The hours ticked on as Harry sat in the grand library of Carlisle's Wuthering Heights, his eyes trailing the ancient covers that lined each wall. Carlisle had left some time ago, the conversation they had shared ringing in his ears. They had discussed the past, both of which seemed so utterly different and yet strangely connected. Standing now, he walked slowly around the classical Victorian furnishings and admired the perfectly stored first editions. A copy of Shakespeare's folio sat on the oaken desk nearest to the now open window. Moonlight skirted around the edges, shining into the darkest corners but never seeming to reach the middle of the room, especially the spot where Carlisle had chosen to stand, rigid and still as stone in the dark. Harry tried to contemplate why he had opened up so to this strange, dangerous creature. Why had he chosen to reveal his innermost thoughts and feelings to such a man?

He hardly heard the door creaking as Carlisle re-entered, a tray lined with tea and biscuits in his hands. He placed them softly on the desk and chose a seat half bathed in light near the door, in clear view of Harry if Harry should turn around. Carlisle watched with intrigue as Harry read every cover, here and there chuckling at the titles that clearly invoked pleasant memories, reading aloud certain titles that seemed to take his interest. Every few moments he would stroke a title, intrigued, and then return to his meandering surveillance of the tomes. Carlisle noted his every movement, a half curved smile on his face as he watched the occasional swagger, the hip movements. Harry was dancing, swaying to a tune that Carlisle could not hear.

"I heard you come in, and the smell of tea was a dead give away. Didn't anyone ever tell you it is rude to stare?"

Harry did not attempt to turn and look at Carlisle, but he imagined the face, that angelic face with a devilish grin, floating golden hair and deep flashing eye, like Kubla Khan incarnate. With mirth in his voice, he recited the last few poet lines aloud:

"And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise."

Carlisle merely chuckled and, within a breath, stood beside Harry, his long fingers making soft and subtle trails where Harry's eyes had only moments ago rested.

"Coleridge, an interesting man, somewhat gloomy at times but interesting nevertheless".

"Not as interesting as some, I should think…"

The words had escaped Harry's lips before he had chance to stop them, he mentally kicked himself for flirting with danger in this way, he should have known better. However, there was something, something deep within him, which yearned for Carlisle to be feeling one iota of the longing that Harry felt. There was a need for Carlisle to feel this craving just as much as he did.

"Yes, definitely not"

With that, Carlisle left the room once more, this time rather stiffly. Harry could not help but think of a particularly bad Muggle film he had seen during his 'vacation'. It had been a version of Bram Stoker's Dracula made in the 90s, and aside from a few good performances, the rest had been dire. The moment in which Dracula leaves Jonathan Harker to clear his face from shaving, the way the vampire disappeared, followed by his shadow, echoed in Harry's mind and, without thinking, he looked to see if a shadow was still with him in the room. Unlike most of Harry's strange fancies and visions however, this one did not prove to be true.

Throughout all of his travelling, his meetings with strange and wonderful creatures, occasionally magical but mostly rare and wonderful non-magical beings, Harry had never been more fascinated by such a beautiful being. All he had to work out was what was it that was drawing them both together. Was it purely animal magnetism? Carlisle had spoken of his true mate, the love of his life, Esme, and how he and her had held together an ever growing, 'vegetarian', family of wraiths and strays together through love and compassion, a trait not well none among the vampires that lurked in the books, both Muggle and magical. What was it, then, that was willing them to be together? Harry pondered, occasionally making clicking noises as he thought. Hermione would be able to help him with this. He would have to give her a call, if he ever got out of this place. On the other hand, perhaps, rather than escaping, just using the landline. For some reason, Harry felt compelled to stay in this mansion straight from a Gothic novel, this Wuthering Heights. To speak truthfully, Harry rather liked the dank brooding of the place; the ambience was amazingly like Grimmauld Place, his long lost home. Thinking of Sirius' old house made him shiver. The thought that Death Eaters had made it into their own personal bed and breakfast made him feel queasy, even though Professor McGonagall had assigned house elves, lead of course by Kreacher, to completely vacuum the place of any signs of disturbance other than those left by his beloved godfather Sirius and the original Order.

Harry sat in a large, warm armchair in a corner and let his mind wander well into the night. Carlisle did not make a reappearance for a few hours and Harry's mind wandered to where he could be. Could he have gone out? Was Harry now a prisoner in this large, dark house? His mind raced through so many unanswerable questions that Harry did not notice that he had drifted off into a restless sleep. He did not feel the draping of heavy, warm blankets over him, or hear Carlisle's low hum and he was gently tucked into the folds. What Harry did feel, though he could not place what it was, was the softest of icy touches that traced along the lightening bolt scar on his forehead. It burned, and the pain brought images of torment into his mind. It was the same burning sensation he had felt when connected to Voldemort; the cold, loveless caress of a deeper, mysterious magic. But this burn felt different. Although Harry did not recognise it at first, he fell into a gentle sleep at the thought of this vampire's gently burning touch feeling almost like home.