started loving his curse. He didn't know when he stopped loving her and started resenting her. And she, well, at that point she lost the capacity to tell the difference.

She couldn't see past her fingertips. She became obsessed with the slightest sign of her age, even when she had not lived two decades. She grew sullen towards the end. Any time they went out on dates, she would study the waitresses, the clerks, the other women in the street.

"Edward, why do you stay with me? I'm not as pretty as..."

But I love you, Bella. I don't care about her, or her, or any of them. And you're beautiful. Please, stop it.

"But we haven't even... We didn't... We kiss and you act like you're in pain. Tell me the truth."

Bella, you know why we haven't... You know why I can't.

After the episode with James, Edward couldn't bear the thought of harming her. He couldn't trust himself. He couldn't take the risk. Because one slip and he could kill her, just like that.

"Edward, please..."

But nothing would pacify her.

"When will you turn me, Edward?"

He could say that it was her obsession with immortal beauty that drove them apart.

"When, Edward?"

He could say that they were never meant to be.

"Edward?"

But the reality was, maybe he isolated himself as if to protect her. Quietly closed himself off bit by bit against her, as if that would help anything. As if it would solve all of their problems. Bella was better off with a human. Bella was not for him. But really, what if?

He would never know now.

"Edward!"

I'm sorry Bella, I can't do this anymore.

We're over.

He played a melody, note by note, in his head.

Why couldn't he let her go? Bella had moved on. Devastated, she had returned to her mother. That was years ago. He had not tried to learn anything more of her since then to prevent temptation. But she'd taken up residence in his head even though he had never heard a single thought of hers.

Edward let the song play out.

Maybe one day she would truly leave him be.

Harry sat alone in a kitchen, trying to figure out exactly what he was doing there. On a stool by the counter, he looked around and tried to think of where this place was. His house? No. Dursleys? No. A hideout? Could be. All the appliances were shiny and modern. Must be a muggle home. Steps and someone walked in behind him. Sat down next to him. He couldn't look.

He wouldn't.

"Hey Harry."

For a minute, he thought he had misheard. It had been that long.

"Hi Sirius."

"What's wrong? You look downright bleak kid."

Harry turned and stared at the man. Only in his dreams could he remember the face so clearly. Sirius, his godfather, sat beside him as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. When Harry didn't reply, the other man put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Well, whatever it is, don't stew on it too long. Those kinds of things, you know, you're better off letting them go. Listen, Harry, I want to say something to you, but you have to listen to me."

Night outside. A clock ticking away on the wall. Sirius had been beside him for five minutes. Five minutes ten seconds. Five minutes twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Harry swallowed.

"I just wanted to, that is... Just to say that," Sirius paused as blood welled at the corners of his eyes. His black robe began to silently tear to shreds and shallow cuts appeared on the pale skin beneath the cloth.

This was wrong.

Sirius's nose broke to the side of its own accord and blood flowed out, across his lips, and down his chin. The wounds across his body deepened and blood began to seep out of them and into his clothes. A purple bruise appeared around one eye and the other swelled shut as it leaked blood. And yet the man did not lose an ounce of his composure. "Harry, I want you to know," Sirius started to speak again again, calmly and evenly.

What was going on? Sirius fell through the veil. He had never suffered injuries like this. And they worsened by the second, but it seemed like Sirius did not feel them at all. The grip on Harry's shoulder tightened.

"About what happened, I want you to know that it's not your f—" blood poured out of Sirius's open mouth and a few broken teeth fell out, "-ault. Harry-" a large knife wound opened on his torso. Then another. And another. These injuries. No.

No. No. No.

No.

It couldn't be.

Stop.

Harry couldn't turn to look away from Sirius. He couldn't breathe. He felt lightheaded.

A thin red line appeared around Sirius's throat.

You know something? This is a mercy.

Because I am merciful.

Do you know what I went through?

Well?

Do you?

You should thank me, you bastard, because this is a kindness.

If you only knew.

The thin cut around Sirius's neck deepened and Harry felt like he was suffocating. A headache exploded in the back of his head and black spots popped in and out in front of his eyes for an instant.

He looked sideways and met his reflection in the polished surface of some muggle contraption.

If you only knew what you did to me, you motherfucking rat.

I would show you.

But.

I.

Am.

Merciful.

He heard Sirius's ribcage crack open loudly and the wet, horrible tearing sound of flesh. He felt the torrent of blood on his own chest as his godfather's chest cavity was violently torn open.

His reflection's burning red eyes stared back.

Harry opened his eyes. A dresser. A lamp. Dim, damp morning light.

No Sirius.

He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes. Second day from the top, just like the first. All he could remember of the dream was that his godfather had been there, but nothing else. But what he couldn't remember gnawed at him.

He thought about staying in over his first cup of coffee. It didn't seem like it would be a good day. But no, he did have work after all. So he went for a run, why not? He came back soaked because it started to drizzle again. Stupid messed up Forks weather.

Hermione gave him concerned looks when he appeared downstairs after a shower dressed, but dazed. He brushed it off and said it was nothing. Just not feeling well. A cold? Could be. Maybe. Who knows.

The night left him antsy, anxious. He didn't want his mood to rub off on Daniel and upset him, so he left for work before the boy woke up. Maybe he could find his head along the way.

Windows down, Harry drove at a highly unreasonable speed to chase away yet another barely remembered dream. And there was that woman from the night before. He had met her, he knew that. But the right name, the right memory still eluded him. His head hurt and he wanted nothing else except for the pain to go away. It reminded him of the way his scar would hurt all those years ago—intense and blinding.

Probably all the stress, Harry thought. He would relax tonight, not think about moving or vampires or the past. He would go out flying. Driving his car at high speeds was a poor compromise for the feel of wind over his body.

But tonight seemed so far away. He hadn't even decided what he would do about the vampire coven. Maybe he should trust Hermione. She was probably right in the end. Always was. He would take it easy today. Sit out at the sidelines and just observe. No trust though—it was too early for trust. He still couldn't believe that they were harmless.

One line off the list.

Harry walked into work tense and forced himself to act more friendly than he really wanted to be. They all looked so happy to see him, these strangers that he met days ago. On the way to his office everyone wanted to know something. How he was adjusting? How his family was doing? How old was his son? A piece, a tidbit for lunch time conversation, for the dogs. Or maybe they just wanted to make the stranger feel at home. What did it matter though? Quite frankly, he just could not look at the bright side today. Not in the mood. Maybe if he could remember this morning's dream? Would that help? Something just felt so wrong about it, but what?

Please just let this day be over.

Work kept him just busy enough to slide by, just trying to make it through the day with the least damage. He passed by Edward Cullen and acknowledged the boy with a polite greeting. The doctor missed the curious, confused look at his back from the vampire.

After he finished up work in the evening, Harry almost felt better. Almost. He just had to stop by the grocer to pick up some milk and a few other things. Daniel had recently decided that he wanted to be really, really tall and managed to drink the entire carton of milk in one day. So they now needed milk, a lot of milk.

One errand and he could be home. One errand. Just one. He was worried that it was already happening again, but it was too soon. Was it too soon? Or was it too late? It was never too late, maybe this episode would just pass him by. His day was almost over and they could all go out flying in the evening. It's been a while since he had gone flying.

Edward arrived at work ready for anything, but found himself... puzzled. Stevens's unexplained aggression had, in a similarly inexplicable manner, vanished.

When the vampire had had the opportunity to run into the man, he barely received a nod. Add one more mystery to the mystery. And Edward wanted to know more about this plot twist.

The minds of the people around them provided the vampire with little information. Just the same halfhearted apology and the same excuse—"feeling under the weather," he would hear the accented voice again and again, echoing across the thoughts of the puzzled audience.

Nothing to explain the change that Edward could think of and Carlisle could offer few insights. The Cullen patriarch could only say that the man seemed to be more agreeable towards him, but quite the opposite to the rest. Stevens tried to smile to his patients like yesterday, but it appeared wrong. Although the humans didn't notice, Edward did.

What had happened? The day before, he and Carlisle had been secretly concerned that maybe, just maybe, they had been recognized. But now—nothing. The vampire followed the doctor all day, either directly or through the minds of others. Stevens found ways keep himself occupied all day and even refused a single coffee break despite the claim that he was "under the weather."

What did that even mean? How could someone be under the weather? Did weather have a defined corporeal existence that one could be below or above? Well that was a fucking brilliant line of thought Edward, he congratulated himself.

Was he just avoiding what was really on his mind?

Yes, he really was.

But he would go no further than that. He would not contemplate on how he wanted to ask the man exactly how he kept his thoughts hidden. Exactly why he did not smell. Exactly what was wrong with him today? And exactly what made Edward want to touch him again, just to feel that heady warmth.

He was thinking about it again.

Back to safer topics now, back to weather. Rain, hail, snow, hurricane.

Safe territory.

"That's a total of thirteen dollars and—"

"You're a monster."

Harry turned sideways to the aging woman who had stood so patiently behind him in line. Prim graying hair tucked under the seam of a black hat, she reminded him of someone else—

"Excuse me madam?"

The woman's eyes digging into his and an old, worn purse pressed to her bosom like, like, like—

"You heard me, I know what you did."

The poor clerk, she looked so shocked, so concerned. "Ma'am, please," her face turned bright red as she tried to calm the woman.

"I think you are mistaken madam," Harry's headache was blinding now. Please, he just wanted to go home. Was that too much to ask?

"No, I heard the rumors about you. You're a soldier! Murderers for money, the entire lot! And don't even try to deny it!"

And he didn't. He honestly just stood, listening, a bit dumbfounded. This certainly was not the first time that he had been screamed at in public, absolutely not, but everything, even this, just felt so bizarre today and out of place. He didn't know what to say.

"Madam, I think you misunderstand—"

"Oh, I misunderstand? Now listen here! Sixth commandment: Thou shalt not kill! The very word of God condemns you and your work!" Her finger, so accusing, pointed at him.

"Ma'am, please." The cashier tried to reach for the woman as people turned to stare. Meat, for the starving dogs. "Ma'am, please. He's a doctor."

"Hypocrite! How dare you lay your filthy hands on the innocent, mongrel!? Hands that have killed only bring death! How dare you!?" The woman shouted, her voice rising above the cries of the cashier, above someone's cries for security, above the murmurs.

This woman, in her black coat and with her brown eyes buried in lines, she reminded him of a particular someone. A different woman with hair gone gray and sad, sad brown eyes. But that woman, she did not yell. She stood quietly, not a part of her moving except those defeated eyes. She also said words like this, but with a slightly more tragic flavor.

"You're a murderer!"

Words like that.

But this woman, she just made Harry angry.

Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, he paid for his groceries and picked up the bag as the woman's face reddened.

"How dare—"

"Have a good evening."

He turned on his heel and walked out of the store.

"Harry, talk to me," Hermione pleaded. As soon as Harry walked through the door, she knew that whatever started this morning had developed into something outright horrible. It showed over every inch of him and he refused to talk. Again. For a minute, she thought it might have to do with the Cullens. But she knew Harry well enough to know that, no, that was not the reason.

She tried to reach out, took his hand as he tried to walk by into the kitchen. But he paused just for a moment before mumbling an apology and pulling away. By the time she followed him through the house he had already put away the groceries and was on his way out again. She attempted a second time and leaned on his shoulder without a word.

He stopped this time and opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it and walked away. She should have known that there would be no reaching him. She had seen it before, from time to time. It had started appearing just after the war. Even Daniel recognized his father's guarded silence. He quietly took Harry's hand and the man allowed his son to pull him into the living room to watch Peter Pan with Daniel snuggled into his side.

Leaving them to it, Hermione wandered into the kitchen. She pulled out a small glass and poured herself some scotch. She held the glass to her lips, but set it down and leaned onto the counter.

This was a mistake. Settling down in the city hadn't been this difficult. They thought it would be okay. The quiet town would be a good place for Daniel, for them— peaceful, safe. But no, everything wasn't turning out as it should have and Harry wouldn't talk. He had gone away and who knows for how long?

She drank the alcohol in one gulp and went to wash the glass in the kitchen sink, only to press her forehead down against the cool metal faucet as the water drained away while Wendy laughed in the background.

One Harry James Potter arrived to work early. He strategically placed a route to avoid all contact with the staff because he knew that, in this little town, news of yesterday's incident would have spread by now. They would all be talking about it. It ate him up, just a bit, just at the edges.

It forced him to see that face. See those tears. Hear that word: "Murderer."

What happened to my son?

Growing up in the Dursley household, Harry learned to close himself off from the world. Then at Hogwarts, he tried to open up, just a bit, just a tad. Late at night in his dormitory, he imagined himself cutting into his thick hide—his armor—and peeling away the cover off of his back.

But then the things that used to roll off his back started rolling in. They would wind around his spine, float in his lungs and settle in his stomach. The sensation became too bothersome and he closed everything back up again. Over the course of the war the losses piled up on his shoulders and his armor only grew thicker and thicker.

The woman's words—they destroyed his shields, pried open the holes that led to his humanity, and pulled out the old memories.

But she had no right to them. Not the woman from the store. Not that stranger that did not know how deep her words reached, into what dark corner of his mind. How dare she?

What did he want to do now? To find her and tell her that she was wrong? Would that make everything all better and all right? No. He hated that she was the one to bring this on.

Do you want to know who betrayed you, Harry?

Hot knife sliding down his back, cutting in just deep enough. Her lips next to his ear. Raspy voice.

Because I know who it was. But do you?

No no no no no. Stop. He wasn't going there. But he could feel it. He wanted to—

"I'm sorry, I heard what happened yesterday."

"What?"

Rachel's concerned face appeared in his peripheral vision as he flipped through a file while walking down the hallway.

"I—I hope you don't get the wrong impression of Forks, doctor. Mrs. Wright, she, well, she's always been very... um, very angry I suppose," she furrowed her brow as she spoke, looking away from Harry.

"I don't quite understand what you're talking about Rachel. Who is Mrs. Wright?" Although he did have a sneaking suspicion about exactly who Mrs. Wright was.

"I, uh, heard from Mary in pathology about what happened at Food Mart yesterday and I, um, wanted to apologize. That woman, she's been a bit disturbed since her husband passed. Please, don't think too badly of us."

Her face turned red and her eyes searched for a place to settle everywhere except Harry's face. But he just... didn't care.

"It's alright Rachel. What happened—it's not a big deal."

But it was. Although Rachel didn't need to know that.

He walked away, to his office, where he could lock the door and avoid all these apologetic faces that were all so very, very sorry.

After making some marks on a patient file and placing it on the side of his desk for later, he sat down at his desk and leaned forward, towards the cold surface—

And he felt Hermione's hands embracing him as he fell into her shoulder. Without a word, she accepted him and didn't ask what he needed or why, because she already understood all that. Her fingers gently stroked his hair until he regressed into some hazy state.

It didn't make the ache go away, not quite. But it contained it, and for Harry, in that instant, that was enough. He could live with ignoring it for the rest of his life if he had to. If it stayed away, then he could live, and it stayed away as long as he didn't talk or think about it.

And so he drifted, from evening to night to morning.

"How is your morning, doctor?"

Harry's eyes snapped up from his coffee. Today, he felt brave enough to venture into the break room—when no one was there, of course.

Edward Cullen. What was he even thinking about before? His morning? Harry honestly couldn't recall. The past couple of days may have as well have been hours or months or minutes.

Harry's mind dimly registered that he should be wary of the vampire boy, but at this point he just couldn't care less.

Aware that Edward still expected an answer, he smiled vaguely and shrugged. He hoped that was enough for the other to move on. But he didn't walk away and instead he sat down opposite Harry at the table and rested his elbows on the surface.

"Is everything alright?"

The vampire's brows furrowed, but his gaze focused on the piece of furniture between them and not at the person that he directed his question to.

And Harry took a chance with a bit of truth.

"It's not—It's just that Forks has been..." he paused, searching for the right word in the dark liquid in front of him, "difficult to adjust to."

"Constricting, isn't it?"

Slowly, Harry nodded.

"You try to keep people out, but they push inwards and look for entry. It's tough, in this place. People, don't blame them too much. They're just... lonely, in their own way.

"Even that woman, she's alone because her husband was a soldier. He died in action a long time ago. At one time, I think she missed him, probably still does. But with the years, as living gets harder, it becomes more difficult to forgive, I guess."

All that time, as Edward spoke, Harry said nothing. He stood up, his chair scraping the floor slightly and tossed his coffee without a word. Harry almost walked out, his hand on the door handle behind a disappointed Edward, but he stopped.

"Thank you, Edward. I had... almost forgotten," that people are human, and that this is their way. Because that woman and the other, they both lived in their own world, seeking others. They didn't know how much it haunted him, how much it tore at him. And he could forgive them for that, and he could put it away, because maybe they could forgive him for it. Searching for something else to say, but not quite finding anything appropriate, Harry just smiled.

"Thank you."

Harry wandered into the woods behind the house, to get away—to hide. The morning was cloudy, foggy and a drizzle fell to the forest floor. Complete and utter silence swallowed his dizzy steps.

Every part of him—numb. But the drive in his mind refused to cease. It wouldn't leave him alone. Harry couldn't handle it, almost. Everything at once, pressing down. He barely noticed his shaking hands combing through his wet hair. Him tearing into himself, his hands tightening in his hair, he collapsed on the ground at the foot of the tree. It all came at him at once: Forks, vampires, and eyes—sad, lonely, terribly accusing eyes. The look in her eyes knew. It knew that he was sorry. He was sorry, so sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Sorry.

Hatred pent up in his throat, he screamed to let it out. Loud. So turbulent and angry that it tore his throat and filled his head with static.

Climax.

This was the moment. It happened like it always happened. Like it always happened when it came around to torment.

Dizziness. Rage and emptiness. Rage at himself and the world and at nothing and at everything. Empty fury. A whirlwind that shredded so fast through him that he collapsed into himself. Shapeless, painful, consuming and uncontrollable. He wanted...

What?

He leaned forward, his head gripped hard in his hands, and snapped back quickly, smashed his head against the trunk of the tree behind him. Pain.

When he tilted his head back to look at the white sky through fuzzy branches, he felt warmth at the back of his head and neck, a trickle of blood on the rough tree trunk. The defeated man released the breath, all of the dead air in him, all of the stagnant feelings.

And the world had cleared. Emptiness and just the distant calls of disturbed birds. Now it seemed behind him again, safe and hidden away, like always. Like it always should be. He stood up, ignored the light-headed feeling, ignored the pain—it was insignificant anyway. The moment—the feeling—was all that mattered. Drunk with it, he stumbled forward. Some part of him remembered to summon his broom.

A path found some days ago led him edge of the drop in the forest. He stopped at the rim. He pulled off his sweatshirt, leaving only a t-shirt on. Climbed onto his broom and without a second thought pushed off. Free fall from there, straight to the ground. As if by some afterthought, he pulled up, just in time. A rock scraped his elbow and a branch caught the edge of his shirt. It ripped as he pushed off towards the treetops, to the clouds.

The wind stripped him of pain and pleasure. All remnants of him torn away, he became nothing—nothing with a clear and empty head. Nothing, flying over two hundred miles an hour. Nothing thinking about nothing.

He saw the trees thinning, a clearing ahead. Braking just enough, he turned toward the ground and landed so hard that he stumbled. Harry kept his balance for only a few steps before collapsing into the grass, turning his body to avoid falling forward. He rolled a few times, crushing the tall wild flowers, and something thorny dug into his bare arm.

Nothing moved, except his heaving chest that struggled to catch up with the rest of him. Harry felt completely drained. Empty beyond empty. Zero. He vaguely felt his injuries, but the ache seemed distant somehow.

Minutes passed by as he lay there before he sat up and pulled his knees to his chest. And he gave himself permission to think about Hermione and Daniel and the rest of the world again. Because it was okay, everything was okay.

Harry stood up and looked around him. A meadow. Tall grass and some wild spring flowers in the middle of the forest, a serene place. He regretted disturbing it.

This quiet field, it reminded him of another like it, with high, brown reeds, in the winter time. A place he had seen a long time ago, he knew. But he couldn't remember it clearly now, and that thought made him feel both desolate and happy, a stranger and free man. But it wasn't important, not anymore.

With a book propped open in front of her, Hermione sat at the kitchen table. The witch hadn't read a word since she opened it. She gazed over the top of the old, worn pages of "Hogwarts: A History", out the window, at the lawn. Muffled laughter from outside broke the silence. The top of Daniel's bobbing head flashed by as he ran to Harry.

Hermione saw the man in question rise up from the flower bed to greet Daniel in another window, saw his smile. She would describe it as a quiet sort of happy—he was back. He left early in the morning, only to reappear covered in scratches, bruises, and a nasty gash on the back of his head. But he returned to her otherwise whole, the unseen holes in him patched over.

The witch turned the page absently, without noticing that she accidentally skipped a few sheets. Right now the book was no more than a catalyst, inspiration, a funnel to focus on what she really wanted to think about: Harry's shadow.

The shadow—Hermione had no better term to describe whatever haunted him. He hadn't had an episode for a few months and the most recent appearance was the longest in a while. Days—he hadn't talked to her for four days. He refused to explain what happened or why. His silence was the most frustrating factor. Because of it, she still knew next to nothing about this particular demon, even after all these years.

And so that left her to watch and to note the symptoms and the signs, to guess at the problem and to try to help him. At times, it felt like failure because she couldn't figure it out. They knew each other—the best, the worst, the darkest sides of him—she'd seen them. Without judgment and regret, she'd seen his ugliest. So shouldn't she know already? Shouldn't she be able to figure this out?

Apparently not.

It was painful, sometimes. He did the best he could for her, for Daniel, but she could do nothing for him when he fell into the past. Just make her lists and write her notes looking, seeking clues. There had to be more. There just had to be.

Hermione put the book down and closed it. Gave up. Gave up until the next time, she told herself. She stood and filled two glasses with fresh lemonade, walked out and smiled faintly, genuinely, as she left the porch and approached her boys. Harry worked on a hole, pulling small shovelfuls of soil up. Daniel worked on mud-pies.

Both gave up their tasks for a minute to accept the drinks that she brought out. Her son gulped quickly from the glass, smudging the warrior-paint mud marks on his cheeks. Harry pulled off his gardening gloves before taking his glass from her.

"Need help?" she playfully nudged him.

He laughed and shook his head.

"Nah, we've got it covered. Right little man?"

Harry ruffled Daniel's hair, but the boy had returned to his mud and only distractedly shouted out an affirmative. Harry's grin just broadened.

"See? All covered."

"...In mud, yes," Hermione confirmed, noting the state of their clothes. She crouched down by the plant that Harry had been so determined to move in on their lawn. "Are you sure it will grow here, Harry?" her fingers trailed the waxy leaves of the fledgling rose bush.

The wizard shrugged in response and placed his glass on the ground, before retrieving his gloves and shovel.

"I don't think so, not with the questionable sunlight. But damn it all if magic can't get a flower to grow, what can it do?"

"You're right, I always forget—there's always magic."

Edward noticed a disturbance when he reached his meadow—a strange, foreign presence. The only clue to be found was a spot of trampled grass and an odd smell floating in the breeze that he recognized, but couldn't place. He felt an alien emotion then—could it have been fear?

Kneeling, he tenderly passed his hand over the crushed vegetation, as if to right the wrongs committed in his sacred place. A jolt and the vampire pulled his hand back suddenly. Blood—on the tips of his fingers, red and almost fresh and the usual, sickening smell that came with it—missing. And then he felt it, a warmth so sweet that he had to close his eyes and swallow venom to even his erratic breathing. Heat spread into his palm and into his wrist before he wiped the blood off on the grass. The sensation persisted.

The blood proved enough to tell the vampire exactly who had come to his meadow, but the fear hadn't cleared. He leaned forward to the ground and pulled in the faint scent in the droplets of dew. The body wash, the smell of age, a faint hint of woman's perfume, a child's imprint. That mixture, he recognized. Harry.

What had he been doing here?

Standing up, Edward roamed the territory. Now that he had a hold of the scent, he followed it around the meadow, but came to a dead end at every path he walked. The vampire couldn't understand where the man had come from or how he left. No other foreign scents either, save the scents of animals. How could this be?

He checked and double checked. Walked around the entire perimeter once, twice, thrice, and couldn't pick up Harry's trail. The doctor might as well have fallen out of the sky before disappearing again the way he had come for all Edward could tell.

Could he be... as they were? Animals in human skin, defenders of some ancient grudge? He held up his hand, the fingers that had touched blood, in front of him and turned it, studying, as if he could find the answer there. But the man held no hostility for him and his family, at least not anymore, right? He didn't behave the way they did. Harry's guarded attitude had never appeared again after their first meeting. Even though he acted distant, he seemed like an earnest man. Albeit a man in pain.

This intrusion, and the odd circumstances of it, put Edward on edge. Made him stop and think twice. Had he ignored the warning signs and why? His loneliness, his curiosity, his utter conviction that he was the most terrible monster? Had he provoked something dangerous? Had he put his family in danger, again?

Maybe it was time to talk to Carlisle after all.

Note: Arg, sorry that this chapter took so long. I really don't like it, it's a lot of old material that had to be edited and rewritten and I'm still not satisfied. But I feel like I could whittle it away forever, so might as well post it. All forms of response are greatly appreciated, but of course reviews are the nicest.