And then my eyes got used to the darkness
And everyone that I knew
Was lost and so long forgotten after you
By: Des Rocs
The meadow is impossibly peaceful today, with wildflowers dotting the grass in bursts of purple and white. Harry lies with his head in Draco's lap, trying to silence the persistent whisper in the back of his mind that says something isn't quite right. The afternoon sun catches Draco's skin, making it shimmer like scattered diamonds, and Harry finds himself studying the vampire's face, searching for... something. Trying not to break the perfect facade of Draco Cullen and find something underneath he doesn't like.
"You're thinking too loudly again, Harry," Draco murmurs, his cool fingers trailing through Harry's hair in that soothing way that is starting like a calculated bid to distract him. Harry notices how Draco's other hand tenses slightly against the grass – a tell he's started picking up on whenever he gets too distant.
The small package in Harry's pocket feels like it weighs a ton. He's spent weeks trying to find something perfect for Draco, something that might match the grandeur of the Cullens' usual gifts. But every time he reaches to pull it out, another fragment of those not-quite dreams surfaces – flashes of a younger Draco with hatred in his eyes, of violence and rivalry that feels too real to be imagination. Each time these visions hit, Draco is too quick to dismiss them, too practiced in his reassurances. It's starting to feel less like comfort and more like covering something up.
"It's your birthday," Harry says instead, pushing down the questions that threaten to spill out. He reaches up to catch Draco's hand in his, noting how the vampire's expression flickers with something that might be guilt before smoothing back into serene affection. "We're not supposed to be worried about anything today."
Draco's smile is soft, but there's a tension around his eyes that Harry pretends not to see. Sometimes Harry wonders if Draco can smell the suspicion mixing with his love, if that's why his posture grows slightly more rigid whenever Harry gets lost in thought. Vampires can sense emotions through scent, after all. But if he does, he's become an expert at changing the subject.
"Being here with you is all I want for my birthday," Draco says, and Harry can hear both truth and evasion in his voice. It's maddening how every loving word can feel simultaneously genuine and like part of an elaborate performance.
The package presses against his stomach as Harry shifts. Maybe in a few minutes, he'll find the courage to give it to Draco. For now, he closes his eyes and makes a conscious choice to shelve his growing suspicions. He can almost convince himself that the dreams are just dreams, that the way Draco sometimes looks at him with years of unspoken history in his eyes is just his imagination. Almost.
A breeze whispers through the trees, and Draco's entire body goes rigid. His head snaps toward the forest that surrounds their peaceful sanctuary, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. The sudden shift from gentle lover to predator.
Harry lifts his head and carefully climbs to a sitting position, his body unconsciously leaning towards Draco's despite the tension radiating off him in waves. It's instinct, this need to stay close to Draco when danger threatens, though Harry can't shake the feeling that once, long ago, he would have reached for something else – something that should have been in his hand, ready to protect them both.
Draco's face clenches, his hands twitching in his lap as if fighting the instinct to grab Harry and run. There's something else in his expression too – recognition, perhaps? Fear? It's gone too quickly for Harry to be sure.
"Draco, what is it?" Harry asks, his heart beginning to race. The small package in his pocket presses against his leg.
The way Draco's holding himself reminds Harry of one of those dreams – Draco standing in front of him, but not to protect him. To face him. To...
Draco's fingers curl into fists, then deliberately relax. "Somethings coming," he says, but his voice is tight, controlled. "But they are too close to us for it not to turn into a chase,"
He stands in one fluid motion, pulling Harry up with him, but his eyes never leave the treeline. Every line of his body screams that it's other vampires and they are interested in more than talking.
Harry lets himself be guided to his feet, but he can't shake the feeling that it is more than just a random vampire. Draco looked like he recognized the scent. And that's not all. There's something more, something familiar , in how his other hand keeps twitching toward where a pocket should be – would be, if he were wearing different clothes. Something that calls to Harry's own instincts and tugs at his memory.
The gift will have to wait. Again. But as Draco pulls him close, ready to shield him, Harry catalogs every detail of this moment. Another piece in the puzzle he's slowly assembling, despite Draco's best efforts to keep him from seeing the whole picture.
The moment stretches, taut and brittle. Harry watches as four vampires burst from the treeline, moving with a predatory grace that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. They aren't like the Cullens – there's something wilder, more dangerous about them.
The first to emerge is a vampire with white-blonde hair so pale it's almost silver, her features aristocratic and sharp. Her red eyes are calculating, measuring, filled with an intelligence that seems to look through Harry rather than at him. Something about her tugs at the edges of his fragmented memories – a sense of cold precision, of judgment. A complicated expression shifts across her face and then is gone when her eyes meet Draco.
Next comes a vampire with wild, unruly black curls that frame a face twisted with a hunger that goes beyond mere thirst for blood. Her eyes are feverish, almost manic, darting between Harry and Draco with a predatory intensity that makes Harry want to shrink back. There's something deeply unsettling about her – a sense of barely contained violence that seems to pulse around her like a living thing.
The last two are identical twins, moving with an inhuman synchronicity that makes Harry's stomach turn. Their brown hair mirrors each other perfectly, their movements so precise it's as if they're reflections rather than separate beings. But it's their eyes that make Harry's breath catch – bottomless and vacant, like looking into wells of absolute nothing.
Draco stands beside Harry, transformed into living marble. There's a haunted quality to his stillness that Harry has never seen before, as if he's staring at ghosts made flesh. The lost look in his eyes sends ice through Harry's veins – he's never seen Draco truly afraid before. It would take less than a heartbeat, Harry realizes for these vampires to tear them both apart. His mind screams that they should run, but his body understands the pointlessness in an attempt.
Draco's head snaps roughly to the side, like someone emerging from a trance. His eyes narrow as he takes in their opponents again, but Harry can see the calculation behind them now, the desperate scramble for control.
"You shouldn't be here," Draco says, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. But underneath the threat, Harry catches something that makes his chest tighten – the lostness of a child.
Harry feels it too – a maddening sense of déjà vu that claws at the edges of his consciousness. The blonde woman triggers fragments of a memory: a shop filled with robes, a look of fear, a sharp voice of warning. The dark-haired woman is a half-remembered nightmare of red and green lights, all sharp edges and wild eyes that seem to peer straight through his skull. The twins remain a void in his memory, but their presence makes his body want to reach for a weapon that isn't there.
The dark-haired one's laugh shatters the tension like breaking glass – a sound that belongs in padded cells. Her eyes lock onto Harry's throat with the focused intensity of a starving predator.
"Draco, dear," she croons, the words dripping with poisoned honey, "the same could be said for you. Associating with Cullens, pretending to be one of them." Her gaze never leaves Harry's pulse point as she continues, "Keeping the same cute little human pets that my darling Tom wanted for himself, right before he... disappeared."
Harry's muscles lock at her words, the casual mention of 'Tom' sending shivers down his spine. The accusation in her voice is a blade pressed against their chests. Draco's eyes flash with something dangerous as they dart between their unwanted visitors. Harry watches as something shifts in his expression – a decision being made.
Moving with deliberate grace, Draco presses against Harry's back, his chin coming to rest on Harry's shoulder. His hands, cold as death, cover Harry's ears in a possessive gesture that feels more like a warning than protection.
Even through Draco's muffling hands, his words slice through with terrible clarity: "I was unaware that Tom and I shared the same prey, but his sudden disappearance is no concern of mine. All I ask is that you don't give away my little game. I've worked ever so hard at convincing him to play with me."
The words are spoken in a bored drawl, but Harry can feel the sharp edge of Draco's smirk against his skin – fangs waiting to draw blood. It mirrors another smirk from his dreams, one worn by a similar face filled the same cruelty. Harry forces himself to remain still, knowing this performance might be all that stands between them and death.
The dark-haired leader's chuckle is a sound of broken glass and funeral bells. She stalks forward with predatory grace, each step echoing like a death knell in Harry's ears. He can feel Draco's desperation in the minute tremors of his hands, the nearly overwhelming urge to snatch Harry away from danger. But they're trapped – the human blood pumping in their vein far superior than the animal in Draco's.
"This little game of yours seems awfully drawn out," she sneers, lips curling back to reveal gleaming teeth. "It's been a long time since you've been home, since you disappeared without a trace."
"It was coming to a close," Draco responds with chilling finality, his grip on Harry tightening until it's almost painful.
"Then you wouldn't mind coming home then?" Her voice drips false sweetness, her grin a nightmare made flesh. "Your father misses you."
The words strike Draco like physical blows. Harry feels him flinch, a barely perceptible movement that speaks volumes. His heart plummets as something fragile and desperate creeps into Draco's voice.
"Father?" The word escapes like a prayer and a curse combined, heavy longing and fear.
The dark-haired vampire wears a triumphant smirk. Harry's thoughts race with terrifying clarity: this is the moment where everything could shatter. This is where Draco could become the one of his nightmares.
"Yes, he wishes to speak to you, to let all bygones be bygones. Just snap that little humans, neck and we can be on our way,"
