Something unexpectedly happened, so I'm late a few hours... but it's nothing compared to months, right *laughs nervously - again*. Anyway, here it is.

Sit back and relax!

This chapter is beta-ed by the amazing PhoenixFanatic999!

"Sold, I'm ever

Open ears and open eyes

Wake up to your starboard bride

Who goes in and then stays inside

Oh the demons come, they can subside"

#10

Old Demons and New

Reading Who Am I? by Gilderoy Lockhart was similar to swallowing human food for pretenses; it prompted bile to rise in her throat. His narcissism was unfortunately not lost in the iteration, although there was a real chance that the five hundred-page book was ghostwritten by a blind admirer (the better scenario would be a journalist who knew how to make money off his dying fan base, but who knew?). It was rather fascinating, she begrudgingly admitted, that his thought process, while skewed, was very much intact. She had spent the last two hours translating the pattern of his thoughts into twelve pages (that she did not need, due to her eidetic memory, but she liked the sound of pen scribbling against paper). It was her last attempt in rummaging Harry's collections, in hope of finding anything remotely linked to the effects of memory charm.

Harry shifted at her side. Rosalie sighed, deciding to give up on the book she'd been obsessing over, and put it on her night stand softly as to not wake him up. She ran her fingers through his dark locks, and marveled at how soft they felt despite the mess they seemed to be. His eyes fluttered in depths of his dream. She loved seeing him like this, youthful, peaceful and free. A contrast to his shivering form last night; the one that she had practically dragged to her bed, the one whose eyes tiredly conveyed I'm sorry to which she simply said don't apologize, never apologize for it.

The last time he slept had been in the tent four nights ago. Nightmares, he had explained. He refused to take a sleeping potion, saying that he had been addicted before and the effect was nearly lost on him anyway. He hadn't seemed weary, appearing like his usual quiet yet confident self, so she hadn't bugged him about it. Since the first time they met she knew that he was different; that he was human but not quite so, that he was wizard but so much more, and then one day he told her of his immortality and she knew he was one of a kind. That particular secret had put her mind at ease regarding his more human needs. At the present, however, she wondered that perhaps if she'd forced him to sleep every time, he wouldn't have lost it last night.

Fury bubbled up in her chest again at the memory. She had wanted to tear a number of Jasper's body parts off the moment Harry fell into slumber with the help of sleeping potion, but she didn't want to risk waking him. So she slammed the door in Jasper's face – he had followed them upstairs, muttering Rose, look, I'm sorry – and made sure Harry actually slept instead.

She didn't want to be a creep like Edward, so she directed her attention to research. It had possessed her; the possibility of erasing her past had hooked her the moment the idea presented itself. That she could start anew. That she could start a life unchained by her past, ignorant of the vile touches on her skin, unburdened by the blood she had spilled.

She knew he could see it then; the hope that had shone in her eyes, when they all learned that Carlisle's memory had been stolen. She also knew he didn't approve, for reasons he hadn't said but she already suspected.

Her train of thought was stopped by the stirring on her left, followed by a displeased groan. Sunlight had found its way to his eyes. Rosalie smirked in amusement. She stared at him until his eyes fully opened, until they moved to groggily look back at her.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Were you watching me sleep?"

Rosalie rolled her golden eyes. "Because there is nothing as interesting as watching you sleep the whole night, I'm sure."

That earned her a grin. "What were you doing, then?"

More than a little alarmed at the fact that she was nervous, Rosalie mustered nonchalance as she answered, "Research."

He said nothing in a few seconds. She wondered if he planned to let her be with her quest for erasability, hope that she fails, and pretend to be unaware of it all. But then he slightly rose, resting on both of his elbows. She was leaning against the headboard and she could catch a glimpse of the triangle etched on his back. There was a tiny difference, she noted. The line that divided the triangle hadn't been straight anymore; there was several dots across, starting from a thick, curved segment. She absently thought that it looked like his wand.

The secret he wasn't ready to divulge.

"Found anything?" He asked, groaning as he sat and pressed his back to the headboard. He was staring emptily at the wall, away from her.

"Nothing useful," She admitted.

Another silence.

"I didn't know," Harry offered hesitantly. "That there was a way. I wasn't lying."

She turned to him, taken off guard. She knew that he wasn't. She took in the discomfort in his expression, and felt hers softened. "I know."

But he wasn't finished. She realized then that his discomfort stemmed from what he was going to say next. "But you saw how it affects Carlisle. It stole something from him."

"Carlisle was robbed of his old friend, magic, and a magnificent world unlike anything he had ever seen," She pointed out. "I will be rid of my demons."

Her conviction echoed in the room, a display of the strength of her vow. There would be a way. She would do everything to gain her freedom, regain her innocence. Harry moved away from the headboard, making a mess of the sheets as he faced her fully. She could see the internal debate in his eyes, as he struggled for words to say. She beat him to it to ask the one question that mattered, "Will you think less of me?"

He laughed. Not mocking, but not in amusement either. It was almost like a reflex, as if what she had asked was so ridiculous that the answer didn't require a thought, only a noise of surprise. His eyes softened as he smiled, "Never."

She had to kiss him then. When their lips met, she wondered how on earth she managed to not kiss him as soon as he awoke. It started slow, familiar, but then his hands were on her waist, her jawline, her hair, and her whole body tingled. It wasn't the first time he made her feel this way; he had always had that effect on her with his gaze alone, a small pull of the corner of his lips – but this was different. This was curiosity, as her hands explored his chest, his shoulder, his messy locks. This was fire deep in her core, alight in response to his touch. This was fear – she realized, as his hands traveled below. She froze.

He stopped as soon as she did. Their bodies are still connected, her on his lap, mouths an inch apart. She felt shame lighting up her face. He'd been nothing but patient, and yet here she was, still as a statue. This wouldn't be the first time since the night her virtue was stolen. But her rendezvous with Edward happened once, out of desperation, out of the need to be wanted after decades without comfort. She couldn't care less what he thought of her that night; she just wanted to feel.

This boy-wonder – with captivating green eyes and kind smile – made her feel so many things at once, and she couldn't bear the thought that he might not feel the same way. To the same extent. She couldn't let him touch her, let herself touch him, while her mind was filled with unwanted touches of other men. He didn't deserve that.

And she didn't deserve him. But she was too selfish to even entertain the idea.

His kiss brought her out of her reverie. Slow, sweet, undemanding. She could feel him smiling into it and she found herself doing the same. When he let go, he looked at her without contempt, judgement, or even pity – but silent understanding. He kissed her knuckles, an easy grin on his lips, as he slid off the bed and made his way into her bathroom. She imagined following him inside, watching his eyes widen in surprise. She smiled to herself. Perhaps one day.

Harry emerged from the shower in a loose shirt and faded trousers, looking like he always did in Sunday mornings. Rosalie could already hear Alice's whines. She hid her smile, wanting Harry to have first-hand experience with Alice's aggressive fashion critiques. She kissed him before dragging him downstairs, and smirked at the sound of his stomach growling.

Esme had taken it upon herself to cook breakfast and outdone it; their ever-empty dinner table was filled with platters of full breakfast, including freshly served bacon, sausages, eggs, beans and mashed potatoes, with a bowl of fruits and two pots of both coffee and tea on the far edge. In short, it was a breakfast for eight, not one. Rosalie felt Jasper's eyes on her as he sliced apples onto another plate, apparently having been helping Esme, clearly as a peace offering.

Harry seemed baffled. "I… This is too kind—"

"Nonsense," Esme waved him off, guiding Harry to his seat.

Harry sat slowly, hesitance in his features as he managed, "Thank you."

"Of course, Harry," Esme beamed. Rosalie noticed that it was the first time any of them had used his name, addressing him solely as a person and not as either threat or wonder. Harry seemed to realize it too, as his smile widened, digging into eggs and bacons.

The house was rather empty without Carlisle and Edward (which had taken a habit of spending every waking moment with Bella), but it was nothing but lively. Rosalie hadn't ever thought Harry to be shy, but she hadn't expected him to carry light conversation with her family with ease. She'd also half expected Alice to pummel him with rapid fire questions, but it was Esme that first asked his background. He gave them no information that she didn't know, but the way he spoke about himself made it feel like she was hearing it for the first time.

"This is brilliant, Esme," Harry said, finally able to refrain from calling her Mrs. Cullen. "The crisp is perfect. I've never managed to make it like quite this."

How that sentence didn't come off as plain flattery, she didn't know. Esme perked up, "Oh, do you cook?"

"Just simple dishes," He replied modestly. "Bacons are easy and tasty; they've become a regular over the years."

Alice, who was watching Harry eat closely, edged even closer. "Do you use magic to cook? Prepare the ingredients, chop them, wash them?"

"Most wizarding folks use magic for everything. For me, well, I find doing mundane things the normal way rather relaxing."

Rosalie sent him an annoyed glance, as he'd divulged that particular piece of information so easily when it took her weeks. Harry grinned into his tea. "Or perhaps it's the familiarity. I've been doing it for as long as I can remember."

There was adoration in Esme's gaze. "Helping in the kitchen since you were little? Your parents must be very proud, Harry."

Rosalie expected him to flinch at the comment, or at least show some degree of derision. Instead his face turned into a careful mask, remaining genial; the only thing that betrayed him was the slight movement of his knuckles. Watching him, she felt both pride and anger; pride for his perfect mask, not unlike her own in similar situation – this was one of those times when she realized that despite his warmth and her coldness, they weren't all that different – and fury for the muggles she would have killed torturously had she had her way.

She vividly remembered the moment she found out. It slipped into one of their conversations, when Harry told her about the time he'd gotten a Weasley jumper at Christmas, and Rosalie asked who gave him the 50-pence piece. He'd offered offhanded comments at first, but Rosalie refused to let it go. Finally, meekly, as if the monstrous treatment he had received was his fault, he told her the truth.

The Dursleys didn't give him a single scar, no permanent remembrance of them on his skin. But the damage they had inflicted was there in his silent demeanor, in the way he looked at her family reunion oddly, longingly, in the way he didn't really believe that he was special, one of a kind, and least of all not a freak.

She had wanted to hunt them down. She had wanted them to kneel, apologize to the child in him that they mistreated and then kill them afterwards. She would have, had Harry not told her that Vernon and Petunia had died in a car crash – how ironic – and Dudley ended up having a magical child.

None of this leaked through either of Harry's mask or hers. But Jasper, sitting at the far end of the table, looked at both of them in apprehension, and Esme caught it all. Her face twisted into worry. "What is it?"

"Nothing, it's nothing of importance, really," Harry smiled again, sipping his tea.

Esme wasn't swayed. Her frown grew, taking Harry's left hand into hers. "Tell me? Please?"

Harry looked at her in surprise, apparently not used to people caring enough to press him, or bold enough to ask him outright. He took another sip. "My parents died when I was a year old. I grew up with my mother's sister and her family."

Esme's eyes widened, and then softened. She squeezed Harry's hand. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's a long time ago. I've accepted it, really."

Consternation grew in Esme's expression. "There's more, though, isn't it?"

Rosalie raised her eyebrows in surprise; Esme hadn't been this perceptive, this urgent. Yet there she was, her hands enveloping Harry's, looking at him as if she knew the existence of Harry's mask and wanted to break it, wanted him to let her in.

Harry looked at Esme for a while before finally answering, "My – er – relatives weren't exactly… fond of me."

"Oh," Esme whispered, and Rosalie stood where she was as she watched something in Esme broke hearing it. The woman had always been too kind for her own good, too perfect a mother. But at the moment Rosalie knew that it wasn't just maternal feelings surfacing, but the idea that such a polite, well-mannered boy grew up without love while all she had wanted was to love her unborn son.

Esme had always seen Jasper and Edward as her sons – despite their age difference, but she and Harry had the same emptiness that could have been be filled with the other. And of all of them, Esme was the one with the least restraint in expressing her affections. With tears in her eyes, she stood from her seat and pulled Harry into a tight hug.

Harry, one hand still holding his cup of tea, looked flabbergasted. His pose was almost mannequin-like for a moment, until slowly he sunk into it and circled his one free hand around Esme's back.

The moment was fleeting, as Alice apparently decided that she had been patient enough and started dragging Harry outside, demanding for a chance to fly. On his way out, he faltered at the sight of the hollow window frame that she'd shattered a night ago, and waved his wand towards it as an afterthought. He left to fetch his broom and headed outside, leaving the others stunned watching shards of glass floating, as if alive, repairing itself.

"Harry Potter," She heard Alice said in awe, once the two were outside. "You won't be rid of us for a really, really long time."

Alice then proceeded to rain the windows with countless rocks, giggling all the while, Esme too stupefied to protest. And then Harry laughed. At once he repaired what the pixie had broken, only for her to break another a second later. She had heard him laugh countless times by now, but it never quite sounded like that; never so easy and innocent, as if he was relieving the childhood he had never gotten.

She found herself laughing along. Jasper turned to her, astonished, but she pointedly ignored her brother, even as he started chuckling too.

It hadn't ever felt this way. Her home. It hadn't ever felt so open, so carefree, as though they were not monsters they were shaped to be. As if they were truly a family, bounded by blood and had been this way for decades, centuries, thousands of years.

All because he was now here. With rebellious black hair and bright, kind eyes that smiled as he did, as if he had no demons of his own. With his arrival, he had brought the piece of her that had been lost.

Vehemently, she swore that she would let nothing – nothing take this away from her.

It hadn't been too long since he last visited the castle he once called home, but the bleak scenery hit him as hard as the frost bit his skin. The corridors were dark and empty, distant hissing of Mrs. Norris at the back (or perhaps it was just old fear creeping to his conscience), oddly in harmony with constant sound of water leaking from pipes. He had lost count of the times he had snuck around in the middle of the night, but he remembered that the corridors felt eerie, with shadows jumping around and lurking behind his back. He'd always thought of Hogwarts not as a mere building, not as a mere thing. It had something deep inside it not many understood, or even cared to think about, but there was something there, and Harry was sure of it with all of his bones. There was never confirmation: only a distinct feeling and the way the professors talked about this castle like there was a secret they never revealed. Until now.

He felt something in him stirred the moment he stepped inside. He could feel the castle rejoicing at his presence, knowing that the man that just entered was born from the boy who thought this place as his only home.

It was with this thought in mind that he entered the Headmistress' Office, with a smile that he didn't have to fake. His greeting rolled smoothly on his tongue, "Headmistress."

His old professor sighed, seemingly restraining from rolling her eyes. "Minerva, Harry. Professor, if you must."

"Of course," He said, stifling a smile. He always liked riling her up with propriety; it reminded him of the old times.

"I take it this is not a social visit?"

"No," Harry said apologetically. "I'm afraid not. I'm here to see Dumbledore. There's something I need to speak to him about. Privately."

The Headmistress stared at him with hard eyes. "The last time I allowed such a thing, you broke most of my possessions."

"Nothing that can't be fixed by a simple reparo, I'm sure."

McGonagall curled her lips in distaste. "The pandemonium between the late headmasters couldn't."

Despite her words and apparent unhappiness, McGonagall waved her wand. Dumbledore's portrait emerged from the wall, much like the way Grimmauld Place Number 12 did from the surfaces of its neighbors, and Harry had to wonder just how many had sought the deceased headmaster to have warranted this level of security measure. Then again, perhaps it was only him. McGonagall had always had gone overboard in reacting to Harry's misconducts, after all.

He almost hadn't noticed her retreat to her chambers, as his eyes quickly found Dumbledore's twinkling blue, tinted with surprise and curiosity. He had thought the words to say to him over and over on the way here until it became a lengthy monologue, but all of it died in his lips as the memory of Carlisle's anguish resurfaced.

"Did you lie to me?"

Dumbledore froze in his frame, and Harry couldn't decide if it was out of fear or shock.

"About Carlisle," Harry clarified, tone biting. "Was he really your friend?"

This wouldn't have been the greatest trick Albus Dumbledore had ever pulled. His dead mentor had manipulated him since he entered the castle, after all, milking all of his potential until the well was dry and thoroughly orchestrated his death. Yet somehow this felt more personal. It wasn't just Harry's plan that he had tainted, but his future, even after he had been promised that all of it was done, over, and he was finally free from anyone's grasp.

When Dumbledore had no answer, Harry continued, "He has no memory of you. Or of magic at all. But his senses remember. He has been exposed to magic before, but I'm not sure if he truly was your 'old friend'. So now I repeat my question: did you lie to me?"

Carefully, as though Harry had the ability to rip him out of the frame, Dumbledore answered the truth that Harry had been dreading.

"No."

Harry slumped into the Headmistress' chair, ignoring the outraged cries of how dare you and a chorus of merlin himself had less audacity! and stared straight into Dumbledore's baffled blue eyes.

"I did not lie. Carlisle was my friend. We met when I was still a young man, when I was traveling with Gellert Grindelwald and starting to have doubts of his cause," He said quietly, but not without conviction. "My lies are countless, but this is not one of them. I swear to you, Harry."

The lack of my boy caused him to relax a little, but Harry kept his gaze. He had believed Dumbledore the first time because he couldn't think of a reason for it. The old man was ruthless with his cause – the Greater Good – but above all, he was a rationalist. He was cold with his decisions, but he didn't thrive on chaos and pain either. He wouldn't inflict misfortune upon his once-pawn out of mere spite.

Harry asked flatly, "Then what do you propose happened? His memory is rewritten? He's a vampire. He has eidetic memory. Even a human can have flashbacks and leftovers of what has been rewritten. It should be impossible to rewrite a vampire's mind. Too much information – one detail is bound to trigger another."

The man in the portrait looked older than he already was.

"I – I don't know."

Harry clenched his teeth as he stood. "Then you're useless."

He felt brutal pleasure in seeing his old mentor's face contorted in pain. To be a pawn of no use was a severe blow to the man that used to play the game. This was the furthest it could get from one of Dumbledore's games, but Harry was the player anyway.

Absently he wondered what made him this cruel to the man. Once, he had been the grandfather figure Harry never had. All lies, he thought bitterly. His deceits and manipulations were done in the name of the greater good and all it had done to him was to inflict more and more pain.

But Dumbledore did tell the truth. He had guided Harry to hell, but then when it was over he permitted Harry the key to leave. And what followed was the chain of events that made him feel like someone else altogether, someone he had never been permitted of being. Just Harry.

It was with that in mind that Harry stopped when Dumbledore called for him. He turned, his hand gripping golden door knob with strength that could break it.

"Tell me what happened," Dumbledore demanded, as if he had any right. Harry bristled. "Something changed. There's – there's an air about you now that reminds me of only one other person."

Harry answered Dumbledore's question with his own. "Who?"

"Gellert."

For a while, there was nothing but thick silence, and his own controlled breathing. He felt his mask slip into place.

"Grindelwald," Harry whispered. Who else?

Harry whirled on the spot, lashing on the portrait, "He knew, didn't he? He knew of your relation to Carlisle. He didn't approve. Vampires were beneath the two of you. Beneath him. But you knew Carlisle's kindness, and you began to see what kind of man Grindelwald really was."

The reply died on the old man's mouth, but it was an answer all the same.

"Tell me," Harry said softly. "Did Gellert Grindelwald acquire all the three Hallows after all?"

The question brought Dumbledore out of his shock. "What – Never. Not while I was alive. He had been close, so close, but never – "

"Maybe he didn't," Harry nodded. Dumbledore stared. "Or maybe he did without your knowledge."

"My boy, are you – "

"Good night, professor."

He had gained all he needed from his deceased mentor. His answers now lied elsewhere, deep in his consciousness, locked and buried.

"A master comes with a question. How can a servant deny him the answer?"

Death's voice crawled against his skin like thousands of spiders, but it was still more pleasant than the sharp edge of scythe on his neck. Harry stared down at the offending blade. The ethereal weapon had shed so much of his blood, and each time he had emerged alive; it had ceased to frighten him.

What frightened him was the answer. It was within his grasp, but it felt like a grain of sand slipping through his fingers. Death was peering at him with unforgiving blue eyes, almost daring Harry to ask what Death already knew.

Grindelwald's name felt wrong as it rolled off his tongue, but a pair of icy eyes flashed.

The reply was simple, unconcerned. "The affairs between a master and his servant remains between the two."

The blade on his neck twisted slowly, drawing blood. Harry let Death's words flow out of his mouth, not bothering to hide mockery in his voice, "How could a servant deny his master an answer?"

Death cackled; its noise was screeching and ugly, twisted in its own amusement and mockery. Oh, sweet, naïve child, it meant. Death stared at him. Malice danced in its gaze, but by then cold rage had danced in his own. There was no submission in the way Death regarded him; only contempt and impatience, like a butler treating a petulant child of his true master's.

As soon as he fell deep into his head, he was soon flung back to earth, gasping into the scent of rain and earth.

Rage still overwhelmed him by the time he reached Forks, undeterred by the chill of the storm and the swaying of dark towering trees around him. Morbidly, the scene reminded him of death. He seethed as he made his way through the storm – even with Impervius Charm, not much could be done with mud that found its way into his shoes.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't wrap his mind around it. He couldn't understand it – the devil that lurked deep in his subconscious, a fairytale and nightmare manifested into one being. It was pulling its strings directly from within him; outbursts of emotions that weren't his own, power that he hadn't ever dreamed of having, selected information both forced on and withheld from him.

Absently he wondered if his anger didn't simply stem from being so unceremoniously banished, but from the fact that he had no control, once again on the strings rather than be the one to pull it.

As the Cullens' house came into view, Harry forced his breathing to normal. He had opted to apparate to the appropriate distance from their home, not wanting to disrupt into their routines without warning. It would be pointless if he came inside seething and breaking every piece of electronics in their possession.

It was near midnight. It was no secret that vampires did not require sleep, but Harry had figured that much like humans, they preferred solitude and privacy at late hours. So he had surmised to enter the room with his clothes and shoes dry, mutter few greetings to one or two Cullens as he passed. As such he was caught off guard, when not one, or even two, but all the Cullens were there in the living room, each absorbed in their own activities, but in each other's presence all the same.

Esme's head peeked from the kitchen. For someone who vomited after swallowing food, she bothered an outrageous amount of time preparing it. The caramel-haired woman flashed him an easy smile, as if he had walked through this door a hundred times and she'd always been there to greet him.

"Welcome home, Harry."

The others offered him their own greetings. Carlisle, in the task of chopping carrots for Esme, waved him the knife – a gesture that should have been alarming if done by anyone but him. Alice looked up from her game of chess against Edward; she swished her hand vigorously as though they were a river apart not twenty feet, while the latter offered him a simple raise of eyebrows. Jasper sat on a sofa near them, glancing at Alice with no small amount of frustration, probably seeking her attention. Harry returned their gestures with a smile of his own, small and brief but real enough. His mind was still transfixed on Esme's plain greetings – one that shouldn't have affected him so much yet it did, and he had no way of evading it.

Home.

This place was the furthest image from his old home, with unnerving transparency that allowed so much green inside in contrary to the secure, warm hearth of both Hogwarts and his old apartment. In addition, the sheer number of strangers occupying the room would have been enough for Harry to retreat to his own space.

But then she descended the stairs, looking every bit like the princess he imagined in the bedtime stories he stole from Dudley's room long ago. But he knew the truth – she was far from the sweet, innocent damsel in distress. She was as sharp as steel, as dangerous as poison, as passionate as wildfire. All of that he knew the first time they met, but the soft, peaceful expression on her porcelain face was new. He knew what she was thinking. She was home.

For the time being, if Harry disregarded every rational thought and let his heart decided, home was where she was.

Curiously, I have... nothing to say on post-chapter author's note. Oh, well, anything you want to ask - ask!

Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]

Bon Iver - Calgary (Listen to it. Seriously)

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