TWO

"I'VE BEEN TRYING to read up on the Quileute people, but there isn't much to be found online—and certainly nothing to be found in reference texts here. Although, what I could find was fascinating!" Hermione was yammering excitedly in Harry's ear as they exited through the Designated Safe Apparition door nearest London City Airport—one of the many changes instated by the Ministry, doors that could only be accessed by Wizarding folk, permitting Muggle-borns to travel between their respective 'worlds' more safely and easily. She'd taken a week to make travel arrangements and had been up hours earlier than necessary for her flight, fussing and fretting over potential last-minute items she should or should not bother to pack.

"Did you know their language is one of only five in the world that does not contain nasal sounds?"

Harry crinkled the bridge of his nose, ignoring that the action in response was its own pun. "Nasal sounds?"

"No M or N," she said, her voice breathless with her elation. "And it's totally unique to their people! It's called Quillayute—like the river—and like the tribe, I suppose, phonetically, at least, it's spelled differently, and it's in the family of another tribe's language, Chimakuan. Now, the Chimakuan people were tragically wiped out in the 1860s by a chief named Seattle—"

"Seattle as in the city your flight's going to land in?"

She nodded as they drew to a stop just before the airport doors. "As I understand it, European settlers weren't above naming stolen lands after the people they stole it from, but that's another ire-inducing argument for another day. So, as I was saying, their language is polysynthetic—"

"It's what?"

"A language that uses sentence-words."

His brows drew upward. "Ah." He nodded—she did love her research, and this was fascinating, but if he didn't stop her, she'd talk until it was time to board and then he'd never get to her surprise. "Are you sure you don't want to use the Floo network? It would be loads faster."

Hermione rolled her eyes, cringing at the thought. "That would require transfers through the American network to make it all the way to Olympic Peninsula—I know, I checked. I was raised a Muggle, taking airplanes is nothing new to me. And I managed to get a direct flight, it'll be ten hours—possibly more if there's delays, but it still beats something with multiple stops and layovers."

"Still . . . it could crash."

"Oh!" She spontaneously threw her arms around Harry's neck in one of her trademark suffocating hugs. "You're so sweet to worry, but I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll contact you the minute I land. It's this flight, then a shorter one to a place called Port Angeles, Mr. Black's son will be picking me up from there to bring me to an area called La Push, where the reservation's located, for a sit-down with their Tribal Council. Honestly, by the time that's all done, I'm probably going to sleep for two days."

Chuckling, he hugged her back, knowing full well it was the only way she'd let him breathe. "Speaking of sleep . . . . Where are you planning to stay?"

She pulled back and frowned at him. "Well, I've already done currency exchange, so payment for a booking extension if the time comes won't be an issue, or if I need a change of scenery, there's plenty of inns and resorts around La Push and in the town nearby—Forks, and please no jokes about neighboring villages named for other utensils. I booked a room at a place called—"

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did," she responded reflexively. "The inn is called—"

"No," he insisted. "I cancelled your reservation."

Her face fell at his words and she was overcome with the strangest sense that she'd lost the ability to understand plain English. "I . . . you . . . what?"

He ushered her inside, walking with her as far as he was permitted to escort her. Still, she seemed in a daze when he drew her to a halt.

Pursing his lips, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a brochure. He explained as he held it out for her to take. "Oh, 'Mione, I heard you making the arrangements and that place is . . . well, it's the sort of place that's probably great for a weekend stay, but we've no idea how long you'll be there and you'll probably be too busy to worry about finding other places to stay later on if you get sick of the same four walls. You need someplace more comfortable, a place that can genuinely feel like home for a while."

Arching a brow—honestly, they'd spent months making do with a grubby tent that smelled of cat urine and he thought she'd have an issue with a budget hotel room?—she took the brochure from his hand grudgingly. She didn't have long for skepticism, as the pictures immediately visible were breathtaking.

"The Quillayute River Resort?" She opened it with delicate fingers, examining image after image of the cabins and landscape. "Oh . . . oh, my God. Harry, what've you done?"

"You know my parents left me more money than I could ever spend in two lifetimes," he answered with an easy shrug. It hadn't been anything to him to help Fred and George when they'd needed money to open their joke shop. "Most of the time it just sits there because I don't know what the bloody hell to do with it. So, I put in the proper currency exchanges, got one of those prepaid debit cards—"

"Harry, I don't think that's—"

"Shh, shush!" He pulled out his wallet and retrieved the bit of plastic in question. "You're on a research mission for the betterment of the Wizarding world, so technically the Ministry should be footing the bill."

"You're not the Ministry, Harry," she reminded in a light tone. Didn't he see this was too much? Even if the amenities were lovely and impressive and certainly ideal for a comfortable temporary home setting. The kitchen alone was lovely, the idea of a separate living room with a fireplace in her hotel suite was not something she'd considered. It even had a furnished porch with a bloody barbecue grill!

She needed to amend her thinking, it wasn't a hotel suite, it was—as the brochure stated—a cabin. She was not prepared for this.

"I'm their poster-boy, that's close enough." He forced her to take the debit card and then held up his hands. "Don't fuss, just accept it. No refunds."

Hermione thought she might cry. She knew why he was doing this . . . . Because he couldn't be there with her to make sure she rested, or remembered to stop working long enough to eat a meal. Over the years, she'd had more and more trouble putting aside her research for the sake of managing her very basic existence as a human being. If it weren't for Harry, she'd probably have worked herself sick many times over by now.

And then there was the look on his face. Now she felt like she might cry for a wholly different reason. But they both knew he had to stay behind. "You're the most amazing person in the world, you know that?" she asked, a watery smile on her lips and the tip of her nose stinging as she held herself back from crying.

"Yeah," he said, nodding and clearing his throat—she was not going to make him tear up over this! She'd be back in a few months and it'd be like no time had passed at all, he was sure of it. Just like summer break those first couple of years at Hogwarts. "You should really get going, they're going to start boarding soon, and you've got all sorts of checks to get through."

"Oh, Harry!" Her voice was thick with unshed tears as she once more threw her arms around his neck.

He chuckled warmly, hugging her back one final time. "Go," he whispered, "before I lose the will to let you leave."

She leaned back enough to look at him. "I never thought I'd be taking a trip like this without you."

"Me either." Slipping his hands over her arms, he gently pried them from him. "But you really have to go."

Hermione took a deep breath and nodded, letting her wrists slide from his grasp. "Bye, Harry."

He felt his throat close on the words. Instead, he granted her a smile and a parting wave, aware she would understand his nonverbal farewell.

Then, she turned and walked through the crowd. And she knew her best friend stood there unmoving, watching her grow smaller until she vanished from sight, entirely.


"I still think this is nonsense."

Jasper wasn't one for eye-rolling, or other expressions of exasperation. Honestly, he didn't have need of them often. But just now, he could feel a little, flickering part of him that was tempted.

Sitting on the porch, staring serenely out at the massive cedars and tall ferns that seemingly guarded the house, he'd been simply quiet since Alice's departure. She'd been right, but then of course she'd been right—she usually was. Carlisle, Esme, Edward, and Emmett had all accepted her decision. Rosalie and Bella? Those two didn't agree on many things, but they both had spent the last week staring daggers at him for 'not stopping her.'

When he didn't move, or turn to acknowledge her—what was the point if she was just going to growl and gripe some more?—Bella stubbornly made her way across the porch and took a seat beside him. He was starting to notice very little mattered to her beyond the things she thought of as 'right.' She'd known and accepted for the past three years that he and Alice were soulmates, and so, of course, she couldn't make sense of the truth about their relationship.

How was it that she had such spectacular self-control about her thirst and her hunting habits, but had no compunction about letting her perceptions get the better of her?

"You're really not going to say anything?" she asked, not masking her surprise that he wasn't bothering to use his gift to take the saltiness out of her current mood.

"Would there be a point?"

Bella opened her mouth, but quickly shut it again. She wasn't entirely sure what to say to that. She knew he was right, there wasn't any point in answering, because nothing he could say would make her less upset that Alice was gone. But that Alice was gone hurt, and she wanted to argue about it with someone, and who better to do that with than the one person who could've stopped her from going?

Pursing her lips, she held his gaze for a long time. He didn't need an ability to read anything about her to know she was wishing she had her husband's gift so that she might catch a glimpse of what was going on in his head.

She set her jaw, turning her attention to the trees. "You could've made her stay."

He merely looked at her.

Determined, she nodded. "If you'd only asked, she would have stayed for you."

Now it was Jasper's turn to nod. "I know. That's why I couldn't ask her."

Bella snapped her head around to look at him. "I still don't understand that."

"That's because you . . . . No, never mind."

Her brows pinched together. For a moment there, he actually sounded agitated before he collected himself and calmed again. Jasper didn't get agitated.

She recognized that she shouldn't push, and that he could choose to mellow out her irritation at any time. But he hadn't, yet. And she wanted to know what he thought she wouldn't like to hear.

"That's because I what?"

Tranquil as he met her gaze, he said, "You want your loved ones to be happy, you do, it's obvious, but . . . you only want them to be happy in a way that supports your happiness."

Her mouth fell open. "Wha . . . ? I . . . ."

"Making her stay for me wouldn't have been fair to her. It would take away her freedom to go find what she needs right now." He shrugged, still perfectly serene. "And you'd have been okay with my selfishness keeping her here because that's what you want."

He could feel the ripple of her anger at that, at the same time, he could detect a growing sense of annoyance coming from inside the house and drawing closer. Jasper refrained from responding in any way—he knew he shouldn't have said it, but it was already in his head from the first moment Bella had decided she couldn't accept Alice's decision from her own lips. In this house, something being in anyone's head but Bella's or Edward's meant it would've come out eventually, anyway.

He wasn't surprised when the door to the house flew open, even as he was cognizant of Bella turning around to see her husband standing there. He knew Edward's gaze was fixed on the back of his head.

"You just had to say it."

Her eyebrows jumped up so high they appeared in danger of meeting her hairline as she looked from one to the other, and back. "Wait, so you knew that was what he thought and you didn't tell me?"

Edward's gaze hardened, the familiar 'here we go again' scowl settling over his features. He was about to respond—to remind her that what Jasper, or anyone else, thought of her, wasn't any of her business, just like it wasn't supposed to be his business, either—when he shifted his attention to the blond vampire. "Where're you going?"

As typically happened with Edward's ability, he'd asked the question before the person he was asking had even moved. Climbing to his feet, Jasper sighed. This was what he got for not tweaking everyone's emotions. He only looked at Edward and then slipped past him back into the house.

"What was that? Where is he going?" Bella asked immediately.

Edward glanced back toward the door. "The basic answer? His study."

Her eyes narrowed. "And the actual answer?"

"Any place where there isn't about to be an eruption of bickering."


"For the last time, dude," Jacob said, unable to help a laugh, "I really don't think 'actual witches' ride on brooms."

Young Seth was following at Jake's heels—not that that was anything new—still wildly curious about this English witch who was coming to visit them. He wasn't entirely sure what was going to happen, none of them were. Several things had been made clear about this Hermione Granger they were going to meet. Well, Jacob was supposed to be meeting her, but Seth was insistent on tagging along.

One, much like magic users of any culture, there were good ones and evil ones, and she was one of the good ones. Two, she was working to rid the earth of the moon-cursed werewolves who had made the whole world believe myths about animal-shifters being monsters. Three, she was going to be here until she got some nudge in the right direction on her research, so the more they cooperated, the sooner she'd be out of their hair.

None of them had been pleased with the idea of being 'studied', really, but the elders had stressed to them how terrible the curse was. Twisted magic, his dad had called it. But it wasn't the words any of the elders had used that had made the wolves believe. It was the way they talked about it. The hushed, urgent tones and the darting glances. It was unsettling.

Once upon a time, Jacob would've dismissed their reactions as the superstitions of old men, but . . . . Well, then he changed into a werewolf and found out the Cold Ones of legend really existed, so who was he to question the word of his elders?

"But maybe they do!" Seth went on excitedly as he hurried around Jake to the passenger side door of the car. "I mean, we could ask, right?"

Jacob winced as he fished the keys out of his jeans pocket and unlocked the door, sliding into the familiar, cramped driver's seat. "Sure, sure. You go ahead and ask her," he said while reaching across to open the door for the boy. "I'm positive that'll go over real well. While you're at it, maybe ask if she's wearing makeup and her skin is 'actually' green and warty."

Seth's eyes narrowed as he frowned. "Okay, now you're just being stupid."

Snickering, Jacob turned the ignition. "Well, then I guess that makes two of us."