Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~Death is Just Another Adventure~

Looking back, it was hard to say whether Death simply wanted to get rid of him or if she truly cared about his well being. He could only guess that it was probably a bit of both. It certainly didn’t earn him any favor that he spent most of his days in her opulent, dark office where he was definitely not invited. It just sort of happened.

On the other hand, no grand protests were raised, nor were there any verbal objections. And Harry clung to that fact like a drowning man grasping at straws.

He didn’t feel like he was in the way. After all, he merely sat quietly in one of the chairs tucked into the corner of the room, reading. What else was there to do when the world had become dull? He had no desire to stay in the ever corrupt wizarding world. Not even the slightest bit. Especially not without his family. No, I won’t think about that now, he scolded himself, turning the page a little too aggressively. Books were a good way to escape reality.

From time to time, he would glance up from his reading and observe the soul writhing before the entity. It seemed that not everyone had the privilege of their own limbo to transition through after death. Or was it something exclusive to wizards? Harry never pried too deeply into the details of her work. Unwanted questions usually led to the same argument "And why can't I cross over too?" They were both exhausted by it at this point. No matter how persistently Harry repeated the question or how unchanging Death's answer remained, their situation never changed.They were stuck together in this world until the very end.So, for today, he swallowed his protests and maintained a fragile peace.

Occasionally, he would peek over her shoulder, hidden beneath that ever-present hood, glancing at her papers. Now and then, he pointed out a grammatical error, a typo, or chuckled at a name that amused him. Nothing serious, but he understood that for someone who had spent millennia in solitude, his presence might have been a bit grating on the nerves.

And maybe just maybe this was his little act of revenge for being named Death’s eternal companion and friend. He had long since moved past the initial bitterness of yet another manipulation, but he still despised how Fate played with its puppets. To Fate, all living beings were mere pieces on its game board. Childish, egotistical, shallow… If he could quietly and discreetly lock that ever smirking, mysterious brown haired idiot away somewhere or smother him in his sleep with a pillow he and Death might be in a slightly better mood. But no, for the sake of his own sanity, he would have to settle for drawing another elaborate sacrificial circle and praying to magic itself to drag that nuisance straight to hell. He feared, however, that the entity in question would continue meddling in their lives even from there. Not that any of these morally questionable acts could undo what had already been done. Not everything was set in stone. Time saw to that. The relentless, solemn old man, ever present yet never quite there, just like the other two. Harry sneered bitterly, his dreams of a normal life long crumpled and thrown into the void. In the end, Death, with her dry humor, was a rather decent companion. Certainly better than the next generation of Ministry officials, bureaucrats, and power-hungry wizards who had sought to use him for their own ends. Another war, another threat to foreign lands. An endless list of artifacts stored in the Department of Mysteries, their greed for knowledge insatiable. As always, he teetered on a fine line savior or the next Dark Lord. Their demands were infinite, but his patience was not.

He withdrew from the wizarding world not long after the last of his family passed away. For decades, he remained locked inside his manor, which felt even colder and darker without Kreacher. The walls were woven with memories of everyone who had ever spent time there. At some point, he no longer knew whether he surrounded himself with these memories out of grief or self-inflicted torment. He spoke so little that he nearly forgot the sound of his own voice. Wandering the halls, barely keeping himself alive. But beyond the starvation and the isolation, he found the ultimate curse of his existence no matter what he did, he would never die. Every time he said goodbye to a member of his family, it was even more heartbreaking, knowing that it truly was the final farewell. He would never see them again.

And so, he pushed through, as he always had. Emerged from his shell of self pity and resentment like a very ugly newborn basilisk and began taking small steps forward. He found solace in whatever was around him. At first, it was small manual tasks. His hands reaching for every material as if for the first time in his life. He started cooking again. Every morning, in his sunlit kitchen overlooking the gardens, golden rays warmed his face. Steam rose from the pan, and the flames beneath it flickered eagerly. He had never fully adjusted to doing everything with magic, unlike Mrs. Weasley, who simply waved her wand, making meals prepare themselves at the flick of her wrist. Watching vegetables bounce, spoons stir, and pots bubble in the Burrow had been one of his most magical childhood memories.

He himself had settled somewhere in the middle, certainly used wandless magic to assist, but he still preferred to chop and stir by hand. You didn’t need a strange timing spell to tell when the meat was perfectly cooked. With breakfast and coffee in hand, he would usually retreat to the gardens. Occasionally, this turned into a battle with an overly lively plant. The hedges and flowers surrounding the manor were so saturated with the house’s ancient magic that they sometimes did as they pleased. Despite these small joys, something was still missing. Loneliness had had its claws in him for far too long for him to honestly admit what it was. After a hundred, maybe two hundred years, he had developed an unfortunate habit of lingering in Death’s office. Something kept drawing him there, as if she held the answers to all his unresolved questions. He searched for them in every fold of the carpet, in every massive tome he devoured, in her graceful movements and, for Merlin’s sake, if he could burn a hole through her nonexistent face with his gaze, he might have searched for the truth in her eyes as well.

Harry would never admit that he was bored, but boredom was consuming him alive. It started at his toes and crept upward. It was like corrosion. He would have preferred being petrified by a Basilisk, because once the numbness reached his brain, he thought he might go insane. It seemed he had exhausted every possible way to keep himself occupied. As he glanced around the bookshelves and recognized most of the spines by title without even reading them. He had played this game far too many times. A quick glance at a book’s color, the style and length of its title, and the name would pop into his mind. A green light would blink Harry scored a point and could move on to the next unidentified piece of literature. This is going for so long that he could recite the contents of the library like a romantic poem.

And yet, even that couldn’t save him from the memories he didn’t want to face. The first few decades had been relatively easy. At least, after he had first died. Yeah, death that big and important word with capital letter D. As strange as it sounded, that was exactly what had happened in the Forbidden Forest. There was truly no one in existence immune to the Killing Curse not even him. He had never been an exception. But if one venomous green spell was all it took to save the lives of his family and friends, he would never have chosen differently. Never would he have thought that the power the prophecy spoke of the power the Dark Lord knew not would turn out to be suicidal tendencies.

And so, Harry Potter, the savior of the wizarding world, walked into the faithful circle of Death Eaters that closed in around him, sealing his fate once again. And Tom Marvolo Riddle sent an Unforgivable at him, just for Harry to find himself, after a strange conversation with his deceased headmaster, right back in this miserable world. Minus the piece of soul that had once lived within him as a Horcrux. The Battle of Hogwarts felt so distant, so small. Just another chapter in the long history of the grand castle.

It was almost humorous how some writers managed to describe those grim hours as heroic. Reality had nothing to do with their glorified words. It had been chaos a desperate fight for survival, screams, tears, blood, and dirt. Spells shot left and right. Green mixed with red, with the occasional ugly purple curse flashing through. Beams ricocheted off shields, and the less fortunate were struck down. Lifeless bodies lay in the ruins of the castle, their loved ones weeping over them. Their world had been torn apart. Teachers stood against their students. Families against families. Children against parents. They had all been dragged into the foolish war between two men. Because that was all it was to Harry foolish. He had only ever wanted a normal, ordinary life. A loving family. Time to explore this magical world he had barely begun to know. And all of it had been stolen from him by a few words in a prophecy. Fate had donned its writer’s cap, discarded the old script, and set to work on a tragedy. So it was no surprise that, after all of it, he had thrown himself into the fire to keep them from being slaughtered. He had tried to save the last remnants of good he had left. He had walked into Death’s arms like an old friend. She had been there, too, on that very same clearing. Unseen, she had loomed over all those blind purebloods. Harry had only seen her because of the Resurrection Stone, but compared to Voldemort, he hadn’t given it much thought. A grave mistake on his part. Who could have expected that after this stunt, he would be denied access to the other side? To his family, to his friends. Instead, he was trapped in a world with her!

Death introduced herself to him in all her grandeur. She revealed that the tale of the Peverell brothers was not just a fairy tale, and everything written in The Tales of Beedle the Bard had indeed happened a really, really long time ago. One moment, Harry was an ordinary wizard well, as ordinary as he could be and in the next, he had become the Master of Death. All it took was not fearing her. If he had had time to tell this joke to Voldemort, the Dark Lord would surely have burst with frustration over the utter futility of his life’s work. He didn’t have much time to be in shock because he was still in the middle of a war, so he shoved it to the back of his mind, just like many other things. The final battle needed to be fought, the last of Voldemort’s loyalists had to be captured, funerals had to be held, and the fallen had to be honored.

So, at first, they simply ignored each other, as if the other didn’t even exist. They needed time to gradually get used to one another. Such a long time in solitude does wonders to a person. As he had surely mentioned before, this silent agreement lasted them several decades.

Life went on just as he had envisioned it. Except that things didn’t work out with Ginny. Or that small matter of Ron turning his back on him in yet another fit of jealousy. Tthis time over his agelessness, which Harry had so carelessly left visible for all the Weasleys to see. It never occurred to him that he would have to hide beneath layers of enchantments even from his family in everything except blood. Some ugly arguments were said, accompanied by Ron’s curses. And yet, Harry couldn’t bring himself to hate him; he didn’t fight back in kind. But the impenetrable shields only infuriated Ron even more. He blamed Harry for every single person who had died, and when he ran out of names, he simply started digging up anything remotely bad that had ever happened to his family. That day, Harry literally fled the Burrow.

His friendship with Hermione also faded over time so that she wouldn’t have conflicts with her redheaded husband. But even that didn’t bring him to his knees. No, he still had Luna, Neville, Teddy, Andromeda, and surprisingly Draco. What truly broke him was their gradual departures. He knew it was coming; the deepening wrinkles and the passing years should have made it obvious. He should have been prepared. But nothing prepares you for the moment when your dearest ones are torn away from you.

It was a grim time when he saw Death more often than he would have ever wished. Wizards live longer than Muggles, and so he had a good two hundred years to try to forget the inevitable. But the thin figure under the black cloak, with a scythe in hand, never disappeared. It wasn’t a bad dream. And Harry learned that the Master of Death didn’t actually have the power to decide who stays and who goes. That, apparently, was determined at the very beginning of everything when a soul is born into the material world. Harry added that to his ever growing pile of complaints for Fate.

He felt as if with every person he lost, a piece of himself went with them. And the more pieces he lost, the less he was able to function. And then, one morning, even Luna turned to him. Her knowing eyes, framed by a fan of wrinkles, for the first time since he had known her, gained a sharp, focused look before she told him without her usual riddles about all kinds of fantastical creatures that it was time. Harry had no idea what she meant. Was it time for their regular breakfast tea? Or another garden sit down where he would listen to her talk about the creatures around them that he himself couldn’t see? His questions were answered the moment he saw her again. She stood motionless in the doorway, her presence radiating sorrow and nostalgia. Panic seized Harry. He couldn’t, he wasn’t ready yet. She couldn’t take his last bit of happiness from him.

He stared at her with wide green eyes, trying to understand why she was there. Suddenly, Luna’s words "It’s time." made far too much sense. The first tears spilled down his cheeks, and his hands trembled like aspen leaves in the wind. He desperately fought against the looming panic attack. A skeletal hand reached out for his last friend. But not before looking at him, in a way that seemed almost regretful that she had to hurt him again. To take and take, and only take. And yet, Luna accepted that hand, despite Harry’s obvious, loud protests.

And so it happened that he was left completely alone in the world. With no chance to ever reunite with his beloved. Completely alone. It took a few more decades before he could understand and accept that he wasn’t truly alone and never would be. But once he realized that truth, he had no intention of letting go of it. It was like his lifeline above an abyss. So there was no better place for him to be than in her study, where the entity spent most of her time. At first, her mere presence was enough to calm him. Later, he began to talk and soon discovered that Death was, in fact, an excellent conversational partner. He didn’t even know when it all shifted into yet another friendship when he finally swallowed his bitterness over the loss she was, in a way, a part of. Harry talked to her about absolutely everything. These days, it was a miracle if a book interested him enough to keep him quietly occupied for a few hours. He suspected that Death regularly added new titles to her impressive collection for this very reason.

Just this morning at least, he assumed it was morning. He could only guess based on the strange clock on the wall behind the desk, which displayed the sun, moon, and stars. Surely another one of Time’s gifts. Harry chuckled mischievously over the pages of his book. The soul on the other side of the negotiation trembled uneasily. Death interrupted her important speech and shot him a knowing look. He was disturbing her work again.

The thought of Time led him to a joke that might start something like this: So, Death, Time, and Fate walk into a bar… He snickered again, vividly imagining the three hooded entities sitting in the dingy Hog’s Head, greasy tankards filled with some uncertain liquid in front of them. Death’s fingers tightened around her black quill until it let out a sharp crack. Harry guiltily lowered his gaze back to the text, but he simply couldn’t focus on the words. The image of the three figures hunched over butterbeer refused to leave his mind.

It seemed her work could wait a moment when she turned to him with a serious expression after the last soul had left. It was worth noting that the soul was traumatized.

"Harry, we really need to talk about your tendency to interrupt my work." That sounded dangerously close to a motherly scolding. The centuries old troublemaker frowned in discontent. The book about ley lines was already forgotten in his lap, its contents abandoned.

"It’s not like I want to interrupt. It just… happens."

"Like in the last twenty cases." They both knew that number was generously underestimated by Death’s patience.

"Maybe I was just a little bored," he admitted with a sheepish smile.

"Is something weighing on you?"

That question caught him off guard. He didn’t know. Maybe that was the problem. Nothing was weighing on him. He had no anchor. Death leaned back in her grand chair, absentmindedly twirling her thumbs around each other. There was no rush for an answer both of them had more time than they could ever use.

"Maybe I just need… something. Something to engage me. Something new." He struggled to find the right words. He truly had no idea what he was looking for, but he was certain that when he found it, he would know. Finding something like that was a difficult task. Over the years, Harry had uncovered almost every secret the world had to offer. Finding something he hadn’t seen before was no easy feat. Death stood and paced the room twice. A habit she had picked up from Harry when deep in thought or making important decisions. Then, she turned to him, tilting her head as if weighing whether she was about to make a catastrophic mistake. He couldn’t blame her when it came to him, that possibility was always on the table. Fate had far too much fun using him as the protagonist of its stories for him to get any peace.

"I know you might not like this," she began, "but I think you would benefit from meeting new people."

Harry froze in place like a statue. What did she mean by new people? They had already gone over this at least a hundred times. He had no desire to return to the wizarding world. He just wanted to be himself, and the constant staring and reverent whispering about him had done no favors for his mental health.

"Among Muggles?" he asked warily.

"If you prefer. But what I mean is someone completely new. Someone who doesn’t know you as Harry Potter and can get to know you."

Harry giggled at the absurdity of that idea, like a schoolgirl with a crush.

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that? Erase the memory of every person under the sun?" With his luck, they’d all end up like Professor Lockhart in their second year, and St. Mungo’s simply wasn’t big enough to handle that many patients.

"Leave that to me."

Ah, so Death had a plan. Now he was curious. The best thing about this was that when she made a promise, she meant it. Her word was law of course, it had to be. She was one of the gods upon whom the very order of the world depended.

"So, how are we doing this?" he asked.

"I’m going to give you something that will make it possible."

"Oh hooo?"

"It’s about time you started enjoying your existence again."

Because at this point, his existence could no longer be called life. Life meant a limited period. It promised its own opposite. It always had an end. But his, his stretched into uncertain times and places.

Death smiled at him in her own way. Her tone sounded almost too concerned.

"Alright, so what do I have to do?"

Neither of them commented on the too loud gulp that followed. Speaking of a suppressed sob wasn’t exactly polite. His voice betrayed the lump in his throat traitor! He should have just nodded. She observed him for a moment longer before sitting back at her desk and beginning to search for something.

"If you promise not to do anything reckless…" she said suddenly, very seriously.

Harry eagerly leaned forward at the edge of his chair. The weight and heaviness in him fell away in a single thorough shake. Evidently, it was time for his next adventure. His eyes sparkled with excitement. It looked like today would turn out to be one of the more interesting days after all.

"When was the last time I did anything reckless?" he trilled.

Death answered his innocent question with silence. Having perfect memory was not always a good thing.

"Alright, I promise," he sighed.

"And at least try not to pile more paperwork onto my desk, please."

"On my immortal’s honor."

Another sigh from her, as if she already regretted this decision.

She opened one of the drawers in her desk and pulled out a round pocket watch on a golden chain. For a torturous moment, she simply watched him before placing it in his hands. It was an ordinary piece of cold metal, with delicate engravings under the hands. There were no numbers on the clock face. Harry raised an eyebrow. He had no idea what it did yet, but he already felt a thrill at the unknown. Anything that Death kept in her drawer couldn’t possibly be ordinary.

"I think it wouldn’t hurt you to see the world again."

"Travel?" He dismissed his suspicion that she was just trying to get rid of him.

"Of course, travel. If you can call it that." There was a mischievous amusement in her voice. Was there some kind of catch? A hidden agenda?

He glanced at the seemingly ordinary watch in his hands again.

"They’ll take you anywhere you wish to go. Just try not to change any historical events."

The watch nearly slipped from his fingers in shock.

"Historical events?!"

"As I said. Anywhere you want."

If he could see her face, he would swear she was grinning like a madwoman.

Ah, there was the hidden agenda. A favor repaid to Time for the messes he had made in Death’s office.

Harry smirked at her, then disappeared from place with an ultra Time-Turner.

Chapter Text

~Everything in the world has its rhythm, everything dances.~

It was the year 1862, the beginning of March. No one in the Federation's camp on one side of Chesapeake Bay noticed that they had been infiltrated. But the opposite was true. However, it was not so much a spy from their enemies as it was a third party that no one had any inkling of. If the unknown individual had any violent tendencies, not even the best weaponry and an entire stockpile of ammunition would have helped them against him. Fortunately, that was not the case. This powerful being was on vacation.

A certain green eyed young man had found a new hobby. To travel through all the historical events that piqued his curiosity, crisscrossing time and seeing firsthand just how much historians and various tongues had lied. One could say he was something of a doubting Thomas. Why blindly trust historical records on paper when he could see them for himself? He didn’t know anyone who would turn down such an opportunity. Another point was that perhaps no one else even existed who had the same opportunity. But one could never be a hundred percent sure. What if the other two entities also had their own... master, pet, or perhaps an apprentice? He already pitied in advance anyone who would have to endure Fate's personality. Immediately, he had to calm the twitch in his eye as the urge to strangle the mentioned brunette with his own hands seized him once again. There was no reason to get upset. Fate couldn't reach him in the past. All the timelines were already written and completed. That was precisely why Harry loved these journeys so much. He felt blissfully safe from Fate’s meddling.

Moreover, he had discovered that their wizarding wars one or two of them were far from the only conflicts and certainly not the ones with the highest casualties. There were far greater atrocities than those committed by Grindelwald and Voldemort. Far more effective decimation of landscapes and human beings. Torture techniques that, on his personal ranking, climbed above the simple Crucio, because even that, after a certain point, detached you from reality, leaving you a drooling mess incapable of perceiving any more pain.

Muggles were truly cruel creatures to everyone around them and to themselves. However, even when they accidentally found him, and Merlin forbid, even managed to capture him, they always found his cell empty. If someone connected these incredible events, they might create a legend about a war ghost. He was surely holding some sort of record for escaping from detention cells whether magical or completely ordinary ones without a trace of magic. If he wasn’t in the mood to deal with escape routes, locks, or cracks in shields, he simply jumped straight into Death’s office. As her master, he could enter anytime, from anywhere. All it took was slightly lifting the veil separating the world of the living from the dead, and voilà he could once again bury himself in reading from one of the absurdly comfortable armchairs. He found joy in scaring poor souls and laughing at the bizarre names and causes of death.

He took mischievous pleasure in vandalizing modern literature, rewriting imagined or entirely fabricated facts with more accurate information. He would then return the books to Muggle libraries or bookstores and wait with childlike glee for some unsuspecting person to read his scribbled truth about the past, only to throw the book aside in frustration as a damaged object. Even wizards had made no progress in accepting the old order of things. They believed themselves to be the best that the new generation had to offer, yet they continued to suppress and destroy magic in its purest form. The number of laws against this or that type of magic, rituals, and creatures was countless and only grew with time. So Harry had no intention of ever stopping his invasive enlightenment anytime soon.

And for these purposes, he wasn’t afraid to verify his facts directly at the source. He scribbled his notes on an unusual bundle of parchment. Perhaps he should consider getting an ordinary notepad and pen. From there, he could pick out the important details for his random acts of vandalism. Just fragments. If he wrote an entire historical book, it certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed.

Thus, he could only share his collection with his old acquaintance. Anything beyond that would alarm Fate. Perhaps even disrupt one or two of its plans. Which actually wasn’t a bad idea, but it threatened dangerously excessive paperwork. And neither he nor Death had the time or patience for that. It was, therefore, simple laziness on the part of Death and her master that still held the universe together.

So here he was. Eyes wide open, ears perked up. On the trail of his next adventure. Blissfully unaware that this time, damned Fate was watching him, poking its long nose into his affairs.

He was like an excited child with a new toy who felt deep gratitude and joy whenever he spoke with someone and they didn’t stare at his forehead as if it were an image of the Virgin Mary. After so many years, he finally felt free in society. He was just another face in the crowd, blending into the gray masses and could sneak around and wander into suspicious alleys. Parade right under the noses of high ranking officials without anyone asking his opinion on the leadership of their flocks. No one wanted his autograph or his blessing for their offspring. He could finally breathe. With a smile, he brushed his hand over the small, round object beneath his shirt. In the end, perhaps living such a long life wasn’t so bad after all. All it took was finding a new hobby.

The mentioned toy was nothing other than a gold pocket watch with a chain, resting securely in his breast pocket. Carefully protected from foreign hands. Truth be told, the protective barriers on this small metal object were of higher quality than those on the buildings of many wizarding ministries. Without his explicit permission, without any influence of intoxicating substances, whether magical or Muggle no one would be able to so much as reach for the watch. He admitted it was a bit paranoid, but he wasn’t about to give Fate any loophole in the story. The last thing he needed was to become a victim of robbery. That would mean asking Death for a favor, and he absolutely didn’t want that. No, this little contraption wherever she had obtained it was his ticket here and also back.

Crossing into her office wasn’t exactly a risk-free feat either, and he much preferred visiting her without receiving a long winded lecture. Returning him to his original timeline wouldn’t be too much of a problem. But as he had mentioned multiple times, Death really hated the bureaucratic side of her job. She would likely let him stew in his own problems for years and would undoubtedly find a way to block his access to the in-between realm. All in all, Harry cherish those watches like the apple of his eye and wasn’t about to lose them even at the cost of his own life. What was one of his deaths compared to an offended entity? Completely incomparable, considering he couldn’t truly die anyway.

The golden watch hands were frozen in place. Its crown was pulled out because the moment the black haired man pushed it back in, he would vanish into another time. And he wasn’t ready for that yet, having only just arrived. He had only been here for two days and had plenty of plans. First, he wanted to see everything this new scenery had to offer with his own eyes. To get his adrenaline pumping again. Because if Harry James Potter-Black tried to tell anyone that he wasn’t an adrenaline junkie, he’d be lying so much the listener’s ears would ring.

Unfortunately or fortunately he had never been the prototype for a dull life behind a white picket fence in a house with a garden and a perfectly trimmed English lawn. He had seen enough of that in his early youth and certainly wasn’t about to live the same monotonous life as his relatives from his mother’s side.
England eventually lost its charm. After years of time-hopping through its history, every intriguing possibility had been exhausted. Every battlefield had been walked, every royal court observed, and every poor decision made by long dead kings silently judged from the shadows. Time to move on.

The Normans had been an interesting study, at least for a while. The Battle of Hastings? A glorious, bloody mess. Armored men flailed in the mud like overfed farm pigs, their swords clashing in a symphony of metal and misery. The victorious side eagerly sifted through the dead, prying loose valuables and occasionally granting a bit of mercy with the business end of a blade. From the tree line, it was quite the show. Sometimes, curiosity won over common sense, prompting a closer look either under the safety of an invisibility cloak or wrapped in enchanted armor that sent enemy weapons skidding off like pebbles on ice. Moving through the carnage unnoticed, the fleeing soldiers mistook the figure for Death itself. Not entirely wrong, though no souls would be collected that day just a few observations and perhaps a particularly nice sword. It made for a far better decoration than the Black family’s taste in decapitated elf heads.

Muggle battles were delightfully grotesque, far worse than anything the wizarding world could conjure. Wizards, at least, had the decency to die cleanly one quick curse and they simply slumped over as if taking an inconvenient nap. Here? Limbs flew, entrails spilled, and the sheer number of fallen horses made for an apocalyptic landscape of mangled flesh. The whole thing had been studied with the enthusiasm of an eager scholar. And if a sword or two found its way into a bottomless bag, well, no one was around to complain.

The knack for stumbling into kings remained unparalleled. At the time, they rarely seemed that important just another noble, another overly perfumed aristocrat. Only later would it become clear that the casual hunting companion was, in fact, William the Conqueror. The man had blended in far too well; honestly, what kind of king dressed like the common folk Harry thought? No wonder he was so successful.

Alfred had been met over a discussion about bread, of all things. Edward, ever the gracious host, invited an unknown traveler into his royal carriage much to the horror of his guards and launched into a conversation about the well being of the common folk. That had been an awkward one. There had been no time to properly research medieval economics, so Harry did lot of nodding and vague remarks about grain storage. That conversation, however, made something painfully obvious talking to people outside of a life or death setting was not a well honed skill of his.

Perhaps some refinement was in order. Speaking to people without immediately provoking them into frustration or murderous rage seemed like a useful talent. If there were a pocket guide on the art of conversation, it might be worth acquiring. A shame Lucius Malfoy was no longer around tormenting the man with incessant questions on pureblood etiquette and politics could have been both educational and endlessly entertaining. Though, who knew? If his soul hadn’t been immediately shuffled off to whatever hellish afterlife it deserved, perhaps tracking it down for a quick chat could be a future project.

He stopped at Grimmauld Place for just a day to unload his new trophies. The peeling wallpaper had long since vanished beneath maps of forgotten kingdoms and pages of hand written monastic texts. The sitting room had transformed into a veritable museum of firearms, while the staircase was now lined with rapiers, sabers, and broadswords. Any historian would weep at the sight. Another set of hooks was magicked into place, new treasures carefully arranged from the depths of a bag whose contents were impossible to remember. A mental inventory had never been a strong suit. Hermione of course would have had a detailed log, complete with categorization. The mere thought sent an unwelcome pang through the chest. Returning to the same timeline when old friends were still alive had never been an option. Some ghosts were better left undisturbed.

Henry had provided an unexpected education in swordplay. Attending a feast had somehow led to an impromptu lesson in fencing because, apparently, no gathering was complete without the risk of bodily harm. It turned out that swinging a sword wasn’t all that different from dueling with a wand. After several corrections from a very exasperated instructor, he was doing fairly well. Perhaps some practice with the collection at home wouldn’t be a bad idea. What absolutely would not be making the journey back with him, however, were those atrocious stockings. Some fashion choices were better left in the past.

Crusades with Richard had been another adventure entirely. The fevered obsession with red crosses and holy wars made even Voldemort’s cult of personality seem tame by comparison. Wars, as always, needed grand justifications whether faith, land, or a mix of both. Collecting artifacts became an unstoppable habit, leading to yet another hoard worthy of its own dedicated room. Why not? Grimmauld Place had more than enough empty ones. Ceramics, mosaics, and exquisite trinkets found their way into the ever-growing collection, including a particularly fine golden chalice pilfered from a cathedral. Twin golden bands and inlaid garnets made it the perfect vessel for something as dignified as butterbeer. A kingly indulgence, truly.

He witnessed intrigues and major decisions from sidelines. Occasionally, a bit of interference had been necessary. If a prince needed a gentle shove toward investing in grain stores and sanitation rather than yet another week of debauchery, so be it. A well-placed suggestion about the virtues of vegetables over an all meat diet had been met with suspicion but, in time, reluctant acceptance. None of it altered history in any meaningful way at least, not enough to warrant a formal complaint. Fate and Time remained mercifully silent, or at least had yet to send an official reprimand. He avoided them as if they were the plague, ensuring they had no opportunity to voice their potential discontent.

Every now and then, a certain someone would find his way into paintings, which, upon his next visit, would be proudly displayed on the walls as grand tributes to this or that event. He was always in disguise, of course. One time, a borrowed helmet; another, a hat; occasionally, an enviable mustache magicked into existence. But anyone who actually paid attention would notice the same figure lurking in each piece. If not by the identical build, then certainly by the unnaturally green eyes. That poor painter who had to deal with the helmet disaster was so distraught over the loss of that striking color that he ended up using it for the subject’s tunic instead.

One particularly reckless evening saw him sneaking into a coronation ball, dancing the night away with some Elizabeth no doubt a lady of high standing. Probably a noble, but at least one with a reasonable head on her shoulders, unlike the rest of the pompous lot. She had him entirely to herself for the whole evening, which, if nothing else, was a solid escape from the drudgery of tedious aristocratic nonsense.

Theater performances quickly became a favorite pastime. He was a regular at the Globe once it was built along the Thames, laughing alongside common folk at the sheer brilliance with which actors captured human stupidity. And those tragedies! Holding his breath as each tale unraveled, hanging onto every word. It was like watching a slow motion disaster unfold, knowing full well it would end in catastrophe but being unable to look away.

The creation of great paintings and the rise of breathtaking architecture were equally enthralling. Gothic structures in particular struck a chord perhaps because they bore a passing resemblance to Hogwarts, the first and only true home he had ever known. The intricate arches forming the skeletons of magnificent churches and cathedrals felt oddly familiar. Almost as if he were wandering the castle corridors again. Almost. Of course, the illusion shattered the moment the realization hit: there were no friends here. No sarcastic drawl of his name from Snape, no sharp wit from Draco. Even that would have been welcome. Anything to confirm that it had all been one long, terrible dream.

Instead, the past had a nasty habit of sneaking up on him. Nostalgia was a double edged sword; every new discovery brought excitement, but also bitter reminders. The nearly healed wounds cracked open, refusing to fade into the mosaic of scars he carried. Memories surfaced unbidden. Luna feeding thestrals by the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid’s hut surrounded by giant pumpkins, the Whomping Willow poised over the secret entrance to the Shrieking Shack. And the twins... But dwelling on ghosts did no good. So he disappeared once more, lost to time and place.

Muggle history turned out to be just as fascinating as magical history. At first, skepticism reigned, but once it was confirmed that nobody from the past would recognize him not even the brightest minds of their age his curiosity took over. Soon enough, even the ancient origins of magic became a field of study.

After all, who in their right mind would pass up the chance to discuss magical theory with Merlin himself? The old wizard was an absolute treasure trove of forgotten knowledge, a walking library of lost spells and discarded wisdom. It was only natural to pick up a few magical tricks from someone like that and they weren’t exactly minor ones either. If anything, Merlin secured his place as one of the most interesting acquaintances worth keeping.

From those long lost philosophies of magic, a new personal mantra took shape. Even before, the arbitrary division and censorship of entire branches of magic had seemed ridiculous. But seeing the sheer disbelief in the eyes of ancient sorcerer when confronted with the modern world’s restrictions? That was the final straw. Turns out, the rigid classification of magic was a more recent invention a bureaucratic noose tightening around their collective throats, suffocating the immense potential of wizardkind.

Not that he was a fanatic, or the next Dark Lord in the making. But something about the gradual weakening of magic, the increasing effort required to maintain concealed wizarding villages and shielded institutions, gnawed at him. Any witch or wizard with a strong enough connection to magic had to feel it in their bones. No wonder the pure blood families were up in arms though, in their desperate flailing, they ended up dooming themselves to their own darkness. White magic had grown bloated, unchecked, and as balance demanded, its counterpart surged to counteract it.

With that realization, the decisions of one Albus Dumbledore made even less sense. If a list were made of the choices that did make sense, it would barely require all the fingers on one hand and that’s being generous. Everything the man fought against? He had orchestrated most of it himself. If not for his fanatical devotion to the ‘light,’ if he hadn’t crushed alternative paths into near oblivion, maybe he wouldn’t have had to deal with Dark Lords in the first place. But that wouldn’t have fit his narrative, now, would it? No, better to set the world on fire and play the hero who puts it out.

A man of influence, a grandmaster of wizarding politics, headmaster of Hogwarts, recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. With a resume like that, he could’ve shaped the entire magical world with a flick of his wand. Could have nudged a few key figures, shifted the tide of law making, ensured a future of stability. And yet, what did he do? Sat in his tower, popping lemon drops. For special occasions, he even had a stash laced with Veritaserum, kindly brewed by his resident spy. Poor Severus Snape just another unfortunate pawn sacrificed on the great chessboard of ‘the greater good.’

Speaking of which, what even was this ‘greater good’ that Dumbledore championed? No one ever got a straight answer, and, curiously, no one ever asked. His followers lapped up his words without question, treating him like the ultimate moral authority. And therein lay the problem. There was no higher ideal above him, no counterbalance. He was the pinnacle, the final word in wizarding affairs. And when power goes unchecked? Well, then you end up with a man who plays people like pieces on a board, convinced he alone knows what’s best for the world.

The tragedy? His entire crusade was built on ignorance. If he had spent even a fraction of his time studying magic’s natural balance, he’d have realized that suppressing one side only leads to a violent resurgence from the other. It’s like trying to hold back the tide, push too hard in one direction, and the backlash will be tenfold. History repeats itself, and magic, ever the great equalizer, will not be denied.

But no, Dumbledore’s approach was to douse everything in ‘light’ magic, slap a heroic label on it, and pretend the consequences didn’t exist. A polished knight in shining armor, conveniently ignoring the ashes smoldering at his feet. Censorship, erasure, the slow but deliberate strangling of ancient traditions. It was all wrapped up in a neat little package labeled ‘progress.’ Hogwarts itself bore the scars of his meddling. Entire subjects vanished from the curriculum, lest the students learn anything inconvenient. The library? Carefully curated to ensure certain knowledge stayed buried. And History of Magic? An absolute farce. Instead of teaching real history, students were force fed an endless, monotonous droning on goblin rebellions. The names Ranrok, Ragnok, Rezik, Gretr, and Kursden echoed in that same sleep inducing monotone tone from Binns, a soundtrack of wasted potential. What a legacy.
Every fragile, budding shoot of dark magic had been trampled, thoroughly mulched, and, for good measure, salted into oblivion. That, in a nutshell, was the grand strategy of the so called light side, don’t ask questions, just destroy and destroy some more. Everything within reach that didn’t conform to their neat little rules? Gone.

Naturally, the other side responded with equal destruction. What, were purebloods just supposed to sit in their ancestral manors, hands folded primly in their laps, and await their inevitable extinction? Maybe stroll over to the Ministry, prized artifacts and forbidden family grimoires neatly packed in a sack, ready to turn themselves in for a one way trip to Azkaban? As if. Their very existence had become a stain on the ever so righteous tapestry of history. Not their fault, of course. They had no choice but to fight for their way of life until Riddle found them, weaponized their desperation, and turned them into little more than pawns.

Before the Dark Mark, there had been options. Not great ones, but options nonetheless. But once they took the Mark and that snake coiled tight around them both literally and metaphorically any room for protest disappeared. They became vassals, almost slaves, forced to watch as their ideals twisted and rotted into yet another war.

A handful of purebloods clinging to their illicit rituals and dark incantations weren’t enough to keep the fragile balance intact. If they wanted to tip the scales, they’d need a wave. No, a tsunami. Especially when those who could have wielded dark magic to its full potential were instead running around in Death Eater cosplay, playing Voldemort’s little minions. The longer the war dragged on, the further he veered from whatever noble plan he’d once had right into Dumbledore’s hands. He abandoned ritual magic for outright murder and, in doing so, signed his own death warrant. Worse, he doomed dark magic itself, which withered alongside him.

That train of thought soured the mood considerably. The catastrophic imbalance of power had been just another nail in his own coffin. A certain black-haired child had barely been born, and yet his fate had already been scribbled in the stars, read with ease by centaurs who saw destiny clearer than anyone else. Radical change was the only answer, and that was precisely where the so called Master of Death entered the scene, ready to play his part in righting the scales.

He dragged his focus back to the present specifically, to the old man ranting beside the crackling fireplace. The geezer was dramatically gesturing with a handful of potion vials filled with highly questionable substances, rambling about his latest innovation in curing dragon pox. That particular plague had tormented the magical community long enough. The hovering spell keeping the ingredients afloat was cast absentmindedly, almost on instinct. Blinking away the haze of nostalgia, Harry refocused. It would be a shame to miss yet another thrilling tale of magical breakthroughs just because he was lost in existential dread. His memories had a nasty habit of yanking the rug of reality right out from under him.

Oddly enough, he felt like he belonged in Merlin’s era. His magic practically hummed with joy at the sheer presence of unrestrained, untamed power surrounding him. No wands. No artificial conduits. Just raw will, pure imagination, and the force of intent bending magic to one's desires. And oh, how Harry loved wandless magic.

He had learned to reach deep into his core, to grasp the strands of magic and gauge just how much force was needed for a whisper versus a storm. Even Occlumency something he had once despised thanks to Snape’s delightful teaching methods finally made sense. Meditating among ancient magical wellsprings in the heart of England was a vastly different experience from being subjected to Snape’s psychic battering rams. No Legilimency ambushes. No Voldemort induced nightmares. Just peace. He sorted through his thoughts, finally understanding why people had acted the way they had. He set his own boundaries. And after years of internal chaos, he let go. He mourned his losses, celebrated new experiences and allowed himself to simply exist.

Magic in this time was richer, thicker, almost sentient in the way it wove through the land. It healed him, body and soul, filling the cracks left behind by too many battles and too much pain. It danced through the sky in storm- like currents, accumulating in hidden pockets little reservoirs of raw magic that birthed legends and fantastical creatures long since forgotten. It was like stepping into the wizarding world for the first time all over again. Everywhere he looked, something wondrous unfolded, magic existing untamed and free. No incantations to bind it, no rigid structures to control it just pure, unfiltered possibility.

Sometimes, he traveled alone. Other times, he wandered with Merlin, though the old mage rarely strayed far from his king’s castle. Gone were his days of adventure; duty as royal sorcerer weighed heavily upon him. Yet, even with his responsibilities, the man never lost his mischievous streak. New projects, new theories. His mind never stopped. Harry, in turn, took great joy in dropping carefully worded hints, nudging the old wizard in the right direction while feigning innocent ignorance. He had centuries of magical research in his back pocket, after all. Watching the moment of discovery play out in real time? Priceless.

But all things ended. His time here was no exception. One dreary English morning because of course, it had to be dreary. Harry stood on the castle balcony, drinking in the sight one last time. The mist rolled across the hills, creeping down into the valleys below. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of damp earth. His fingers clenched around the soft fabric of his cloak scarlet, gold, and ember bright against the gray. This world called to him, offered him a place to belong. But he couldn’t stay. Eventually, someone would notice. Someone would question why he never aged. Even Merlin, slow as his aging was, still aged. Harry, on the other hand… Well, best not to stick around long enough to make it an issue.

Merlin’s parting gift? A book. A very specific book. One that, as far as Harry knew, had never survived into the future. A personal grimoire, filled with lost spells and long forgotten knowledge. It was, quite literally, priceless. The kind of thing Hermione would sell her soul for. The kind of thing that could change everything. And for Harry? It was a chronicle of their time together, of every spectacular failure, every unexpected success, every explosion that had left them both singed and cackling.

With a final farewell, he stepped out of their time, vanishing beyond the reach of any spell designed to find him. And so, his journey continued.

His next stop? The oh-so-lovely era of religious fanaticism and witch hunts. Because why not? After a pleasant interlude, he figured it was time for another front-row seat to a bloodbath. Call it morbid curiosity, call it therapy seeing that mass hysteria and senseless slaughter weren’t exclusive to Voldemort’s era was almost… reassuring. The weight on his shoulders lightened, ever so slightly. Maybe, just maybe, not every atrocity in history could be pinned on one power hungry lunatic and some foggy prophecy scribbled out by Fate’s personal assistant. At least this time, the madmen weren’t pretending they were doing it for the greater good.

Understanding the heart of things was an obsession—pinpointing the precise moment when everything took a nosedive into disaster. Who was the fragile little soul responsible for dozens of deaths? And who, exactly, did his well known associate have to thank for an endless flood of paperwork? Entire days wasted on processing the passage of souls, all because humans had the charming tendency to die in droves, bodies dropping like overripe fruit. Of course, things always returned to their so called natural order, but not before an ungodly mess had been made.

Any man in a priestly robe with a cross around his neck could scream damnation at anyone remotely different from what God supposedly commanded. But the real joke? It always seemed like their own twisted sense of morality was the real driving force behind their rampages. Over time, the whole thing degenerated into a grotesquely corrupt game. A single wrong word, a missed church service. God forbid a stroll through the woods, was enough to get someone branded a heretic. And, naturally, God himself wasn’t the one passing judgment. No, that privilege belonged to self important mens with just enough power to wield it like a cudgel, subjecting the accused to brutality beyond reason. If some unfortunate soul was resilient enough to survive the torture, a public hanging or a bonfire was the only prize waiting at the finish line. At that point, death was a relief. Finally, the ever patient embrace of Death itself, and an end to their suffering.

It was, without question, an ugly era. The infamous witch trials made one thing painfully clear. Keeping the wizarding world hidden wasn’t just important, it was a necessity. Not that the holy men and their frenzied mobs had any real success in identifying actual witches. More often than not, their victims were mundane folk, while those they truly sought slipped away in the flickering glow of torches and the clumsy swipes of pitchforks. Rifles, Latin prayers none of it mattered. The real witches and wizards lived every day in paralyzing fear, always looking over their shoulders, knowing full well that a single misstep could mean another friend lost. Constant vigilance? Mad Eye Moody would have thrived. That level of paranoia was his bread and butter. With a stockpile of Polyjuice Potion, an all-seeing eye, and a lifetime of suspicion, he might’ve even enjoyed it. But the average witch or wizard? Not so much. The trials bled them dry.

That was the true birthplace of the uncharted sanctuaries. A people battered by loss unforgivable, irreparable loss sought safety in secrecy. The great houses dwindled when the Church actually managed to snare a real witch. Land, stolen in the name of God. And wasn't that the kicker? Maybe this was where it all began where the paranoia spiraled into intermarriage among the purebloods, sowing the seeds of genetic decay and madness.

Hands off, Potter. That was the plan. Stay out of it. Let history run its course. But then came the wreckage, the senseless suffering, the disasters he knew he could prevent. And, well, heroism was an old, persistent habit. The plan was simple: build something fundamental, something that should’ve been a given but, in this era, wasn’t even a concept.

Step one: Erase all traces of the land before anyone could lay claim to it. Step two: Layer it with so many protective enchantments that even the most fervent of God’s warriors would find themselves hopelessly barred. If the game was rigged, the only winning move was to vanish from the board entirely. But make no mistake the pieces were still in play.

Harry found himself knee deep in the foundations of villages and towns, ensuring history wouldn’t repeat itself. House by house, ward by ward, he oversaw the intricate web of protection. Runestones, buried at precise intervals, added an extra failsafe to keep the zealots at bay. Wells? Shielded from poison. Livestock? Ward against disease. Just because he preferred to keep his distance from society didn’t mean he couldn’t lend a hand under a false name. The last thing he needed was a legend growing around his involvement. Knowing his luck, he’d find out his parents had named him after some long forgotten guardian spirit, and now a hundred children were running around bearing his name.

So, cloaked in a threadbare robe, he played the part of a wandering hermit. Even went so far as to chug one of the Weasley twins’ aging potions, because why not? It wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror that he realized, to his horror, he looked suspiciously like Fred and George’s ill fated attempt to cheat their way into the Triwizard Tournament.

But not every expedition yielded triumph. Out of some misguided sense of nostalgia or sheer masochism, he took a detour to an unassuming island in the middle of the North Sea. The moment he got close enough to see the twisted shadows rising from the stones, he knew.

Azkaban’s birthplace.

The chill was immediate, sinking bone-deep as he watched the first Dementors slither into existence. The land itself was practically rolling out the welcome mat for them. There were no high security cells yet, no fortress designed to hold the worst of wizarding kind. Just a bleak, forsaken rock, spawning the soulless horrors that would one day become its most feared inhabitants. Not that Harry had anything against Dark creatures as a whole. Some of them were rather charming, really. He’d had decent conversations with vampires, struck up unlikely camaraderie with dark fae, and even made peace with lethifolds, thestrals, and werewolves. Hell, he’d seriously considered getting a pair of gargoyles for Grimmauld Place. Without Kreacher shuffling about, the old house was oppressively empty. At least the gargoyles would recreate the charming ambiance of suspicious noises coming from the attic.

But Dementors? Even he had limits.

The presence of Dementors was still his Achilles' heel. One second was all it took, and he was yanked back into his worst memories. And oh boy, there were plenty to choose from. The poor cloaked creatures must’ve had a real struggle picking just one. Everything always led back to death. Again and again, like some twisted slow motion film reel, the faces of the departed swam before his eyes. Their time had simply run out. They faded, one by one, leaving him stranded in that swirling abyss of darkness. And then, as if on cue, the crushing solitude stomped on him like a bug under a boot.

Once more, there was that bridge arched and eerily suspended between life and death. The pull was almost tangible, the invisible thread connecting him to the other side, to the ones he longed to see. Just beyond those massive iron doors, they waited. Or so he believed. Bloody fists slammed against the unyielding metal, but the doors never budged. Figures passed him by, dissolving into nothingness like the ghosts they were. Yet he remained stubbornly, irritatingly real. Too alive for the afterlife, too haunted for the living.

A fresh wave crashed over the rocks, snapping him out of his trance with a salty slap to the face. Blinking rapidly, he wiped at his eyes. Not exactly his proudest moment, but back then, he had fled. The last thing he wanted was a face to face with the twisted soul responsible for birthing those starving shadows. Surely, whoever had done it must have been just as warped. Maybe they had died of sheer terror at their own creation, whether intentional or accidental. Maybe they had been the Dementors’ first ever victim, soul sucked out before they could so much as scream. Or maybe, just maybe, they had been left behind, paralyzed by their own nightmares, while the creatures feasted. So many possibilities, and for once, he didn’t care to know the answers. There were better things to do. Exploring the world, for instance. As for another dark wizard? Hard pass. Let the lunatic dance among his beloved Dementors until he lost his mind. Green eyes vanished into the rippling blue waves, as if he had never been there. As if trying to outrun the ice cold sensation crawling over his skin, the weight of too many bad memories.

He was nearing a landscape etched into his soul a place dear to him in a way that defied words. Rolling moors stretched beneath his feet, the wind toying with the sea of grass as if styling it into some bizarre new hairdo.

To his right, an extraordinary forest loomed. No doubt, unicorns pranced between its ancient trees, accompanied by a few thestrals and an entire herd of Centaurs, their eyes fixed skyward rather than on the ground they walked. Maybe they already knew who he was. Maybe they’d phrase it in some cryptic riddle no one but an enlightened soul could decipher. Typical.

This was where he was supposed to meet his friends.

Godric, ever the enthusiastic fireball, had been bragging for weeks about how the castle would finally be complete by the end of the week. After years of building from the ground up, it was about time. Magic on an extraordinary scale had been needed to fuse together those grand halls and towers. The other three had their doubts, but judging by the glint in their eyes, someone had money riding on the outcome.

Godric handled the foundations. His magic was the strongest but had the subtlety of a rampaging Hippogriff. The womens occasionally lent a hand. Helga, naturally, took charge of the grand greenhouse domes, fussing over every enchanted vine. Rowena? She practically lived in the architectural plans and, in her free time, meticulously crafted the library though her precious books would only arrive once everything had been tested to perfection. Merlin forbid anything happened to them. Also her idea? The enchanted suits of armor stationed at every major corridor. They took their duty very seriously, saluting every passerby or standing at attention with a metallic clang. One day, if the castle’s defenses ever fell, they’d march into battle. But that was a concern for another era.

Hogwarts’ shields had been another stroke of genius. The castle would draw tiny bits of magic from its inhabitants, channeling it wherever needed. Every student and professor? Walking batteries fueling this colossal magical fortress.

Rowena also embedded iron sconces into the walls, their torches never extinguishing. Long nights were spent with Helga designing intricate mosaics, their artwork now decorating select bathrooms and arched windows. The little touches mattered.

If he chipped in, there was a decent chance they’d win that bet with Helga. The warm hearted witch, so reminiscent of Molly Weasley, had been fixated on finishing the greenhouses. The glass domes gleamed, their emerald frames untouched by moss or creeping vines. No condensation clouded the panes. The only thing missing? Plants. Which, conveniently, he had brought. A certain dimensional trunk was brimming with specimens some extinct, some best left undiscovered. What kind of future students would they be if not at risk of a little adventure?

Tiny saplings poked through the black soil, one day growing tall enough to brush against the upper windows, offering shelter from the humid, jungle like atmosphere. No strict rules yet existed on keeping hazardous flora in check. The prevailing wisdom? Better to be prepared for a dangerous encounter than clueless when it happened. Thus, the more lethal specimens be it by venom or sheer aggression remained locked away. And no, Alohomora wouldn’t do a thing to those enchanted locks. Much to the founders’ collective chagrin. Student deaths in year one? Not the best PR move.

The student roster? Extensive. Families from far and wide clamored for a spot. The choice wasn’t between competing schools it was Hogwarts or homeschooling. And when four of the most revered magical minds offered their expertise, who could resist? Their names already carried weight, not due to wealth but sheer magical prowess. Everyone wanted their children trained by legends. Even Harry was toying with the idea of sticking around for a decade. Eight to ten years wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. He always did have a fondness for testing fate.

Salazar, for one, would vouch for him. Whether because of their shared gift for Parseltongue or as repayment for Harry’s silence over a certain smuggled Basilisk egg now residing deep within the catacombs. Surprisingly, he bore no grudge against Slytherin himself swallowing that particular bitterness had been unpleasant, but ultimately worth it. The man turned out to be a brilliant conversationalist. Many a night had been lost in discussions neither could recall if they had conducted in English or Parseltongue.

Not that Salazar would ever admit it, but every fine architectural detail? His work. The delicate floral carvings in the arches, the impossibly symmetrical ribbed vaults, the lifelike gargoyles who were not always as immobile as they seemed. And the labyrinth of secret passageways? A masterstroke. Hogwarts would have an extensive network of tunnels, many unknown even to the legendary Marauder’s Map.

As for the founders' chambers? Oh, they were very real. That no one in later years could locate them? Not their fault. It took courage, intelligence, kindness, or cunning to unlock those doors. And even then, the trials varied be it a riddle, a leap of faith, a mysterious potion, or the precise placement of a specific herb. Or, you know, the simple but effective method: the right password. But unless one knew the founder personally, good luck guessing that one.

The green-eyed wizard had been in all these rooms and he intended to keep the secret to himself until… ah, there it was again. That damnable déjà vu. No grave would ever hold him, of that he was sure. And maybe, just maybe, if it ever annoyed him enough, he’d fake his own death and throw himself a truly spectacular funeral. Something grand, with a proper family mausoleum and all the trimmings. White heather, that was the plan. None of that nonsense with lilies or roses nothing good had ever come from either of those flowers. And the eulogy? Not a single tear, thank you very much. If there wasn’t laughter at his funeral, he’d consider it a personal failure.

Of course, there were still a few secrets he wasn’t quite ready to take to the grave or to the next time he wandered the halls of Hogwarts, for that matter. The Room of Requirement wasn’t always available, and honestly, a few extra hidden nooks and crannies were always useful.

Sliding into the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts and Care of Magical Creatures professor was alarmingly easy, like the missing cog in some grand, ancient machine. His teaching style? Unapologetically his own. Defense was far more structured than the chaos of Dumbledore’s Army, mostly because it required a significant decrease in illegal curses. That meant picking up a whole new arsenal of defensive spells and countercurses, all designed to deal with the worst the Dark Arts had to offer. And then there was the dueling club his pride and joy. Open to third years and above, it quickly became the best event to attend for all pupils. The prize? A hefty sum of House points and, for the winner, a vial of Felix Felicis along with a very generous shopping spree at Honeydukes.

It didn’t take long before the crowd turnout rivaled Quidditch matches. And because Hogwarts students had all the self restraint of rabid nifflers in a vault of gold, some tried to play dirty. A little hex here, an “accidental” wand movement there. Honestly, it was almost nostalgic. Slytherins had always been creative when it came to "removing" key Quidditch players. He wasn’t about to let that happen under his watch. Which, unfortunately, made him feel a lot like Snape, haunting the place with an ever watchful glare. His punishments were unpleasant but fair, tailored to whatever particular skill set a student lacked. If someone had bad form, they got extra lessons. Needed to redo an essay? Perfect opportunity. Didn’t understand proper knife techniques in Potions? Enjoy your hour of precise, professor supervised chopping.

For the particularly troublesome ones, detention often involved fetching potion ingredients or helping with the various magical creatures on the grounds. Under very close supervision, of course. Bertie, the resident hippogriff, was far too much of a delicate soul to be left alone with just anyone. The majestic creature had a unique trial process for newcomers mostly involving aggressive pecking at shoulders and ears.

As much as he enjoyed shaping young minds (and making sure they didn’t hex each other into oblivion), monotony eventually crept in. Time for something different. Something exotic. Which, considering he had never once set foot outside Britain, could mean literally anything.

America seemed like a good place to start. That thought had been rattling around his head for a while, and before long, it had carried him straight into the 19th century. Which is how he found himself casually rocking back on the rear legs of a wooden chair, watching soldiers march by with the kind of fascination most people reserved for particularly gripping Quidditch matches.

The uniforms were very nice. Gray trousers, double breasted jackets, gloves occasional hints of yellow and blue. Hats, scarves, and high leather boots that hugged their legs just right. It hadn’t escaped his notice that he vastly preferred the sight of well fitted trousers to the flowing silhouettes of dresses. No opportunity had yet arisen to explore this revelation in detail, but that was just a matter of time. For now, his gaze kept wandering back to the soldiers in their snug uniforms.

Everything here was coated in dust,the ground so dry it practically turned to powder underfoot. Keeping one’s mouth shut was a necessity unless the goal was to eat a daily serving of dirt. Which, surprise, wasn't. Even so, the grit managed to work its way between his teeth, grinding unpleasantly with every movement. Rain hadn't graced this place in weeks, possibly months, and the landscape was all but choking on its own arid misery.

Blending in had required a bit of effort, but nothing too complicated. A simple story about being a ordinary young man eager to enlist in six months had been enough. That, and a face that still leaned boyish, made it an easy sell. His eager staring? Just good old-fashioned patriotism, obviously. Lying had become second nature over the years, and he'd perfected the art of sticking to a version of the truth that was just believable enough.

The details were simple. Parents? Dead. Raised by an aunt and uncle on his mother’s side. A poor family, unable to support two children, so here he was off to seek his fortune. A truly tragic tale. He liked to imagine his uncle Vernon’s reaction if he ever learned that his perfectly curated, aggressively middle class image had been rewritten into destitution. The man would’ve had an aneurysm on the spot. All those years of working himself into a rage at the slightest hint of abnormality, only to end up as a penniless failure in this revised version of history.

And Dudley? Oh, poor, sweet, innocent Dudley reimagined as a frail, starving waif whom his cousin just couldn’t bear to see suffer. In reality, the boy had been built like a small elephant, but in this story, he was a tragic figure of sibling devotion.

So here he was, selling his sob story with all the sincerity of a traveling preacher, weaving together enough truth to make it land. The best part? It worked. Every single time.

And as he leaned back once more, eyes drifting over the soldiers, he figured well, if he was going to be stuck in this time period for a while, he might as well enjoy the view.

Fitting in with the local civilians was laughably easy. The soldiers in town didn’t give him a second glance. Plain linen trousers, leather boots, and a white shirt with suspenders, it was all about blending in, after all. And, because overachieving was practically second nature, he took historical accuracy as a personal challenge. Each time, he spent days lurking under his Invisibility Cloak, studying the fashion like some deranged time traveling costume designer.

Most of his outfits started as t-shirts and jeans, transfigured into something era appropriate but still comfortable. He had learned the hard way that material conjured out of thin air tended to have the consistency of sandpaper and the breathability of a plastic bag. His shirt? A once proud Adidas relic from some forgotten decade. The trousers? An old pair of shorts he’d haphazardly grabbed while packing. And the suspenders? Oh, those had started as a rock on the side of the road. Because nothing screamed “fashion” like transfigured roadside debris. If he had any interest in textiles, he could probably make a fortune selling historically accurate yet secretly modern clothing. But, as it turned out, he did not. What he did have, however, was an unshakable commitment to silently judging the uniforms of every passing soldier.

The mood in town was cheerful at least in that eerie, brittle way that came right before everything went to absolute hell. It was almost impressive, the human ability to shove reality into a box and pretend it didn’t exist. As long as there were no cannons blasting or rifles cracking in the distance, people pretended death wasn’t lurking just around the corner. Denial was a powerful thing, and these people were experts. What were they waiting for? He wasn’t sure. An army? A catastrophe? Maybe this time, the hunt would end with them actually trapping their prey instead of the other way around.

Not that he feared death. That particular door had been slammed in his face too many times to count. Shoot him in the heart, string him up from a tree, let a panicked mob trample him it didn’t matter. The body always stitched itself back together, and his soul got punted right back where it belonged, whether he liked it or not. If Death had hands, she’d probably be shaking him like an infuriated nanny scolding an unruly child. The only downside? Pain was still very much a thing. It just… had lost its novelty after the first dozen times.

Mornings in this delightful little pocket of history involved group prayers. A charmingly cult like gathering of townsfolk, all pleading for divine protection. Evenings? Oh, those were for drinking and dancing, the sins of the flesh committed with all the enthusiasm of people who fully expected to beg for forgiveness at sunrise once again. It was a fascinating cycle. The Dursleys had never been particularly religious unless one counted their fanatical devotion to normalcy and material wealth. And the wizarding world? Religion was more of a bedtime story, old gods reduced to nothing more than the vague whispers of history. But that didn’t mean they weren’t still out there, watching with detached amusement as humanity scurried beneath their feet.

These particular humans had turned bootlegging into an art form. Give a decent farmer some spare time and desperation, and suddenly he’s a master distiller. Testing the potency of their latest batch was simple whoever drank it either woke up with a hangover or didn’t wake up at all. Tonight was no exception. Someone dragged out a fiddle, another produced a flute, and before long, the air buzzed with folk music, the kind that made even the most exhausted souls tap their feet. The entire town squeezed into the last remaining building that still had four walls, and suddenly, death was something to worry about tomorrow.

Harry had no intention of joining in until some overenthusiastic stranger yanked him from his seat. Whoever it was, he never got a good look; suddenly, avoiding face-planting onto the dusty floor became the higher priority. Any tragic remnants of the Yule Ball’s waltzing lessons had long since been erased from memory. But, thankfully, no one here cared about elegance. It was all about stomping, spinning, and clapping in time with the music. Right, left, spin, clap repeat until delirium set in.

The spectators clapped along, some taking a breather, others just waiting for the right moment to dive back in. The whole place was spinning, a whirlwind of laughter, movement, and heat. At some point, names stopped mattering. He danced with anyone and everyone, feet protesting every step of the way. But when he ended up in the arms of a blond major with warm brown eyes, he suddenly forgot the face of every other person he had twirled across the floor.

Had the major whispered in his ear that he was now a prisoner of war, Harry might have just nodded and stuck out his wrists for shackles. Completely, utterly caught. Whether by the music, the dance, or those damned eyes, he wasn’t sure.

His Auror instincts kicked in habit, really and he started cataloging details. The major was close, entirely within reach, a perfect subject for observation. Nineteen, maybe twenty? Possibly older, but his face was too smooth, too unweathered for anything past twenty three. If Whitlock had been truthful, this guy had been in the army for two years, meaning he had to be at least twenty. But something about that number seemed off. The way he said ittoo smooth, too practiced. A flicker of hesitation, a brief shift in his gaze, gone as quickly as it appeared.

Most wouldn’t have noticed. But Harry had spent too many years navigating lies to let it slip by. It was muscle memory at this point, reading the truth beneath the words. And yet… somehow, in this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Because this man had eyes that shifted in the light amber in the glow, darkening to near black in the shadows. A gaze so intent it felt like a physical touch. And the hair? Golden curls begging to be tangled in someone’s fingers. A dangerous thought.

He was moving without thinking, drawn in like a moth to flame, orbiting like a flower turning toward the sun. The revelation settled in his bones like an undeniable truth: there would never be enough time, never enough stolen glances, never enough of this.

Oh, but Harry hadn’t come to pry into anyone’s personal life no, Harry had come to watch. And Major Whitlock’s face was certainly worth watching. Those honey gold curls barely brushed his jawline, which, by the way, sported a devastatingly handsome dimple. The man could grin from ear to ear, and when he did, it was annoyingly charming. His cheekbones were pronounced yet soft, and his brown eyes were framed by lashes so thick they could have been smuggled out of a fairy tale. If Harry had been capable of forming a coherent thought, he might have noted that Whitlock’s face was almost heart shaped. But at that moment? Thinking wasn’t exactly on the agenda.

The man also had the audacity to be taller by a solid ten centimeters, at least. So, naturally, Harry had to tilt his head back slightly just to get a good look at him during their rather breathless dance. One broad hand rested firmly on his shoulder, the other curled around his waist, radiating heat through the thin fabric of his shirt. Almost burning. The air grew thin as they spun, caught in the whirlwind of music, adrenaline, and something far less familiar. Drunk on rhythm, movement, and whatever the hell this was.

Perhaps the beer was to blame. Perhaps not. Either way, their dance ended in a fevered kiss. It had been inevitable, really. They had already been pressing closer and closer until Harry, ever the picture of grace, stumbled and practically plastered himself against Whitlock. Strong arms caught him, cradling him as though he were some delicate thing and not a battle worn veteran. Harry’s heart pounded so violently he could barely hear the music, barely hear anything at all just the rush of blood in his ears and the steady, thunderous beat of the major’s heart beneath his cheek. Watching no longer sufficed. Observation was useless now. And those lips those perfect, damnably enticing lips demanded his attention like nothing else ever had.

He rose onto his toes, fingers threading into those maddeningly soft curls, dragging Whitlock down to meet him. It took no effort. The man was already leaning in, eager and God help him enthusiastic. If Harry never had to let go of those curls again, it would be too soon. His other hand clenched the fabric of Whitlock’s shirt as though that could stop time itself. A hesitant brush of lips, a mere ghost of a kiss, asking a silent question neither of them had any intention of leaving unanswered. And then oh, then they pressed together, all hesitation forgotten. The major turned ravenous in a heartbeat, a starved beast let loose in the solosseum, and Harry was more than willing to be devoured. Teeth nipped at his lower lip, only to be soothed immediately by the flicker of a tongue. It was a battle neither truly intended to win. Whitlock, with his infuriating height advantage, tilted forward just enough to shield them from prying eyes. Not that Harry cared.

And then they tripped. Because of course they did. A misstep, a stumble over the step leading to the dimly lit edge of the dance floor, and they had to break apart or risk a rather embarrassing collapse. Whitlock’s eyes were impossibly bright, burning with a million tiny stars. He laughed a deep, rolling sound that sent shivers down Harry’s spine, that godforsaken Southern drawl curling around every syllable. His pupils were so wide he looked positively feline. And those lips red, glistening from their stolen moment were an invitation Harry wasn’t sure he could decline.

He tried to remember where he came from. Tried to remind himself that this was temporary, and that no matter how much he wanted to pretend, this wasn’t his. Yet, in that instant, his entire existence felt tethered to golden curls, warm brown eyes, and a crooked, dazzling smile. Maybe he could stay. Just for a little while. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could forget the suffocating grandeur of a certain dark office. Forget the world he had left behind.

But no. That was a fantasy. An illusion he could never afford. Even if he painted his life with magic and let time slip through his fingers, even if he pretended to grow old alongside Whitlock, it would never be real. The thought alone made his stomach churn. He’d always known the rules no serious attachments, no altering significant historical events. A mantra he repeated in his mind, only to find that the voice whispering it sounded suspiciously like Death itself.

And yet, despite his better judgment, he kissed Whitlock again. Because why not? Because he was already lost, already falling. He would deal with the pain of leaving later. For now, he had three days. Three days of stolen glances, lingering touches, fevered kisses. Two nights tangled together in the confines of a too small tent, where every breath, every whispered word, felt like a desperate attempt to freeze time. But each reunion brought them closer to the inevitable farewell. And when the moment came, when Whitlock cast him one last, desperate glance from atop his horse before spurring it forward, Harry knew. This was the moment to go.

The pocket watch felt like lead in his breast pocket, the weight of it pressing down like a stone. He climbed out of the carriage that had carried him to the hilltop, where distant cannon fire rumbled like a storm on the horizon. The air was thick with unease, hushed whispers carrying the taste of fear. People spoke in muted tones, as if afraid Death itself might overhear and come early.

And then the soldiers returned. Stragglers, the wounded, those who had barely made it out. But no golden haired major. No crooked smile, no familiar eyes searching for him. The realization settled in like a sickness, coiling in his gut. He had no desire to watch another war, no stomach for the endless cycle of destruction and loss.

One last look at the town, at the plains that had become his temporary home. And then, with a sharp press of the watch’s crown, he was gone. Just like that. As if he had never been there at all.

Chapter Text

~A beautiful mask of monster covering the chaos of colors~

He was experiencing it again, fragmented memories flashing behind his closed eyelids. Every time he tried to calm the endless whirlwinds of emotions coming at him from all directions, he thought about how it had all begun. About his origin, about the dreams and goals that always ended up in the filthiest dust at the bottom, only for him to gather them up again and piece them back together. Every time, it was the same painful process. He felt like he was in the fire of purgatory. Amazed that he had made it through again. But even that came at a price. He withdrew into himself more and more. With his gift, he held his own emotions even closer. They were the core beneath a stone shell. Until, at times, he wasn’t even sure if they were still there. Awakening them took more effort with each attempt. He brushed off the layer of dust that had settled on them. Figured out how they worked, only to cover them again the next moment. Carefully tucking them away beneath the white cloth of his stone face. Beneath the softest silk, which, when needed, turned into impenetrable mithril.

There wasn’t much in the surrounding world that could make those hidden feelings spark again. To reignite the nearly blackened embers into flames. Just a few things. People, individuals? His doubts threw him off his focus. He hissed at his own foolishness when he tried to peer through the fog of his past, before his transformation. Something important was hidden there, and so, from time to time, he simply tried. Fully aware of the discomfort it would bring.

His temples throbbed, or at least he felt a sensation similar to the pulsing of his own heartbeat near his ears. Blood was absent, but pain was not. Every nearly imperceptible movement caused another wave of needles, consuming him from within. They traveled from his frozen organs and spread across his body, reaching as far as they could. He felt as immobile as stone in his attempt to lessen their intensity, yet every external influence kept pulling him back out of his head and into his personal inferno. All that pounding pain couldn’t possibly be caused just by his thirst?! If that were the case, the world would be overrun with far more insane vampires.

Raw emotions pressed against him from all sides. Behind his eyelids, colorful patterns flickered. Some were sharp, filled with menacing spikes. Drenched in red hues like a pool of warm blood. To be certain whether it was anger or merely another vampire’s thirst, he would have to see him, to connect the strange, terrifying vision with his body language. The red, spiked atmosphere dominated their camp. Occasionally, violet roots of hatred intertwined within it. Whether directed at another of their kind or at themselves, he couldn’t always tell. The latter was all too familiar to him. He had nearly drowned in a tangle of those purple tendrils when he first awoke from his newborn frenzy. They wrapped around his legs, his torso. Pressed his arms tightly against his chest. Embraced his neck in a gesture that mimicked affection, but one that would rob a person of all their air in mere seconds. But Jasper didn’t need to breathe, and so he watched in horror as they continued, tightening another loop around him, stealing even his sight. As if they wanted to lull him back into the state of an unthinking beast. No need to see the massacre he left behind, no need to think. Just tear and drink.

Peter had pulled him out of that panic back then. But Peter wasn’t here this time, so he had to keep those violet coils at a safe distance himself. One simple rule was enough. Never wallow in guilt ridden self pity for too long. Never succumb to it. In fact, the best thing was not to think about it at all, the countless lives he had taken by the handful. Yet, that was an incredibly difficult task. Especially when he could feel everything his victims felt. First came the shock, in the form of crackling, sparkling bubbles. From the impact, or from the vampire’s speed, imperceptible to the human eye. Sometimes, that firework display nearly blinded him from the real world. But he could still move forward using his other senses. The warmth radiating from the body so close to his own frozen one. The sound of hurried, shallow breaths. Then came the moment when the person realized they were trapped in an unbreakable grip. That’s when uncertainty flooded in, like a white mist. Within seconds, fear followed. Jasper liked fear even less than anger and thirst. Fear itself had no aggressive color. It was a gray-blue. What terrified him was its instability, its constantly shifting surface. It was best compared to water. Sometimes, it was a small stream, almost calm and steady. Other times, it was a wild river, sweeping away anything in its path. Blinding all other emotions, leaving no chance to breathe.

The fear of imminent death was what sent the wildest river surging, tearing everything along with it. Just like the helplessly struggling limbs in his iron grip, as his fangs neared the artery, a tsunami roared in his head, threatening to consume him along with the fragile being radiating it. He drank faster, hoping to end the terror as quickly as possible. The terror he was experiencing right alongside them. When it was over, it left him torn apart, uncertain if it was truly worth it. Did he want to kill again? Did he want to go through this yet another time? Those were the questions that tormented him, usually right after feeding. But when his eyes faded from crimson red to coal black, those same questions disappeared, slinking away like beaten dogs.

Doubts occasionally crept beneath his stone skin. Old acquaintances of his. They tortured him without pause. When he had been human, they even slithered into his dreams. Black snakes with striking red spots or stripes. Doubts about his existence, about its authenticity. If he had possessed his ability back then, he could have felt the truth of the emotions around him. He would have known whether they were genuine or just a facade. He would have had something to hold onto, something to worship like his own personal idol. Now, in those weaker moments, all he could do was turn each of his values over in his hands, like a gold coin. Heads or tails? He couldn’t say with certainty which side was the right one.

Only the war torn hell surrounding the battlefield seemed real. The shrieks of dying lives. The agony tearing apart both human bodies and their insatiable throats. That was the only truth now. Existence reduced to obeying the creator’s commands. Endless destruction. The power she held over him was the only seemingly positive emotion left to grasp. Clinging to it was like clutching the last drop of water on an entire planet.

What were the countless lives taken compared to the rare, fleeting buds of recognition and favor? A distorted love, one that had never truly existed. The way her eyes rested upon him could never mean something as pure as love. It had to be wrong. It must have been. But there was nothing else to know. And so, time and time again, he returned for another fleeting moment of bliss.

For that brief instant, all the twisted knots of violet and crimson thorns in his chest unraveled. Those blossoms were as rare and precious as plants that bloomed once in a decade. Lately, however, it felt like wandering a barren desert, not a single leaf in sight, let alone a flower. He undestood the reasons, yet longing never faded.

The battlefield held an entire spectrum of colors and shapes, but none as abundant as the first two. Amid the flood of negativity, Jasper struggled not to drown. A constant reminder echoed within no matter how sharp the thorns appeared, diamond skin would never yield to them.

Identifying which emotion belonged to whom was possible, yet today, the energy to do so simply wasn’t there. The stabbing pain and fog of human memories felt, in some strange way, more bearable than the agony outside. At least they belonged to him. That made them intimate, personal. But neither could be escaped. They had been there from the very beginning. Seventy-four long years and a handful of days spent serving an army both the same and yet so different. The same dusty ground. The same state, the same continent. The war between North and South had long ended, yet the vampire war never ceased. A never ending list of missing persons ones who were not entirely dead. Their own personal hell. They served their purpose until Jasper, following orders, sent them further into the abyss with a swift severing of the head. Almost eighty years of slaughter. A never ending cycle of death. Hollow. Parched. Even with rivers of spilled blood, thirst remained. The wasteland within gnawed deeper each passing day.

A body leaned against the crumbling structure of a building, one of many serving as temporary barracks before the next move. Ghost towns had become their dwelling places. Remnants of humanity lingered, manifesting in the habit of seeking shelter some still found it more natural to curl up in the dust of a dilapidated house rather than sleep under an open sky like wild animals. Strategically, it might have been an advantage if the very material of the buildings weren’t as fragile as paper to their kind.

Against one such fragile wall rested Jasper’s back. Arms crossed tightly over the chest, the posture intended to deter any company. But in truth, the desire to hide, to feel a touch that carried no threat, was overwhelming. How long had it been since such a sensation was last experienced? He didn't remember. Eyes clenched shut, head tilted back against bare brick. The world faded in an attempt to sort through the storm of thoughts. Sifting through the chaotic, invasive emotions of others to find something truly his own.

A small crease formed between the brows, concentration pulling fragments together. The surrounding world vanished. At this moment, an attack could have been fatal. Absent. That was the only way to describe his current state. Once submerged in his own emotions, the overwhelming current dragged him under. They flickered, one after another, in rapid succession. Each threatened to bring him to his knees, but he gritted his teeth and endured. Mind and soul drifted far away, deep into buried history. A rare mercy of his gift on occasion, it allowed glimpses beyond the fog of transformation. Through emotions, memories closest to the heart surfaced. Likely the same ones that once sent his human heart racing. Small, intense fragments of joy and excitement.

This time, the journey reached seventy-five years into the past. Not even a full year before the transformation. The most cherished memory. An old melody of violins and flutes played in his mind. Boots thumped against dusty wooden floors. Hands clapped in rhythm. Bodies spun in wild pirouettes. A pained grimace crossed his face. Control was impossible, yet the moment was too precious to release willingly. Before thick mist could swallow it again, every detail had to be captured. The crease between his brows deepened. This fleeting moment was not to be lost.

Gentle hands grasped his shoulders, delicate but firm, holding tighter with each turn of the dance. Laughter rang in his ears, breathless gasps between movements. No recollection of clothing. Not his own, not the partner’s. Likely the usual dull gray uniform. It didn’t matter. The only thing vividly, unmistakably clear those eyes. A green so striking it seemed unnatural. Even with a vampire’s ability to perceive endless hues, none compared. No gemstone, no mineral, no plant nor fabric could rival their brilliance. Something otherworldly shimmered within them. A quiet power, capable of turning him to dust in an instant. A knowing that held the secrets of the world. Like the dryads whispered of in ancient tales. Wild energy crackling just beneath the surface, only glimpsed through those mesmerizing eyes. How had they looked beneath the night sky, reflecting an ocean of stars?

Three days. That was all. Three fleeting days before the war tore them apart. Three days spent neglecting duty, stretching each moment together for as long as possible. How fervently sleep was despised back then wishing to stay awake, watching, speaking, cherishing every second. Now, slumber was all he craved. To sink into oblivion. But the mind never rested. A constant stream of images and sensations burned into an immortal memory. A vampire’s mind a terrifying place, even to the one it belonged to.

The memory of parting remained crystal clear. The first and last separation. The evacuation of Chasepeak Bay had been swift and chaotic. In the fray, the one with emerald eyes vanished like mist in the wind. As if those stolen moments had meant nothing.
If still human, time would have claimed him. The truth was known as surely as the certainty of the sun rising each morning. A worse possibility loomed in blond's head. What if, in the frenzy of newborn hunger, that very life had been taken by Jasper’s own hands? It was said that fledgling vampires often sought out their dearest ones in the haze of transformation. The change was so disorienting, they rarely realized what they had done until bodies lay discarded, drained of every drop.

Could such an atrocity have been forgotten?

The number of lives taken by him was uncountable. Only the rhythm of their pulses had mattered. Faces were ignored. Clothing was a blur. The moment scent reached the nose, all rational thought vanished. The monstrous hunger drove every action. From the first second of opening newborn eyes, thirst had been the only master. Hellfire licked at the throat, urging to claw it open just for relief. The pain intensified with each moment blood did not flood down the larynx. Resistance was possible if he really want. The torment of transformation had been far worse. But surrender was easier. Hunting was easier. A path into forgetfulness. A way to silence the insatiable voice forever whispering—hungry.

There was a fairly high probability that the green eyed stranger had ended up among the victims. The realization came slowly at first, just fleeting moments when the human side stirred back to consciousness. But the monster remained at the helm. It never truly slept. Even in the most lucid moments, it clung to at least one ledge. The bloody haze of hunger had lingered for years before the world could be seen clearly again at least as clearly as possible through these new eyes.

Somehow, at some point during the frenzy, a tight collar had been fastened around the neck. Maria had wrapped him around her little finger, playing with him as one would with a pet. Any misstep, any stray thought of freedom, brought swift punishment. The last and gravest offense disobeying a direct order should have meant certain death. Anyone else would have been torn apart. Perhaps Maria would have played with the prey first, the way a cat toys with a mouse. Only the usefulness of his gift kept him from being discarded. That didn’t mean the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Perhaps even at this very moment.

Peter and Charlotte had been given the means to escape, and it was hard to believe Maria didn't know. She was anything but foolish. Care had been taken to ensure no witnesses, but the weight of her stare was an icy spear sliding down his spine, bone by bone tal otherwise. Standing beside her had never felt more dangerous. Every muscle was held in check, hands clenched tightly at his sides, head bowed in submission. She knew. Yet no punishment came. Was this the punishment? The constant uncertainty never knowing if today would be the last day of his existence?

Something was brewing. That much was certain. A handful remained loyal his and Peter’s team. Vampires who saw no difference between dying at the hands of an enemy clan or under the orders of their leader. An arrangement had been made. They wouldn’t turn on him, and he wouldn’t turn on them. His reputation as an executioner played its role. Among their ranks, Jasper inspired the same, if not greater, fear than Maria herself. His arms bore dozens of bite scars, some marking his shoulders, neck, even torso and legs. No matter how much effort went into concealing them, some always remained visible. For others of his kind, those venomous scars shone like beacons. Proof of survival. No one wished to cross a creature who had endured so much. Only a madman or a desperate fool.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the gilded cage had become unbearable. The world deserved to be torn apart for all it had put him through. The instinct to fight or flee stretched taut as a wire. Maria’s trust if it had ever existed lay in ruins. A serpent from the start, she pursued only her own gain. Everything and everyone else were mere tools to reach it faster.

And yet, from the very beginning, that truth had remained unseen. Instead of a predator he saw an angel stood before him a savior, someone so breathtakingly beautiful that it seemed an injustice for the ground beneath her feet to be anything less than gold. Entranced by her charm, by the sheer force with which she commanded an army, it had been impossible to look away. A perfectly functioning machine with countless moving parts. Maria was its heart, its voice, its soul. And at the same time, its doom. A hidden rot, consuming them from within. Once depleted, she cut away the dead flesh and moved on without a second glance at the ruin left behind. That was who Maria had always been. Beautiful and deadly. A statue devoid of love or emotion. And yet, Jasper had thought he loved her. Flowers bloomed in her presence. The rest of the world was nothing but a bleak corridor leading straight to hell.

The awakening had come slowly, like emerging from a beautiful, intoxicating dream. Blinking against the harsh light of a new century, he found himself untethered. Empty. Purpose had always come from battle. What had he done before the war? How had he lived, what had he eaten? The past blurred into obscurity, leaving behind only a sense of being lost one drop of water in an endless sea. Only the sharpest human memory kept him from sinking into the beast within. If that line was crossed, even the last fragments of humanity risked fading away.

Movement nearby pulled him back to the present. The routine appeared unchanged, yet tension ran through the ranks like a drawn bowstring. More glances thrown over shoulders, stances held too rigid. The air itself bristled with warning.

“Major, the commander wants to see you. Now.”

The soldier had short, jet black hair, straight as nails. Faces were kept at a distance names were even less relevant. After all, the one year mark always came. And it was better for him if he didn't know them

A silent nod. Pushing off from the weathered wall, irritation at the lower ranked messenger was tucked away for later. The chance for payback would come during training. Keeping Maria waiting was unwise, so the few steps to her tent vanished in the blink of an eye. The entrance flap was pulled aside, revealing deathly beauty. A pale, smooth face framed by dark ringlets. The same calculating red eyes that pierced through him from beginning. Seated in a chair likely taken from one of the nearby houses, her hands played idly with a metal soldier figurine over the map covered table. Spinning it between her fingers as though still deciding where it belonged.

Jasper remained motionless, returning her gaze without a flicker. Hands clasped behind his back. But inside, uncertainty gnawed. The long awaited punishment would it finally come? Would it be subtle, an "accident" no one would question? Or would she strike now, tearing him apart on the spot? No, brutality had never been her style. Maria killed slowly, methodically. Every move calculated. The only question was whether he remained valuable enough to keep. An asset or a liability? The scales were tipping dangerously, rocking back and forth, still unsettled.

The figurine spun again between her fingers. A single squeeze would be enough to flatten it like a coin. Her gaze never left him.

Hunger radiated from her not the kind that craved blood. This was hunger for power. An insatiable greed for the throne at the top. How had that ever been mistaken for love? If love could even be the right word. An insult to the emotion itself. Obsession, possessiveness, the desire to dominate perhaps. But never love. Once, that intoxicating mix had pulled him into darkness. Now, it suffocated him like a straitjacket.

The air in the tent was thick with that same greed, malice, anger, envy, and pride. More than anyone, Jasper had seen how superior Maria felt, how those around her existed merely as stepping stones beneath her feet. A test of patience. Enduring the weight of her scrutiny in silence, waiting for her to speak. It could take minutes or hours. If urgency was lacking, she had no reason to rush. Letting him stew in his own thoughts was part of the game. At last, the silence cracked. Two fingers placed the figurine on the northern part of the map. A tiny crack marred its musket. Soon, the fragile soldier would crumble. As easily as Maria discarded her fighters.

“Do you know why I called you?”

Ah. The game. Always the game. Of course, he didn’t know. That was the point. Guessing out loud was more dangerous than admitting ignorance.

“You need someone killed.” A safe assumption. There was always a need to remove someone whether from their own ranks or the enemy’s.

Maria smiled a dangerous, humorless smile that never reached her eyes. Cold, like delivering the worst punishment she had ever devised.

“You’re going north. Almost to the border, my dearest.” Her finger slid across the map to the little soldier.

“And you’re going to finish a job I assigned you some time ago.”

If sweat had still been possible, he would have been drenched. Instead, his body turned to stone. Paler. Still as a statue.

“I don’t like failure. I expect only good news.” Or your head. The words remained unspoken but clear.

“Yes, madam.”

“Don’t return until both deserters are dead.”

Her fingers caressed the small figurine’s helmet one last time before crushing it into an unrecognizable scrap of metal.

Stepping out of the tent, he still lingered in blissful ignorance of what was to come.

Chapter Text

~How can mortal offer immortality~

He arrived at the place where Peter had last been seen that same day. Delaying was dangerous and pointless. If he had lingered in the camp even a second longer, his head would likely have been separated from his body before he could blink. It was unsettling enough to watch the destruction of a small metal soldier. The likelihood that it was a demonstration of what would happen if he failed was high. Maria was running out of patience, and he was running out of days. From her graceful figure, he could now sense only caution and bitterness. As if she were preparing to kick away a puppy she had been feeding for weeks. He didn’t even want to start deciphering what exactly the tangle of red spikes under the yellow pudding of one emotion and the poisonously green net of the other could mean. He heard one scraping against the other, producing a sound like chalk screeching on a blackboard.

As he set out, he felt more than one chilling gaze on his back. Like a pack of predators which they undoubtedly were. He was used to the feeling. He wore it like a cloak of damned honor wherever he went. He knew they doubted whether he would be able to see his intention through to the end. So many before him had failed. But one word from her would sweep away their doubts like useless dust. What use was a healthy sense of self preservation when your own bloodlust could grab you by the throat and dictate your every step? Whether Maria would actually do it was another question. Did she really want to get rid of him so soon? He didn’t deny that this was a good opportunity like any other. She had always liked a certain simplicity in her brutality. Maybe she was just waiting until she could take out two birds with one stone. Because as much as he was an important tool, he was also bait.

Jasper subconsciously went through the list of all her soldiers. Who might she send that could handle such a tough bite one that, without question, both he and Peter were? Or rather, how many would she send? He stretched his senses to the limit, trying to notice if anyone was following him. He intended to get rid of them before he arrived. He wanted to talk to Peter in peace, without constantly looking over his shoulder. That is, if Peter was foolish enough to still be there.

That foolish vampire in question was, of course, still there. In the same town where he had been spotted. Jasper had never taught him to make such colossal mistakes. If he had followed his instructions, he would have been long gone. If he had truly wanted to meet, he would have sent him a secret message. He wouldn’t have risked the possibility that Maria had sent someone else!

Jasper felt his familiar calm aura with a playful undertone the moment he crossed the border of the first houses. What was he thinking? Why had he come back why, for Christ’s sake, had he come back?! He was so close to their camp that it was only by sheer luck that the entire clan hadn’t set out to hunt him. Jasper wouldn’t have been able to pull them out of that situation again like last time. They would have been torn to pieces. And yet, Peter seemed to find it the greatest joke of his career. It could very well be his last, Jasper thought. He intended to get him out of there as quickly as possible. If the circumstances required it, he would launch him out of the city like a vampire dart with a single well aimed throw straight back to Charlotte, so she could knock some sense into his head. He wasn’t about to lose someone he had willingly put his own neck on the line for.

Jasper couldn’t think of a single good reason why the fool had returned. He had to know Maria wouldn’t let him go a second time. He was risking everything Jasper had given him a chance for. He had to know that losing one’s mate was the worst thing that could happen in their unlife and had come painfully close to that not long ago when Maria had ordered the death of his mate. And now, it seemed, Peter was setting up the same nerve wracking tension for her.

Jasper sensed him the moment he crossed the town’s entrance gate. Which meant anyone else could, too. He wasn’t trying to hide, wasn’t sneaking through the shadows, hadn’t covered his scent. Jasper gritted his teeth. It was as if all his training had been thrown out the window the moment he was out of sight. Blonde narrowed his eyes and focused on him once more. He didn’t need to see his face to get an idea of his intentions. He just had to sink back into his world of colors. Beneath his usual cheerful shell, Jasper noticed a flicker of concern. That concern should have been much stronger than this weak attempt at fear. What would Charlotte say if Peter got torn to dust? To Jasper’s surprise, beneath the gray wall of resilience, there was also some restless yellow impatience. His friend had a goal. What it was, Jasper would surely find out soon. He almost pulled away from his gift when he noticed an intense bloodlust in the distance. It glowed as brightly as the last red rays of a setting sun. Someone couldn’t wait to start the hunt. So, after all. Jasper raised an eyebrow at the fact that the tracker was alone. If they didn’t want to draw attention, he would have to know how to control his beast. As it was, he was like a beacon in the night on a calm sea. Shining from afar like a ruby of the highest quality. It was almost laughably obvious that Maria would want to track him. After all, the last time she had given the same order, he had disobeyed. Would they attack right away, or did he have some time to ask Peter about his reasons? He would try and see.

Peter was sitting in a tavern. Only one door separated them now. Jasper focused all his concentration on not slaughtering everyone around him. The pumping blood of the humans was tempting. His mouth filled with venom, which he swallowed in gulps. One foolish provocation and he would tear them all apart. Even after so many years, he couldn’t deny his hunting instincts. Fortunately, the fragile creatures kept a healthy distance. Something in their heads must have been ringing alarms when they were near two apex predators.

The blond man tilted his head, observing the dusty interior in a weak attempt to distract himself from the nearest singing artery. Blood itself had no color in his vision through his gift, but it was undoubtedly affected by what the person he fed on was feeling. Everything in the inn was dirty and worn. People moved away from him as much as they could some even left. Their survival instincts were screaming at them. Only four remained in the now empty tavern. Him, the bartender, Peter, and his companion. Jasper could only marvel that the young man wasn’t vibrating with anxiety and stress. He could tell it was a man by his scent. His emotions were strangely blurred, as if seen through a window that hadn’t been washed in years. This sparked no small amount of curiosity in Jasper and an equal measure of caution. His gift not working was truly unusual.

Peter nodded at him. So far, he had only seen the face of his old friend. As he tried, with all the politeness he could muster, not to sniff the air to classify the stranger, his scent became more and more familiar with each breath but he couldn’t place it. Long-buried memories of home raced through his mind. The scent of summer and storms. Endless cornfields. The treehouse in front of their home. Laughter and the thin branches they used to whip each other with. The lowing of cattle and their journey to the nearby creek to drink. They used to jump into that same water, splashing it at each other. A jolt of electricity ran through him. A current rushed down his spine and left his head buzzing like a contented cat’s purr. He tried to keep his facial muscles from betraying his shock. He had just managed to access long buried pretransformation memories without great effort. Normally, it took hours of concentration to uncover even a single one if he was lucky.

He forced himself to place one foot in front of the other, to keep his pace steady. Inside him, the crackling surprise transformed into fluttering leaves of curiosity, tickling every corner of his mind. As they settled, they gave rise to burning questions, questions that were now just as difficult to swallow as his own venom in the face of thirst. Great.

Peter turned slightly toward him. Only a few steps remained.

"Hey, bro!" That was enough to make him turn sharply towards the source of all his current problems.

"Have you gone mad?!" he hissed at him, startled out of his nostalgic moment. His gaze remained cautiously fixed on the cloak deeply tucked into the other person's forehead. It was strange that he didn’t feel the same burning thirst for him as he did for others humans. And there was no doubt, he was human. His heartbeat pulsed steadily beneath that same cloak that hid his face. He didn’t intend to let this anomaly slip from his sight. He still didn’t know whether this person was dangerous. After all, he had come with Peter, and Peter wouldn't bring an innocent into a warzone.

"Peter definitely hasn't gone mad, after all, he brought me along," the stranger pointed at himself with one elegant finger. His voice held the same cheerful note as his friend’s. Didn’t they understand the danger they were in?

Then Jasper froze mid step. Perhaps the whole world had just stopped around him. He knew that voice, but it couldn’t be possible. His mind must have been playing tricks on him, hallucinations mayby. His war- weary mind was tormenting him. It couldn’t be him. His grandson? A different relative? After all this time, there had to be at least two more generations. The tone of the voice suggested the person couldn’t be older than thirty at most. In a daze, he approached, almost reaching out in a pleading gesture, and the stranger finally turned his face towards him. The cloak fell back onto his shoulders, revealing identical black curls.Memories came crashing down like a tsunami. It felt like he was about to drown. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to find words. A human gesture that now seemed like the only way he could express his shock and disbelief. The ability to form words had evaporated.

A scar on his forehead, another from the bottom lip to the chin. His nose was speckled with tiny freckles from the sun. Electric green eyes stared at him, his dearest human memory now carried a completely new meaning when he could see it through vampiric vision. They weren’t just green, within the iris swirled entire palettes of emerald shades. He jumped from one to the other, trying to describe the sea of beauty. For a moment, it was the spring green of leaves, other times forest moss, river algae, grass plains, pine needles, aurora borealis, and precious stones. He was perfect.

"You?" The green eyes widened in astonishment, as if he had only just now properly looked him over from head to toe, and Jasper could briefly bathe in the affection being directed at him. His desert of the past few months maybe even years was suddenly transformed into an oasis with the blink of an eye. In the greenery, dozens of colorful flowers hid. He almost stepped back from their intensity. As a human, he had charisma, but he never had the ability to feel others' emotions so deeply. Now, he felt intoxicated, standing in the midst of an unprecedented phenomenon. It was maddening, the flowers and their scents overwhelmed him from all sides. Their sweet fragrances blended together. He had never felt emotions and scents intertwined like this before. It seemed that his dream had fallen right into his hands, and now, he held this delicate golden arrangement as gently as he could to keep it from disintegrating into nothingness.

"How is it possible you're alive?" There was no doubt about it. It was him. Every detail he could recall matched. He even recognized him! No mere relative could have done that. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, though it was impolite to stare. Nothing in the world could make him divert his attention to someone else.

"You know each other? Excellent, that makes things easier," Peter clapped his hands. His infectious smile seemed to widen. He showed his sharp teeth, but that didn’t matter. It looked like something very important was unfolding before him. A historical moment. Yet, they were still on enemy territory. They would need to hurry. He quickly scanned the surroundings. The two were too absorbed in their reunion. He was curious where they knew each other from. Perhaps even before he himself had joined the ranks of the newly risen.

Harry thought that there was absolutely nothing easier about this. Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine that when he joined his new friend’s rescue mission, he would come face to face with Major Whitlock. No doubt about it, though his brown eyes, which had kept him awake, now shone a new crimson light. His other features were still so familiar, so longed for. It seemed that through the curse of vampirism, Harry had found something incredible. Something he thought he had lost long ago. That little spark from the last faint ember had burst into flame again.

"Perhaps now’s the right time to finally tell me your name?"

The blonde’s lips moved, and Harry momentarily struggled to focus on what it meant. He tapped his head a little, trying to focus on something other than devouring the other with his eyes.

"Uh, last time we didn’t get to it, right?" The wizard vaguely remembered that names hadn’t been necessary last time. Or maybe they were just too caught up in mutual touches to need any words or names. It seemed far more important to map the other person out, like discovering an uncharted continent.

"That's true, we forgot." Now he had no intention of forgetting. With his new perfect vampiric memory, that was impossible. He wanted to know the name of his oasis. The light that had led him out of the desert.

"Sure, we forgot."

It was as if a spirit of music had touched them. The melody hovered in the air like a promise of something better. It didn’t happen every day that one found what they were searching for. These two had it right in front of them.

"Sorry to interrupt your intense reunion, but we should go, gentlemans," Peter muttered, half under his breath. Stalling was unwise, especially when a scene like this, straight out of a romance novel, had unexpectedly unfolded in their already packed schedule. But it seemed like the two didn’t even hear him.

"Harry Potter-Black," the dark-haired man offered his hand to the blonde. Peter stood up, tapping his foot. His instincts were uneasy. Something or someone was approaching. They needed to go, and a minute ago was already too late. If his two best radars weren’t in use and their normally sensitive sensors weren’t filled with a dozen of Cupid’s arrows, he would have to rely on his vampiric senses. And they were now quite firmly suggesting that something was very wrong.

"A pleasure, Harry." Peter’s friend accepted the offered hand and placed a light kiss on its back.

"We need to go," he repeated. As if they didn’t exist. They seemed miles away, though they were standing right in front of him. He had never seen Jasper so beside himself. He had never allowed himself to act so... relaxed in front of anyone. He seemed unprotected, fragile. The alarm at the edge of his senses grew louder. He could already hear running footsteps. That finally snapped Jasper out of his reverie. It seemed Harry had snapped back too. Their hands parted.Both vampires got into combat positions. The wizard positioned himself a little behind them, shields on high alert. In the short time he had lived with Peter and Charlotte, he had learned how to fight effectively against their kind. His journey to discover something new, something that would overcome the awful emptiness he had felt, had turned into something much better. He had found Whitlock. Something he had only dreamed of in his wildest dreams! Now, more than ever, he wasn’t going to let go of this timeline, no matter the cost.

A vampire?! Why hadn’t he thought of that? And could it be possible that in this state of existence, he might run into more of his old acquaintances? A new wave of excitement rushed through him. He wanted to tell him, to say that now that he had found him, he wasn’t about to let him go again. They had more than enough time to finally get to know each other, once he pulled him out of the claws of another crazy war in which he had found him. As soon as he opened his mouth, a blow interrupted him. The door to the tavern burst open again. This time, the fragile hinges didn’t survive, and the wood splintered into pieces. The newcomer didn’t care in the slightest about their strength. The bartender had long since deserted his post behind the counter.

Jasper took a defensive stance, and a threatening growl echoed through the room. He wasn’t about to lose Harry again now that he had finally found him. Wasn’t it an abstract thought anymore? Harry was alive. Harry. That name etched itself into his perfect memory, along with those incredibly beautiful green eyes. They belonged together.

"Stevens!" The two vampires spat the name like poison. This was not good news for him.

"Looks like Maria was right in the end. She knew you'd betray her. Again, I should note." He sneered.

No one moved from their position. For now, they just glared at each other with hatred. Stevens was a nasty opponent for one simple reason, he could freeze his enemies with a single touch. And a frozen vampire was a dead vampire. Keeping this in mind, his opponents avoided physical contact as much as possible. Jasper tried to latch onto one of the many threads of his emotions, but they eluded him, slipping away like slippery snakes. He could make him feel utter hopelessness, self-hatred so deep and true that the vampire would take his own life. If only he could catch hold of him. He felt him almost like through a mist. Maria must have given him something, something... to protect him from his gift. In the light from the door, a strange pendant glinted. Most vampires didn’t care much for jewelry.

“It must be the pendant. I can’t influence him while he’s wearing it.” He hissed toward Peter as quietly as he could. Peter gave a barely noticeable nod.

If they both attacked at the same time... they might be able to throw him off. One of them should rip off the pendant, as long as they didn’t touch him in the process. Harry was scanning the situation with a trained eye. Most spells didn’t work on vampires. Their diamond like skin behaved similarly to dragon scales. Spells just bounced off, leaving only a faint scratch. Fire magic wasn’t an option, not with the risk that his two companions would catch the flames the moment they brushed against them. The wood around them looked highly flammable. His magic trembled just beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed.

Before the wizard could blink, the two of them were at their enemy. He cursed under his nonexistent beard. After this, they’d really need to have a serious talk about their tendency to jump into situations headfirst. And that was saying something from a former Gryffindor. He definitely couldn't cast any more spells now without being sure he wouldn't hit those two as well His eyes couldn’t follow the blurred limbs. His ears were deafened by occasional crashes, but it seemed the two of them were trying to avoid their opponent. Maybe Stevens had another power that activated upon physical contact? Just then, that unpleasant thought struck him as Stevens’s red, almost crazed eyes turned his way. Suddenly, they looked triumphant, as though their owner had found something amusing. Harry braced himself for the impact. He knew that even under his shields, that insane strength would knock him aside, but nothing could harm him. His magic would protect him, as always.

But Jasper didn’t know that. As soon as it dawned on him where his enemy was looking, he leaped in front of Harry. Harry’s life was more important to him in that millisecond. It was as if Stevens had been expecting this. A more disgusting grin spread across his face. He reached for Jasper’s arm, and Jasper could feel the cold coursing through him. Everything froze. His body was encased in a blue crystal. Harry screamed, the sound half-choked in his throat. He couldn’t believe Jasper had jumped in front of him. Peter tried to get Stevens off his friend, but he sent him flying into a wall with one well-aimed kick. The wall collapsed, and the house ominously creaked. It seemed they were out of luck, and it was one of the load bearing walls.

Green eyes watched in slow motion as the claws neared the frozen figure. Once they touched, the surface would shatter, along with the body inside. Stevens knew he had to act fast; his prey would soon break free from the ice. Even a condensed ice vampire couldn’t be held forever. He was almost upon him, his vision filled with victory. First, he would kill Jasper Whitlock, and everyone would worship him as the ultimate vampire, then he’d deal with the deserters and their human friend. He might even drain him after the tough fight as a reward for a job well done. Or maybe he could drag him to Maria and earn more favor with her.

Harry didn’t think, he acted instinctively. It had been so long since anyone had managed to spark this frantic fire. He forgot about his wand, the rules, even the world around him. Deep within, an ancient magic cracked to life, magic from the time of Merlin. The dark haired wizard had soaked in it during his time there. It was rare for it to cooperate in modern times, though. Suddenly, Luna’s words made so much more sense. One sunny afternoon, they had been arguing in her garden, and she’d said nothing would make him repeat the same reckless decisions. It was more of a friendly tease. And Luna had won. She said she’d know exactly when the time was right. Maybe she knew him too well, or she saw one of the rare glimpses of the future. Enough to speak with such certainty.

It wasn’t a spell, just a thought burned into his magic. The vision of a torn body, a severed hand that sought to hurt, was so vivid that the magic yielded to it and erupted from his body to fulfill that vision. With a screech of stone, the attacking vampire was torn into pieces. Against Harry’s magic, amplified by the magic of death, his body was like butter. The force of the cut tore through the furniture and a chunk of the wall behind him. The wizard stood there, stunned, staring at the destruction he had caused. Peter finally stirred and helped Jasper break free from the chunks of ice. The ice was cracking as it melted, and Jasper was pushing from the inside. Harry rushed to them, ready to help with a warming spell.

How long before they notice? How long do they have left?

The first thing Jasper felt when he broke free from the ice crystal was crushing guilt. The force of the emotion almost knocked him to his knees. It threatened to drown him with its intensity. Did he feel guilty for saving him? Or was there something else? Life, taking someone’s life, it added a thought to his mind. Maybe this was the first time, it finally clicked for the blonde. His face was written with worry as he turned toward Harry. What was one supposed to say in such cases? He was so familiar with death that he couldn’t come up with the right words.

"Oh, I’m so sorry, so, so sorry."

Now the vampire was even more disoriented. What was he apologizing for? He had saved him.

"I don’t understand."

"You almost died. I... I must not interfere with the natural course of things. I must not save anyone."

"What? What are you talking about?" Peter joined in, but this time it was on point. What was the green eyed one? That question burned, and Jasper didn’t know if he wanted to answer it. But there was one much more important.

"What happens if you do?" Nothing made sense. It all felt so crazy that one could think it was just a bad dream. But there was one small problem. Vampires didn’t sleep to dream.

"I will have to return."

A black mist began to form around the wizard. Shadows spread across the floor, beginning to form a strange vortex.

"I’ll find a way for us to meet again, I promise!"

Jasper’s throat tightened. They had seen each other for such a short time, and now he would disappear like last time. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. He wanted to remember every second as clearly as his abilities allowed. He would cherish these moments like the most precious memories, as long as it took.

"I’ll take him north, make sure he doesn’t get caught up in another war with his luck." Peter chuckled.

"I must go, but I will find you. Someday, for sure!"

"I’ll be waiting." Jasper managed to say just before the bone like hand reached out from the vortex and pulled Harry into the strange portal. His gift was at the end. He didn’t know what to do with so much black sludge. Not even in the cemetery did it feel like this concentration of death. He felt like throwing up, and the world around him spun. For the first time in his vampire existence, his vision blurred, as if his body was trying to signal that he had seen something he wasn’t meant to. A foreign hand grabbed him by the shoulder. Ah, it was Peter’s. He could focus on that; he could handle it. The same hand effortlessly lifted him to his feet.

"Let’s go, brother, before the next executioner shows up."

He had to manage... until, who knew how long such black vortex travel would last.

Chapter Text

~Kiss Tomorrow for Me.~

They stared at each other in a silent battle of wills. Death had her arms crossed, one bony finger tapping impatiently against her forearm. A little longer, and she might even wear a hole in the fabric of her favorite black cloak. She loomed over the wizard like a vengeful god. Or perhaps more accurately, like a very displeased parent after discovering that their unsupervised child had enthusiastically redecorated all the walls of their house with permanent paint. Attempting to gather her thoughts before launching into a well-deserved lecture, she clung to her professionalism. Calm. Steady. Professional. That was the plan.
It failed spectacularly.

"What did I say when I gave you those watches?" she growled, exasperated. Not that she didn’t remember oh, she remembered perfectly but she needed to hear it from him. There was a real possibility that the words had gone in one ear and out the other. Or worse, that they had been dismissed entirely, filed away under things that don’t concern me right alongside Basic self preservation and following instructions.

Not that expectations had been high. There was no world in which Death genuinely believed the wizard would treat the watches with the care and caution they required. Or that he would, for once in his infuriatingly reckless life, heed her advice. That would have been a miracle worthy of its own religious following. This was someone who had an unrelenting, lifelong issue with authority. The same boy who had sassed his aunt and uncle into an early grave, sparred verbally with Severus Snape without so much as a second thought, and even back talked Albus freaking Dumbledore on multiple occasions. It had been hilarious when observed from a safe distance. Less so when experienced firsthand. Being an all powerful entity didn’t change much when dealing with him. No matter how ominously or wisely she had warned him, she might as well have been muttering into the void. Honestly, she should have just installed a designated trash bin next to the door labeled Death’s Advice please disregard Immediately. It would have been overflowing within the week. If anything, the real shock was that disaster had taken this long to unfold. A statistical anomaly, really.

"Do not interfere with the past," he muttered, barely putting any effort into it. One foot idly traced circles on the carpet. Death's eye twitched.

Regret might have been a reasonable emotion to expect, but there was none to be found. Oh no, not from him. There was only mild discomfort, as though she were nagging him about forgetting to take out the trash instead of berating him for breaking one of the fundamental laws of time. At least it confirmed some form of long term memory retention. A rare occurrence. Sometimes she suspected that, out of sheer boredom, he simply plucked thoughts from his head with the Elder Wand and abandoned them in some dusty Pensieve, leaving them to the mercy of time. Yet here he was, proving that some of her words had actually stuck. Not that it mattered. Not when the consequences of this particular blunder were potentially world ending.

Meanwhile, the wizard’s mind had long since wandered away from her impending wrath. Fear was an entirely absent ingredient in his emotional weaponry. And why would it be? What exactly could she do to him? Kill him? That ship had sailed a long time ago. Besides, Death had been the one who handed over the golden watches in the first place. Did she really expect anything different? If she hadn’t known exactly what chaos would follow, then she clearly wasn’t as omnipotent as she liked to pretend. In fact, there was a very real possibility that this entire catastrophe was exactly what she had anticipated. A little cosmic prank on the other two entities.

Honestly, her disappointment had been almost tangible when he returned from his first jump unscathed fully intact, no missing limbs, no apocalyptic horsemen galloping after him. The sheer tragedy of it. She was impossible to read sometimes. One moment, she was delivering instructions in her cold, professional tone, the next she seemed to be internally cursing when things didn’t go sideways enough.

"And what did you do?" she interrupted, clearly done with his philosophical musings on the end of the world.

"Saved Jasper Whitlock," came the immediate response. No dodging, no excuses. She already knew, so why bother pretending?

If his abrupt and unceremonious retrieval from the timeline wasn’t already a dead giveaway, he wasn’t sure what else she needed. There was no use sugarcoating it. He had interfered. Royally. Irrevocably. He could have stalled. Could have given her a detailed play by play of his entire day, even the week leading up to it. Maybe gone on about what he ate, where he went, what he wore. How he grew fond of Peter and Charlotte. How he obsessed over the nature of vampirism, digging for answers about where the blood drinking species had even originated. And how, by sheer chance, his research had led him to someone he never expected to find someone whose presence electrified him. And then, how he had almost lost him in the very next moment. But there was no need to ramble. No need to circle the truth like a cautious vulture. He had saved Jasper. That was all that mattered. And if given the chance to do it all over again? He would. Without hesitation.

"And that is?" Death prompted, voice as dry as a desert. Oh no, she wasn’t letting him off the hook just yet. If he was going to commit a cosmic crime, then he was going to say it out loud. Confess. Like a child caught elbow deep in the cookie jar.

"Messing with the past. Though, honestly, how much damage could one less death really cause? It can't be that bad."

A hoarder, that's what Death was. A shameless, greedy hoarder who wanted every last living thing neatly filed away in her domain as soon as possible. As if, for once, she couldn't just look the other way. For Merlin’s sake, they'd all come to her eventually! All she had to do was sit back in that grand, ominous chair of hers and wait. But no, patience wore even thinner when vampires were involved. Those dazzling, marble skinned, blood eyed, fang flashing nuisances had already slipped through her fingers once. And oh, how that irked her. Such an inconvenience, having to keep their paperwork on standby for centuries, waiting for them to finally show up and claim their overdue demise.

"It is that bad!" Arms flailed dramatically, black robes billowing with the force of the movement. One more stomp and the impression of Draco Malfoy throwing a tantrum would be uncanny. Honestly, it wouldn’t be surprising if tips had been taken from their last encounter in the Malfoy gardens. Even the afterlife needed a touch of aristocratic flair, apparently. A quick peek had been all that was intended just a glance inside to satisfy curiosity before being promptly ejected for getting into yet another childish spat with Draco. Lord Malfoy’s attention, it seemed, was required elsewhere.

"It can't be that bad. Just a few papers, and in the meantime, I can keep an eye on him, hmm?"

Now, that would be the absolute best case scenario. Fingers itched to reach for those golden timepieces, ready to plunge once more into the endless currents of time. Precision would be key landing in the right moment, finding that elusive, blood drinking puzzle piece again. And then… well, then it would be a very long stay. As long as necessary. Immortals wouldn’t care about certain… peculiarities. There’d be no jealousy, no resentment, none of the usual mortal nonsense. Acceptance was more likely. Maybe even understanding. And while Death handled whatever chaos was currently brewing, an extended vacation among the beautiful, red eyed creatures sounded rather appealing.

"A few papers?! Does this look like a ‘few papers,’ darling?!" A sweeping gesture pointed at three precariously stacked piles on the desk, one of which teetered dangerously close to collapse. A mere poke would send the whole thing cascading down in a flurry of official forms. With a bit of effort, they could even be folded into paper airplanes for maximum disruption. If particularly reckless, an experiment could be conducted to see if spectral beings were solid enough to be impaled by a well aimed document. Best to shelve that idea for later.

Eyes widened in an exaggerated show of guilt or, at the very least, acknowledgment that perhaps, just perhaps, the situation wasn't ideal. Words were best chosen carefully now; one wrong step and all negotiation tactics would crumble. The goal? Keep talking. Keep evading. If there was a way to sweet talk out of this, it had to be found fast. Because, by the looks of it, the impending punishment involved paperwork. And if past experience was anything to go by, Death loved making tedious bureaucracy the consequence for particularly egregious offenses.

"You saved a vampire, for Merlin’s sake. And not just any vampire. This changes a lot of things. Do you even realize how many people will die because of him?"

And how many vampires, for that matter? Jasper Whitlock was a walking disaster, a ticking time bomb no matter where he landed. Whether leading newborns into battle or attempting to live peacefully, his presence alone sent death tolls skyrocketing. That clock was already ticking. And when it finally rang, Death’s desk would be drowning in an avalanche of new files.

Truly, what had been expected? That a certain someone would find a normal, boring partner and settle into an uneventful eternity? As if. Clearly, another overly optimistic dream had to be crushed before ridiculous notions like grandchildren started forming. So here it was another catastrophe, delivered right into Death’s already overburdened hands.

"And you want to tell me they wouldn’t have died anyway?"

"But because of someone else. Maybe even naturally, not halfway through or even at the very beginning of their pathetically short lives, only to be drained dry! That little lotus flower of yours won’t suddenly take a vow of abstinence and start fasting. For quite some time, people will still be sucked dry like strawberry Capri Suns. Millions of records will need correction. All of this" an exaggerated flourish toward the stacks of paper followed "will have to be rewritten! And until it's done, you’re not going anywhere!"

A final verdict, delivered with the dramatic weight of a divine decree. Perhaps a little harsh, yes, but keeping an eye on certain troublemakers while cleaning up their latest disaster had become standard protocol. Letting them roam freely would only guarantee another catastrophe before even the first one was resolved. That kind of cycle could continue indefinitely. And oh, the time issue there was that, too. If even Time had slammed a fist down over this, then the situation had truly escalated. The entanglements had already reached the point where even Fate, usually too busy playing celestial chess with mortal lives, had to put in some overtime. At the very least, expect some aggressive wrist cramps from all that rewriting.

Wide eyes blinked in genuine surprise. He was grounded? At nearly three centuries old? What had been done to deserve this? Well, Harry have some theories, but still.

"What do you mean I can’t leave?!"

Returning to a certain red eyed individual had been the plan immediately after this conversation. A quick chat, a little damage control, and then a swift exit. No lingering. No unnecessary arguments. But no, that clearly wasn’t on the table anymore. Not when the jailor in question had decided on a full blown containment strategy. And escaping without permission? Not happening. Not even with all the loopholes usually exploited.

"A time duality was created what exactly you expected to happen?"

A rhetorical question at best. The answer had already been made abundantly clear. Certain decisions, once made, came with consequences, and for this particular incident, the consequences were apparently a metaphorical ankle monitor and a mountain of paperwork.

A rare moment indeed, to hear Death herself swear. Usually the picture of composed professionalism, standing above it all unaffected, unbiased. Untouchable. Unless, of course, the existential stress of a cosmic workload decided to test the limits of her patience. In which case, things could escalate quickly. Bribes had worked before. Maybe another attempt was worth considering.

"This can’t possibly be worse than the time I saw myself at the lake, under a cloud of Dementors, back in third year."

Breaking the most sacred of time travel rules hadn’t exactly caused the universe to implode back then. No second heads had sprouted. No catastrophic paradoxes had formed. The timeline had chugged along just fine, business as usual. End of story.

"We’ve gone over this at least ten times. The penalty for that little stunt landed squarely on Dumbledore’s shoulders, considering he orchestrated the whole thing."

A fair point. And yet, the greatest wizard of the age had lived to a rather distinguished old age, with no grounding just a particularly nasty curse. And all of that, just for the brilliant idea of handing a Time Turner to a couple of teenagers and sending them off to prevent two executions in a single night. One Hippogriff. One escaped convict. And all of it carefully navigated between a gauntlet of bureaucrats, an executioner, a pompous Lord, cloaked soul suckers, a werewolf, and oh yes multiple versions of oneself. Truly an exciting evening. No interest in a repeat performance.

"Oh, do I get a lovely cursed ring surprise too?"

"Harry, be reasonable. That ring was planted there by Fate. Not that it would have done anything to you, considering our shared magic."

Ah, Fate. Who else would have given Riddle the brilliant idea of stashing a Horcrux in the crumbling remains of the Gaunt shack, the most painfully obvious location imaginable? Wouldn’t be shocking if half of the Dark Lord’s crimes had some meddling fingerprints all over them. How many had been carefully nudged into place by Dumbledore? How many were simply the result of Tom’s own choices? A different childhood, a shred of love, even a remotely stable environment would the outcome have changed? Impossible to know. But every tangled web always seemed to lead back to the same place.

The Chosen One. The Boy of Prophecy. The One Who Lived. The One Who Won.

The privilege of dying a permanent death? Long gone. Pain? Also a relic of the past. At this point, personal magic had become so intertwined with Death’s own that the two were almost indistinguishable. And after all those years of sacrifice, the nerve to question sanity now? The very concept had probably never been part of the vocabulary to begin with. If there had ever been a moment to evaluate the loss of rational thought, it should have started somewhere in childhood. Perhaps around the time sleeping arrangements were in a cupboard under the stairs. Or when food portions had been so minuscule that survival itself had been a small miracle. Or when tiny shoulders had been burdened with endless household chores, day after day. No one had questioned it back then. No one had asked why their hero had been half a head shorter than his peers, drowning in oversized, secondhand rags.

But now now sanity was a topic of discussion? Oh, the irony.

And if the blatant signs of neglect weren’t enough to raise an eyebrow, surely the enthusiasm for life threatening activities should have set off some alarm bells. Strolling into the forbidden corridor in first year, then waltzing straight to Fluffy’s den safety instincts had clearly taken a swan dive out of the nearest window, dragging common sense along for the ride. Who even needs them? Sure, there was some vague idea of how to lull a three headed hellhound to sleep, but let’s be honest certainty was nowhere in sight. Jumping into a patch of Devil’s Snare right after? That required an extra sprinkle of lunacy. The lethal chess game and high speed broomstick key chase barely ranked four out of ten on the personal adrenaline scale. As for the final room? A shaky seven, at best. Looking back, that first year was practically a leisurely stroll through a rose garden. Back then, a neat little physical immunity kept Voldemort at bay. Passing out for a bit didn’t seem like too steep a price to pay for turning the Dark Lord’s vessel into a pile of ashes and sending his ghostly remains packing.

Naturally, the grand finale led straight to the hospital wing, where Madame Pomfrey loomed with the wearied patience of a woman perpetually one step away from quitting. The Philosopher’s Stone a priceless artifact, courtesy of the Flamel and Peverell bloodlines got obliterated. Or so Dumbledore claimed, and everyone just went with it. Nobody thought to ask if the boy was alright. You know, emotionally. Psychologically. Forget therapy for killing a man at eleven who needs that? Never mind that the unfortunate soul was just a stuttering professor whose body had been hijacked by a parasitic dark wizard. The countdown was already ticking, the only thing keeping the poor man standing was an ill advised diet of unicorn blood. No big deal that Voldemort had been hollowing out his host’s magical core like a worm burrowing through an apple. The final touch, though? A casual brush of small, eleven year old fingers and the man incinerated on the spot, crumbling like dry twigs in a bonfire. A single crackle, and poof, gone. His collapse released the Dark Lord’s spectral remains back into the world, and just like that, the crisis was over.

No concerned adults knocking on the door afterward. No “Hey, Harry, how are you holding up?” Just a few extra points for Gryffindor, a celebratory feast, and then off to spend the summer in the ever loving arms of the Dursleys. Case closed. The wizarding world neatly swept the whole incident under the rug, because what happens in Hogwarts, stays in Hogwarts. Any juicy gossip among the students got squashed by Dumbledore’s theatrics before it could even gain traction. And as for those delightful relatives hardly the go to support system for a kid dealing with murder related trauma. But sure, let’s keep quiet about the nightmares and survivor’s guilt.

Time heals all wounds, they say. Too bad waiting around for it to do the job wasn’t an option. Second year arrived, galloping in on the hooves of fresh disaster before the dust had even settled from the last one. Fate, ever generous, decided the wounds from the previous year weren’t quite raw enough yet better add another layer of salt for good measure. And to ensure maximum suffering, Dumbledore went ahead and ordered it by the sackful.

The first taste of incoming chaos arrived early, courtesy of Diagon Alley and the latest walking catastrophe assigned to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Why Severus Snape still wanted that job was a mystery for the ages. Surely, by now, the man had noticed what happened to every single predecessor. Voldemort’s personal curse on the position had better consistency than the Ministry’s incompetence. So, watching the latest golden peacock get flung from his perch was bound to be a spectacle.

Too bad the spectacle had a habit of latching on like an overeager parasite. Lockhart, in all his glory, zeroed in with unsettling enthusiasm. Clearly, the man had detected potential. Not in a student teacher mentorship way no, no. This was prime leeching territory. A fresh new host. Just one story from the Boy Who Lived, and zap! a quick Obliviate, and suddenly, Lockhart would have another bestseller under his belt. Maybe even a starring role in the grand tale of Voldemort’s downfall. A critical player in the final battle, the secret hero who tipped the scales. Surely, a key figure in the Order’s strategy, or perhaps the very wizard who whisked the infant savior to safety. Oh, and why stop there? A conveniently placed suggestion here, a cleverly planted memory there before long, he’d have been the one casting the miraculous spell that rebounded the Killing Curse. And the best part? No one would question it. No one ever did. The backstage workings of his illustrious career remained carefully veiled because Lockhart always made sure of it.

And after Harry finally manage shake of that fame hungry Lockhart. Not that it was easy every shortcut, hidden passage, and secret corridor known had to be used. Even then, escaping unscathed was a minor miracle. But just when it seemed safe to breathe again, whispers began trailing through the halls. Whispers that, apparently, no one else could hear. Barely twelve, and already dealing with suspicions of insanity. Lovely.

The realization hadn’t yet hit that others would have perceived those same voices as nothing more than a sinister hissing. At that time, the line between Parseltongue and plain old English was still a bit… blurry.

And then there was the matter of being found at the scene of every single petrification. As if it were some sort of thrilling new hobby. A cat, a few unfortunate students, even Nearly Headless Nick. None were spared. And Filch? That man had been a mere breath away from lunging at the supposed culprit with the unhinged rage of someone whose only true love had been wronged. The only defense was to shrink into oneself and hope the storm passed. It didn’t. Convincing anyone of innocence seemed as likely as Snape spontaneously sprouting a sense of humor.

Speaking of which, those black, bottomless pits Snape called eyes had never looked more like the abyss. If that was his usual “investigative” expression, it was a wonder the rest of the Hogwarts staff could sit through meetings without fearing for their souls. Whether he used that same delightful gaze at Death Eater gatherings was a terrifying thought best left unexplored. Professor McGonagall wasn’t much better, the uncertainty in her face shining like fireflies on a midsummer night. So, eyes were a no go. Better to stare at the flooded floor instead. Let them keep their judgmental stares. There was a basilisk on the loose, and apparently, proving that whole "not a psychotic murderer" thing was once again a personal responsibility.

And what better way to do that than to drag along everyone's least favorite fraud? Mid packing, no less. The peacock in question had already been stuffing his trunk with signed portraits, awards, and a truly nauseating number of his own books. A real tragedy had there been just a bit less vanity involved, escape might have been possible before things got messy. But no. And heaven forbid any kind of basic magic be used to speed up the process. Not that anyone was about to give him pointers on how to do his job properly. Some incompetence, at least, worked in favor of the mission.

Ron, as expected, joined in with relative enthusiasm. Perhaps still traumatized from their earlier brush with a certain colony of oversized, man eating spiders. Lockhart, however, required a bit more persuasion. Shoving was involved.

Those tunnels stretched deep under the castle, answering a lot of questions about how an enormous death snake had been slithering around undetected. Yet, despite the unsettling surroundings, the only real thought was that this was now the third time certain destinies had intertwined. A cradle, a suspiciously remote chamber with a magical mirror, and now the personal lair of one of Hogwarts’ founding fathers. Romantic, in a truly horrifying way. The room had certainly seen better days—centuries of neglect had done it no favors, and even residual magic hadn’t kept the place from looking like a condemned basement.

Everyone knew how that little adventure ended. Basilisk, sword, hat, and of course a phoenix.

At this point, a personal "near-death bingo" card might be worth considering. Basilisk venom cured by phoenix tears? That had to be a record. At least… until next year.

No time to properly recover from that ordeal, either. A hundred points tossed to Gryffindor like some sort of prize for not dying, a celebratory feast, and then, just like that, booted straight back to the charming confines of Privet Drive. Oh, but now with the luxury of a full bedroom instead of a cupboard! Progress. Two months of uninterrupted solitude, left alone with nothing but increasingly bleak thoughts. No contact. No hint that the magical world still existed beyond those walls. Another little piece of sanity, quietly withering away.

And then came the hope. The belief that maybe, just maybe, this time things would be different.

Idiocy.

Anyone optimistic enough to think balance was a thing that all the suffering would surely be followed by something good was in dire need of a trip to St. Mungo’s. And in the spirit of generosity, the most direct route there would even be provided, free of charge. For their own good, of course. Perhaps with a whispered suggestion to the healers that the patient be locked up securely and never again released into society.

No, things were not about to get better. Quite the opposite. Correspondence? Still nonexistent. No explanation, no warning, just radio silence from those so called friends. Surely, after saving a certain youngest Weasley from an untimely demise, there would have been some acknowledgment. Maybe even gratitude. Nothing. Just a whole lot of awkward dodging and vague non answers. Then, the grand announcement. Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban. And not just for any reason no, the entire world seemed in agreement that the only thing on his mind was tracking down and murdering The Boy Who Lived. Charming news, truly. Of course, no one had thought to mention the slight detail that this particular escaped convict was also a godfather. The last remaining family member, apparently. A revelation that had to be stumbled upon personally. Because why provide crucial information when it could just be conveniently omitted?

So, another year, another existential crisis. No noseless overlord this time, at least. Instead, the joyful presence of Dementors. A real toss up on which horror was worse. If the Dark Lord and his masked cronies ever held a beauty pageant against those soul-sucking wraiths, it would be a tough competition. Naturally, Dumbledore, in all his wise and whimsical glory, delivered his grand speech, ever so graciously explaining why the school grounds were now infested with floating misery. A special little gift from the Ministry, just to ensure a maximum level of psychological distress. Having cloaked nightmares looming around the castle at all hours certainly didn’t help morale. The one saving grace of third year? Professor Lupin. The only decent Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher yet. Until, of course, the unfortunate monthly transformations kicked in, and suddenly he was much less of a friendly mentor and much more of a terrifying werewolf hellbent on ripping people to shreds.

Black had, on multiple occasions, managed to waltz right into the castle. If snacks from the kitchen had been on the agenda, he could have easily stopped by for a midnight feast whenever he pleased. So much for the “safest place in the world” claim Hogwarts loved to flaunt. If it were true, then security measures had the efficiency of a chocolate teapot. Lesson learned: never trust a place that can’t even keep a fugitive out of the dormitories.

And let’s not even get started on Trelawney’s weekly death predictions. That woman had some real creativity. Not once did she repeat the same scenario. Destiny itself could take notes. Or maybe there was actually some truth to the theory that seers absorb a bit of personality from the entity so fond of them. A lovely little preview of the kind of nonsense the future had in store for him. Immortality certainly wasn’t looking any better.

The main course that year? Saving one deranged godfather and a slightly more rational hippogriff. Death swore up and down that every punishment for creating yet another tiny but rather significant time anomaly landed squarely on Dumbledore’s shoulders. Doubts were strong. Something definitely got left behind in that little escapade. Any hopes of living with Sirius were brushed off the table like week old crumbs. Dumbledore wasted no time shipping him back to summer hell this time without the usual hundred point bribe. What was he supposed to do without that fake sense of accomplishment?

Fourth year was, in all its glory, a massive joke. The wider wizarding world couldn’t decide whether to love, hate, or pity him. The student body? No such struggle. That cursed Goblet of Fire certainly didn’t get a submission with his name, but no one seemed interested in minor details like facts. A fraud, a thief, a glory hog clearly, stealing Cedric’s place of attention was the real crime of the century. That year also marked the first significant instance of Weasley’s back turning tendencies. Seemed like a promising start to a great tradition. The Triwizard Tournament? An absolute death trap. Then again, what in this life wasn’t? If there was one thing that he mastered, it was adapting to lethal situations. Quickly. Efficiently. And, most importantly, surviving. Whether another piece of sanity got left behind in the dragon enclosure, at the bottom of the Black Lake, or squeezed out in the labyrinth’s mad dash hard to say. The stone statue that tried to strangle the life out of him in a creepy graveyard might have done the trick. Or maybe it was the bloodletting for Voldemort’s resurrection ritual.

The return trip to the stands? Made with a corpse in tow. A whole new collection of nightmare fuel sloshing around in an already overcrowded head. And still, that wasn’t the grand finale. No, the grand finale involved yet another admirer, one particularly unhinged Barty Crouch Jr. A delightful, twitchy, over eager little package, who abandoned all pretense of a disguise the moment the office door clicked shut. Paranoia? Severely underrated. Maybe it would have helped prepare for the fact that the supposed seasoned Auror and longtime friend of Dumbledore was actually another Death Eater. Once again, survival pulled through. But perhaps next time, a shopping trip to Diagon Alley for a few more luck tokens wouldn’t be the worst idea. All signs pointed to an immediate shortage.

Year five and a delightful battle with the Ministry of Magic left a few fresh scars, but none cut deeper than the loss of Sirius. Two years of having something vaguely resembling family, only to watch him vanish behind the veil of death in the Department of Mysteries. The pain? Comparable to having a limb torn straight from the body. Not even that was enough to warrant a real conversation from any adult.

Year six? Draco watching became an entertaining little distraction. Whatever Malfoy had going on, clearly spiraling out of control, was a welcome break from personal demons. Meanwhile, Slughorn was subjected to a series of interrogations regarding a rather significant detail: how many Horcruxes were floating around out there? A minor thing, really, considering they all needed to be destroyed before finishing off the snake faced menace for good. But plans? Rarely executed smoothly. The Horcrux hunt ended with Dumbledore’s corpse and the school firmly in the grip of evil’s inner circle. Whatever shreds of sanity remained were completely obliterated in the following months. A non stop scavenger hunt for bits of Voldemort’s soul, all while crammed in a tent with two people whose personalities were rapidly deteriorating under the weight of hunger and stress? The perfect recipe for mutual loathing. And the final nail in the coffin? The battle of Hogwarts.

So no, reason was long gone. Self preservation? Nonexistent. Any last traces of common sense? A distant memory. But denial? Denial was still alive and well. And that, dear world, was the plan: deny, deny, and deny some more. Right up until the bitter, inevitable end.

"I'm reasonable! The one who's completely unreasonable here is you! Why can’t I just go back to Jasper?! What’s next, banning love too? Is that something the so called Master of Death isn’t allowed to have?! Even the tiniest shred of happiness I managed to find in this insane world ripped away and locked behind doors I’ll never open?!" Tears were threatening to spill. Finally, after all this time, something had clicked into place. For a few precious minutes, the emptiness, the dull ache of existence, had stopped. Life, in all its fullness, had been within reach. And then, just as quickly, it was yanked away with all the finesse of a butcher hacking through bone. Worse still, there was no pretending it had never been there. No blissful ignorance. Just knowledge, sitting heavy and suffocating, making it all the more unbearable.

Was it really too much to ask? Buried memories started clawing their way to the surface, an unwanted parade of faces that would never be seen again. Those who had left. Those who had been taken from him because some divine bureaucrat decided that’s just how it is. And Jasper? Jasper had felt like a dream. Someone who stayed. Someone who understood what it meant to be kissed by death. An immortal, now lost in time. Which, frankly, was still a step up from dead. The only small mercy in this disaster. At least somewhere somewhen Jasper lived. Hopefully well. Hopefully happier than the mess left behind. If there was any justice, Peter was keeping an eye on things.

Death, ever the picture of disapproval, glared. Not that this situation was particularly enjoyable on her end either, but Fate had its rules. Oh, how delightful it would have been to simply hand her dear Harry everything on a silver platter and not have to witness this utterly pathetic display. But even this wretched game had its boundaries.

“You can’t go back until the two timelines are properly integrated.”

“What does that even mean?”

"It means you broke your own damn clock. Haven't bothered to check it yet, have you?"

And sure enough, the moment the golden chain was tugged free from beneath the tunic, there it was. A fractured mess of scorched metal and cracked glass.

“You short circuited it.”

“But I thought time turners couldn’t break.”

“Oh, they can. Just not easily. Turns out, they really don’t react well to paradoxes. Why do you think I warned you?”

"Right, but instead of the cryptic 'Ooooh, don’t mess with time, Harry,' maybe something useful like, 'Hey, idiot, if you screw around, your time travel engine’s going to explode' would’ve been helpful?"

"Yes, well. That would have been more helpful."

"It would have been. Any chance you’ve got a spare one lying around in some magical drawer?"

"Shockingly, no. That was the only one."

"Are you mad that I broke it?"

"Not in the slightest. Honestly, it was a ridiculous little toy. A practical joke played on Time and Fate."

"Great. Just great. Please tell me those two smug bastards are suffering more than the paper stacks in this room. I’d sleep better knowing they’re also miserable."

"Oh, I can assure you of that."

For a brief, glorious second, something dangerously close to glee sparked in green eyes only to be crushed immediately under the weight of reality.

"How long is this gonna take?"

"Some time."

"That is disgustingly vague, even for you."

"A few decades, give or take."

"Oh, fantastic. So just a casual lifespan of waiting."

"Repairing temporal threads isn’t exactly an afternoon project. Unlike some, I have a full time job. Can't just drop everything to stitch together your mess. Imagine the state of the world if I did."

"And if I help?"

Something flickered beneath the hood something that looked suspiciously like amusement.

"Oh, Harry, how generous of you to offer. Why don’t you start right here?" A graceful motion toward the nearest desk, a mountain of paperwork teetering ominously. "A few little anomalies to sort. Some unfortunate accidents to correct. Oh, and this this one’s my favorite. A lovely, comprehensive list of his meals." A long, almost fond look at the rather hefty pile. "Extensive, but I’m sure you understand. A vampire must eat. Though don’t worry, some exciting changes are coming to that routine soon."

The stack earned an immediate scowl. It had the distinct air of every tedious detention ever assigned except this time, the contents were actually interesting. Every name. Every cause of death. Every familiar signature stamped across the pages. Clues. Traces of a path left behind, breadcrumbs leading straight to him. And if this was the only way to follow? Then he will gladly start reading.

Chapter Text

He tried to stay calm. He really did! He had even used his mantra. At this point, he felt like a madman and a desperate fool all at once. This time of year, every year, at the same moment, controlling himself simply became harder. Fangs unintentionally grazed his lower lip, a low growl rumbled in his chest. His eyes darkened not just from hunger, though that was always there too. Every sudden movement, every unexpected sound, sent him straight into a defensive stance.

Even a blind man would notice that he was no human so school was entirely out of the question. It would be nothing more than another diploma on the wall hardly anything grand. His grades were good, a few days off were manageable. According to Carlisle, even necessary. And honestly? No one could blame him. Who would want to deal with the disaster of a small town high school genocide? His new family had grown accustomed to these periodic lapses in control. The reason behind them, however, remained unspoken. Not out of secrecy, but because finding the right words felt impossible. How does one even begin to describe that kind of emptiness? This wasn’t just the usual brooding, the kind that had been a constant companion in some form or another since the beginning. No, this was a much darker void, one with no bottom in sight. Scream into it, and the echo would still be ringing the next day. And a day stretched into a year. And staring into it for too long? A guaranteed way to get dragged down.

Instinct had long since wrestled control from reason. That part of him the primal one, the one that suffered in the absence of what mattered most demanded distance from anything warm, anything living. Especially humans. The entire perimeter of the Cullen residence had become a ghost town for wildlife. Deer, just like any decent predator, could sense when sticking around meant signing a death warrant. Usually, one or two unfortunate creatures were enough to break the spiral. This time? Not even an entire herd would suffice. Animal blood was a sad excuse for a remedy, a drop of water in an endless drought.

The line between control and catastrophe had never been thinner, and the risk extended beyond just one lone vampire’s misery. This wasn’t just a personal issue; it was a family liability. Exposure meant immediate evacuation, and the Cullens had, for some reason, grown attached to this place. Or, more accurately, to one particular brown haired girl. Even the thought of that sickly sweet scent was enough to make fists clench on instinct. As if resisting his own thirst wasn’t enough, there was also the added bonus of constantly feeling the hunger radiating off every other wampire in the house. Maintaining the slow, deliberate movements of humanity, something once perfected through relentless practice, had suddenly become impossible. One second, the room had been a few steps away; the next, it had been crossed without any recollection of movement. Where was this frantic energy trying to go? No idea. Every task, big or small, seemed utterly meaningless.

Physically, the room remained the same a perfectly arranged space, an expensive sofa under its unwilling occupant. Normally, details like the fabric’s texture or how much force to use when sitting mattered. Now, all of it blurred together. Even simple motor functions felt foreign, as if waking up in a new body and having to relearn how to use it. The back of a hand was scrutinized as if it held all the answers. Fingers twitched, heavy as if lead had settled into the joints. Frustration gnawed.

Technically, this was Forks. Technically, this was the Cullen house. Technically, this was "home." In reality? The mind had long since wandered elsewhere to places carved deep into memory, to moments too vivid to fade. Supernatural recall painted images with cruel clarity: green eyes, recognition, fear, tenderness. A hand reached out, expecting to feel cool skin, and grasped nothing but empty space. A bitter reminder of years stretching endlessly apart.

The house was silent, free from prying ears, making it safe enough to allow a few dry, hollow sobs to slip through. Even that felt inadequate against the crushing weight pressing down on the chest, as if an entire mountain range had settled there. Waiting was agony, and each day only stretched the distance further. And for what? A concept as insubstantial as time? It wasn't even real, not in a way that could be touched or reasoned with. And yet, it piled up, layer upon layer, forming an impenetrable barrier.

The so called "parents" were at work. That’s what they were called, anyway. The others even used the terms privately, without hesitation. That particular bridge, however, had never quite been crossed for him. When absolutely unavoidable, the names remained simply Carlisle and Esme. Not out of lack of affection there was respect, even something close to gratitude but the final step into full acceptance had always remained just out of reach. Rose and Emmett had disappeared, presumably to do what they did best. No points for guessing. Their enthusiastic displays of undying love were a constant presence, impossible to ignore. He was happy for them, sure, but it came with a bitter edge. Another reminder of something just out of grasp. Alice, ever the embodiment of relentless cheer, had seemingly taken the hint and vanished on a shopping spree of epic proportions. No doubt an intentional move to grant some much needed space. Not that it mattered. There was no outrunning the ghosts of the past. And this particular ghost? It refused to be ignored.

Luck was on his side Edward, the ever brooding, mind reading, self righteous brother, was once again preoccupied with Bella Swan. The human girl with dark hair and blood that smelled like the sweetest flowers on earth, laced with a hint of bitter chocolate and something even more tantalizing, yet impossible to categorize. The kind of scent that could drive any vampire mad with thirst. If Edward ever caught even a whiff of such thoughts describing his precious human’s maiden like a connoisseur reviewing fine wine there’d be an immediate attempt at ripping someone to pieces. Because as much as she was a walking temptation, she was also his mate, his fragile, breakable, one and only soulmate. How poetic. So, yes, some relief came with knowing Edward was across town. No annoying overprotective instincts suffocating the air, no accusatory glares, and most importantly, no one eavesdropping on the mess of thoughts running rampant. Whether the focus was on deep seated wounds or just a casual craving for human blood, it was finally possible to think in peace.

Privacy, however, was a laughable concept in this house. A single thought and it was as if projecting a feature length film straight into Edward’s mind. The insufferable golden boy didn’t just hear passing musings no, he had to take it a step further, tuning into subconscious fragments that weren’t even fully formed. Unspoken words, half buried memories, fleeting instincts nothing was safe. Over the years, techniques had been mastered to avoid exposure. It was rare to indulge in remembering those perfect green eyes while in Edward’s presence. Maybe a glimpse or two had slipped through, but so far, no comments had been made. Typical. He’d wait, biding his time until the perfect moment to make his life even more miserable.

Since that moment when their paths diverged, a thousand things had changed. And yet, the same routine remained. Every day began with the flickering embers of hope, only for it to burn out by nightfall, leaving nothing but the empty motions of another hunt. An endless cycle of rebuilding and collapse. Day after day, fighting against inner demons, doubts creeping in at every turn until the same words replayed, over and over. A promise had been made. A promise to find him. And so, Jasper waited.

The road to this point had been long.

He spent first few years with Peter and Charlotte, good years, years of healing, or at least trying to. Crawling out of the wreckage left by Maria’s twisted games, unraveling the habits burned into muscle memory, shaking off the remnants of a life built on blood and carnage. Those two had been the closest thing to understanding, to camaraderie. Not surprising, really, that Maria wasn’t eager to let go. A few stray assassins had been sent over the years, all of them with the same singular purpose: drag the runaway back. And then present them to Maria as an offering. As a new toy for a very aggressive cat. And as a team they managed to thwart all these attempts.

Then came Alice, a whirlwind wrapped in an impossibly small frame, bringing with her a vision of something better. She had seen him coming from miles away literally. Hardly shocking, considering the whole seeing the future thing. And honestly? The idea of someone knowing exactly when and where the elusive dark haired wizard would reappear was... compelling. If anyone could see through time and pinpoint a reunion, it would be her.

A beacon of relentless optimism, Alice had burst into the bleakness of existence like a goddamn supernova. And for reasons that still didn’t make sense, the idea of following her didn’t seem entirely ridiculous. A decision had been made farewells exchanged with Peter and Charlotte, a new path set in motion. Alice had spoken of a family, one she had seen in her visions. The unwavering certainty in her words was enough to make even the most skeptical mind pause. No hesitation. No doubt. Just belief. If she was so sure this was the right path, then maybe it was. Maybe this was where it would happen. Maybe this was the time.

The head of this newfound "family" was... impressive, in his own way. A carefully constructed illusion of normalcy, so finely woven it almost seemed real. Carlisle had somehow managed to push the limits of self control to the absolute extreme, creating the best approximation of a human life that the undead could ever achieve. It was almost absurd how far the experiment had gone.

Still, the passage of time had done its work. The crimson gaze of a newborn had long since faded into a deep golden hue. Would that change be enough to satisfy Harry? Hopefully. An excruciating amount of effort had been poured into it. Out of everyone, he struggle alway the greatest here. Unlike the others, there was no escaping the constant undercurrent of thirst not just personal, but the collective hunger of the entire family. The act had never been seamless, not with every muscle instinctively coiled to lunge the moment fresh blood hit the air. And yet, despite it all, the miracle had been pulled off: a degree in psychology, earned while sitting amongst fragile humans, pretending to be one of them. After that, the rest had simply followed. Diploma after diploma, each a marker of another grueling stretch of restraint. Each one proof of survival. Each one just another brick in the endless waiting game.

Somehow, against all odds, blending in had actually worked. Hard to believe, really. Alice’s visions were as fickle as the weather one moment clear as crystal, the next shifting like desert sands. But some? Some were set in stone. Like the one that had led straight to the Cullens. Every day, anticipation simmered beneath the surface, waiting for that moment when she would waltz in with that infuriatingly knowing grin and announce that Harry was on his way. Still waiting on that one.

Carlisle, the ever collected, ever pragmatic leader of their merry little band, would have made a hell of a negotiator in any army. Conflicts never even had a chance to spark before he smothered them with a well placed word. Conversations with him often brought an odd sense of calm, making the world seem deceptively simple. Hunting trips, though rare, had become more philosophical debates on the nature of existence rather than the savage displays of dominance expected from their kind.

Esme? If their chaotic found family had a heart, she was it. An endless well of patience and warmth, indulging every absurd whim with the unshakable tolerance of a parent who had long since accepted their children’s antics. Victories, whether academic or of the dietary variety, were met with the same beaming pride. One could set the house on fire and she’d probably still manage to find something encouraging to say.

Edward, now there was an enigma. Eternally seventeen, weighed down by a gift as incredible as it was intrusive. Subtlety? Not exactly a strong suit. Then again, personal experience had proven just how impossible it was to fully control an ability that ran as naturally as breathing. No more could the mind reader shut off his unwanted insight than an empath could stop feeling every damn thing around him. Didn’t make it any less irritating when Edward poked around in thoughts that had no business being shared, much less dissected in front of an audience.

At least there was some satisfaction to be found in sparring. The cocky little mind reader walked into training sessions with a confidence that got promptly stomped into the dirt. Whatever smug certainty existed got tossed straight out the window the second a major’s battlefield instincts took over. No thinking, no hesitation just the body moving in precise, well known motions, honed through decades of combat. And that was exactly where dear Edward lost every time. Fighting Emmett, on the other hand, was pure, undiluted entertainment. The walking mountain of muscle charged in like a kid let loose in a candy store, all enthusiasm and zero strategy. Maybe, if that massive brain of his engaged before the fists started swinging, he’d actually stand a chance of winning. But alas, victories were scarce. At least he had arm wrestling and Mario Kart to cling to.

For all the acceptance received here, something still gnawed at the edges. An emptiness that refused to be ignored. That wait? It was almost over. Not far from this world, somewhere between space and time, a final conversation unfolded a parting of ways between an entity and its rather impatient master. Harry Potter had spent the last few years as an insufferable ball of restless energy, demanding answers at every turn. Death, on the other hand, had all the time in existence to carefully weigh its next move.

The clock was ticking. Not for her, of course, but for that chaotic little menace. Sooner or later, he’d burst out into the world again, completely derailing all of Fate’s painstakingly arranged plans. Because that’s what he did. Set one foot outside, and the laws of reality twisted into pretzels just to accommodate whatever nonsense he got himself into. There were options. Many, many options to delay, distract, or detour the inevitable. But avoiding it entirely? Impossible. Bony fingers tapped together in thought, skeletal thumbs circling one another in contemplation. From beneath the depths of her hood, a silent stare followed her master’s endless pacing.

A few carefully placed half truths might do the trick so long as he didn’t outright ask if he was being lied to. A small deception or two could slip past without notice. Dropping him on the other side of the world was another idea. A grand game of cosmic hide and seek with a certain blond vampire, with Fate still owing a favor or two. That could buy a few extra decades of peace. But the real solution? A different world entirely. A separate dimension, eerily similar yet missing a particular bloodsucker. Given enough time, the young master would surely find some semblance of peace. By the time he realized the betrayal, he might even forgive it.

Thumbs circled again.

Would he be angry?

The whole idea of explaining why she fear letting him go was a bad idea. Long since abandoned. Too stubborn for his own good. The only thing that would accomplish was setting Armageddon loose ahead of schedule. And really, who needed that level of chaos any earlier than absolutely necessary?

Of course, there was always the simplest solution just kill Jasper Whitlock. A single flick of a finger. One tiny command, and his soul would be right where it belonged.

So many ways to make it happen.

An enemy coven.

Newborns perhaps an entire army.

Maria and her assassins.

The Volturi.

Nomads.

Exposure of the supernatural world to those blissfully ignorant humans.

Hunters.

Or, the ever reliable "tragic accident" that one would take a little more effort, considering how resilient the man was, but nothing impossible. Just a little extra pressure, and that oh so sturdy soul casing would crack right open.

Gaze flicked back to Harry. Could it really be done? Of course. The better question was it possible to go through with it? And that... well, that was a far trickier answer.

Something twisted unpleasantly in the hollow cavity of a ribcage that hadn’t held a beating heart in longer than any living memory. If it were still there, no doubt, it would ache. Did another round of watching that infuriatingly reckless idiot’s face contort in agony sound appealing? Absolutely not. And therein lay the problem. Once again, skeletal thumbs circled each other.

For all the entities involved, this was just Russian roulette on a cosmic scale. A mad gamble, the equivalent of mixing highly reactive chemicals and shoving a face up against the test tube to see what would happen. A rapid fire slideshow of catastrophic possibilities flickered through every thought process.

Knuckles scraped together, an unconscious show of tension.

Years of painstaking work, guiding Harry toward some semblance of patience with the fragile nature of the world, all reduced to dust. Every ounce of careful effort wasted. And the worst part? Time and Fate had been right. The damn vampire changed everything. The entire playing field had shifted. Only two real choices existed now. Lock the walking disaster away in yet another world, sealed tight like a particularly unruly creature in a glass jar. Or set him loose and pray daily that Luck had mercy on them all. The third option? That one was simply unacceptable.

Harry, completely unaware of the existential crisis happening across from him, glanced up from his pile of documents. That devious, charming little menace had actually been behaving himself since the last great fiasco. Helping with everything. If that damn hat had any backbone, it would’ve thrown him into Slytherin where he so obviously belonged. Would’ve made so much more sense.

“How’s it looking? Is it time?”

A silent grimace twisted beneath the hood. Of course, it was time. Had been for a while now. The metaphorical doors could open at any moment, letting loose the walking catastrophe upon the unsuspecting world.

“Maybe.”

“Mm-mm, that’s not an answer.”

“Maybe,” followed by yet another loop of circling thumbs.

Meanwhile, the last stack of papers got neatly squared away before a sharp, knowing look was sent her way. Too perceptive for his own damn good. Head tilted slightly, no doubt already trying to pick apart whatever was keeping the delay in place.

“Everything is set up exactly as we agreed. It’s time to head out.”

Of course, everything was ready. No point pretending otherwise. Not a fool, despite all evidence to the contrary. The worst part? That insufferable confidence.

“And once the portal pathways are reopened, you know I can visit anytime. It’s not like I’m leaving forever.” That damn smile—soft, reassuring, the kind of thing that shouldn’t belong to someone with a resume full of world altering catastrophes. A sharp movement entire head turned this time, rather than just a glance. For once, hands separated. One tapped steadily against the armrest, the other propped up a bony chin. The soul processing alert was flashing angrily on the massive desk, demanding attention. Too bad. That unfortunate soul would just have to wait. There were bigger priorities like a certain reckless idiot making a grand escape.

“Knowing you can come back isn’t the problem. The real question will you?”

For once, the question seemed to catch him off guard.

“What? Of course, I’ll visit! What kind of person do you take me for?”

Ah, and there it was. A ruffled Harry Potter. Never a good omen. Rather than answer, the words were swallowed like a particularly bitter dose of medicine. No point pushing the issue.

“Fine. I’ll be expecting you, then.”

“Perfect! Now that we’ve sorted out visitation hours…”

A hand stretched out, expectant. Eyes practically glowed with that unnatural green vibrancy, a telltale sign of barely contained excitement. Deja vu. This scene had happened before, hadn’t it? Not the details, but the feeling. The certainty that something about this moment had played out once before, locked away in the depths of time. The specifics, however, remained elusive. Maybe just maybe this particular risk was worth it. For the sake of those shining eyes. For that happiness.

The drawer was opened without hesitation. The path to this particular object had been memorized long ago. A heartbeat in the room that didn’t belong to any living creature pulsed softly, magic coiling in anticipation. A watch. Small, gold, crafted by a master’s hands. The hands of time lay still, waiting for a command. Just a twist of the crown, and they would move once more. The artifact was offered with a skeletal grip still firmly in place, neither the object nor its recipient quite released from that hold. That grin widened practically splitting a face in two as fingers curled around the familiar weight. The moment that had been long awaited. No lectures this time. No warnings. What would be the point? Promises were fragile things, ones that could never truly be kept. This would happen again of that, there was no doubt. The only real question was when.

“I’ll try not to cause... too much trouble.”

“Don’t make promises you have no intention of keeping.”

“I’ll try.”

"And I’ll be watching."

"You do know you can visit me too, right?"

A curious tilt of the head followed.

"No, no, that’s not what I meant. A friendly visit... just because."

"Just because."

"Yes, just because."

"Harry, you are well aware that I cannot simply wander around the world."

"Just for a moment."

"Even a moment is a long time." A pointed glance at the flashing control light emphasized the statement.

"Then I’ll be the one stopping by. Just because."

"That would be nice. Try to manage it before your own catastrophes outrun you."

"I’ll try. So, see you later?"

"Goodbye, Harry." A quick, playful ruffle of his already chaotic hair, while a small golden artifact was pressed into eager hands. And now, even for her who had long since abandoned the concept of time, the minutes seemed to stretch with a new kind of weight. Would it be before or after the chaos Fate had once again meticulously scripted? Maybe it was for the best that return trips to the In-Between were temporarily off-limits for Harry. The brown-haired scribbler of destiny might not survive the encounter. Not suffocation by pillow too cliché. No, something more poetic. Page by page, note by note, each prophecy laced entry ripped, crumpled, and unceremoniously stuffed down that smug throat. A tempting idea, one that had crossed her mind more than once too. Yes, better this way. After all, it always took all three to prevent the universe from collapsing in on itself.

A certain fondness lingered in the gaze that followed the departing figure, swallowed by the swirling black vortex of the portal.

On the other side, reality reasserted itself with all the grace of a catapult misfire. The portal spit its latest traveler out unceremoniously into Washington, just outside a modern villa on the outskirts of a little town called Forks. Naturally, because no grand entrance would be complete without an unnecessary amount of flailing, the first step landed squarely on a treacherous tree root, nearly ensuring a grand face first reunion with the forest floor.

But none of that mattered. he was finally there.

A vampire bolted from the house, instincts razor sharp, drawn to a heartbeat that had no business being here but was, impossibly, unmistakably, here. A heartbeat known as intimately as the rhythm of a long lost melody, one buried in decades of memory but never truly forgotten. The entire scene reeked of an illusion, a cruel dream, the kind designed to shatter the moment reality was acknowledged. Except this time, reality didn’t wake up.

Neither would ever be able to say who moved first, not that it mattered. In the space of a single breath, the distance between them vanished, arms locking in an embrace tight enough to make breathing an afterthought. Seconds dissolved. Hours, days, years none of it held any relevance anymore. The waiting was over.

~On one of the rare sunny days in Forks, you will be very happy, Jasper.~ Alice had said it that morning, her voice laced with knowing amusement. But at the time, sunlight had felt like a trivial thing. The real radiance was right here, held in an iron grip, pressed against a heart that no longer beat yet still managed to ache with the force of emotions long thought impossible. The golden rays of light danced across pale skin, but the glow belonged to something else entirely. Happiness, sheer and undiluted, radiated in waves, indistinguishable from the supernatural energy woven into every cell.

Words? Unnecessary. Nothing mattered beyond existing in this moment, wrapped in the presence of the one who made everything else fade into irrelevance. A desert wanderer, reunited with an oasis.

And for the first time in over a decade, the wampire beast within closed both eyes. The ever present hunger, that gnawing, insatiable thirst it faded into silence. It could sleep now, undisturbed, for as long as needed.

As long as his presence remained.

From the doorway, curious faces gathered, though one stood out among them Alice, laughing, pure delight threading through every note of sound. At last, the family was gaining a new member, though really, the truth was far simpler.

With master of Death itself standing in their midst, what could the future possibly hold worth fearing? Even Edward had to realize in that moment that his brother's other half would sooner tear worlds apart than be separated from him again. And anyone crazy enough to try could certainly give it a shot.