Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Deathly Hallows had long since become a part of him—not symbols, not artefacts, but extensions of his very soul. The day Harry Potter met Death, he became its Master. The black geometric mark of the Hallows was no longer legend or lore; it was seared into the centre of his chest like a crown of quiet agony—a gift, perhaps, from Death itself.

A beautiful curse.

Nobody had warned him. Not Dumbledore, not the books, not the whispers of myth. No one had ever claimed the title before him—so how could anyone know what came after?

Power, yes. Immortality, unasked for. Eyes that could see names and lifespans above every head. Strength beyond mortal ken. But also loneliness sharp enough to carve bone, and time enough to feel every second of it.

And worst of all — no more goodbyes.

He had once hoped to die properly. To be welcomed by his family with open arms and move on to the next great adventure. But Death had other plans.

“You’ll never be alone again,” it had said with gentle malice, eyes gleaming like distant stars.

He had tried everything to leave. He faced dragons. Killed and was killed. Avenged his parents. Saved the world.

Still here.

He had been tired then—he was exhausted now.

Centuries had passed—or perhaps only decades. Time no longer bent to the same rules. The sun still rose, but Harry had long stopped chasing dawns. The wizarding world evolved without him. Statues were erected, textbooks rewritten, but the boy they once loved as a saviour was now a myth. A ghost in worn robes who never aged.

He let them forget him.

It was better that way.

He wandered—through battlefields, through burning cities, through temples and tombs. Sometimes he healed. Sometimes he destroyed. He learned a hundred languages, performed ancient rites, walked barefoot across entire continents. No matter how far he went, Death walked beside him—silent, constant, watching.

And yet… not all threads of destiny had been severed.

It began, as most things did, with a name.

Phineas Nigellus Black.

The former Hogwarts Headmaster—pompous, pure-blooded, unpleasant. And unexpectedly, a man who had written letters. Dozens of them. Hidden in a charmed Black family grimoire, buried behind a false wall in Grimmauld Place. Letters not to his children, but to those exiled across the Atlantic. Squibs. Outcasts. Hidden branches of the Black family tree, cast away like shameful secrets.

Harry found them by accident—or perhaps guided by something older than fate.

He had read them all in a single sitting.

Words scrawled in heavy script, full of guilt, pride, warnings, and arcane wisdom. Phineas hadn’t disowned them. He had feared for them. He had protected them, in the only way he knew.

Silence and distance.

There were names. Places. Blood rituals. A hidden pact made in desperation with American wandless covens. And one phrase repeated in every letter:

Protect the Line. The Black Flame must not die.

And Harry, with centuries of loss behind him and a hollow space where purpose used to live, felt something stir.

Hope.

A New Purpose.

He became Dr Hadrian Black, a world-renowned magical scholar and healer. One of his many aliases—but this one felt different. This one felt… ancestral. Rooted. He let the Black blood in his veins shape his tongue, his posture, his magic. He wasn’t hiding—he was claiming something that had always been his.

The trail led to America—not the glittering skyscrapers of modern cities, but the backroads. The haunted forests. The forgotten settlements where magic crackled in the bones of the land. Here, squibs weren’t helpless. They were something else. Gifted in ways British magic never understood.

He found whispers first.

A boy who spoke to fire. A woman who wept salt and stars. A man who vanished from mirrors and never returned.

They were descendants. Unaware. Untrained. But unmistakably magic.

And for the first time in centuries… he hesitated.

How do you approach those who do not know they’re kin?

How do you tell them you’re their legacy’s ghost?

1936, Olympic Peninsula, Washington, United States

When Harry arrived, he landed on solid ground, wand in hand, instincts sharp. A quick Tempus charm floated before him in curling silver script—1936.

The date didn’t startle him. After all, time meant very little to one who had long since stopped aging.

What did surprise him was his location—the Pacific Northwest. The air was damp and laced with pine, thick with ancient magic that tugged faintly at his senses. He was already in America. Convenient.

He didn’t bother wasting time with shock or disorientation. Instead, he cast a Muggle-repelling charm and set off toward his real objective: the Quileute tribe.

He had a theory—an old one, half-formed and long buried—that squib descendants of the ancient Black family had been cast out, shamed and exiled generations ago. Some fled to the colonies. Some to America. Their blood had diluted, yes, but not disappeared.

And here, nestled in a reservation near a sleepy town called Forks, Harry felt it: a dormant thread of old magic curled through the tribe’s collective aura like veins of gold beneath the earth. Faint, but real. Family. Even after all this time.

As Lord Black, he recognised it instantly.

He stood quietly at the forest’s edge, about to Disapparate, when he felt a flicker—a sudden sharp presence brushing against the wards he’d woven. Someone was watching him.

Harry swore under his breath. He’d forgotten the Notice-Me-Not charm.

Naturally, that’s when five very curious, very undead individuals arrived.

They were pale, beautiful, and unnaturally still. And most definitely not Muggles.

Harry didn’t flinch. He took them in with a trained eye—one older male, blond and distinguished; a motherly woman beside him; a pair of striking young adults (a burly man and a glamorous blonde); and a boy with haunted eyes and a head full of bronze hair. Vampires.

Muggle vampires, if he wasn’t mistaken.

They stared at him—not like he was prey, but like he was a puzzle.

“He’s not a shifter,” the brawny one muttered, frowning. “Doesn’t smell like food either.”

“Something’s off,” said the youngest-looking, Edward. “Carlisle… I can’t hear him. Not a single thought.”

That earned a ripple of tension through the group. Carlisle, clearly the patriarch, stepped forward slowly.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Edward’s never had that happen before. Your mind… it’s shielded?”

Harry smirked. “You could say that.”

Thank you, he added silently to Death, who pulsed with smug satisfaction in the back of his mind. Occlumency, after all, was child’s play compared to divine shielding.

“What are you?” asked Rosalie, sharp and curious.

Harry cleared his throat, putting on his most winning smile. “Ah… where are my manners? Dr. Hadrian Black. Please, call me Hadrian. I’m a wizard. From Britain.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“…Right,” Edward said dryly.

“I’m on vacation,” Harry added helpfully. “Not looking for trouble. Vampire or otherwise.”

He realised too late what he’d just said.

Carlisle’s brow arched. “You know what we are?”

Harry winced. Death chuckled inside his mind like a misbehaving uncle. Subtle, Potter.

“Yes, I… might have guessed,” Harry said sheepishly.

“Well, that’s new,” Emmett boomed, grinning. “We don’t usually get cheerful wizard tourists around here.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Harry said, raising his wand. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

Emmett lifted off the ground like a dirigible, limbs flailing with uncontained glee. “Look, Rosie! I’m airborne—like Lindbergh himself!”

The rest of the Cullens burst into laughter. Even Edward allowed himself a rare smile.

Then Harry let him go—sending Emmett tumbling face-first into the earth.

“Ugh—! That was dashed unkind,” Emmett muttered, brushing the dust from his trousers. Then he grinned. “But what a lark! Shake on it, old chap!”

Harry obliged with a chuckle and conjured a rose, floating it toward Emmett with a wink toward Rosalie. Emmett caught the hint and offered it to her sheepishly.

“My monkey man,” Rosalie murmured fondly before giving him a quick kiss, surprising everyone—including Harry, who nodded approvingly.

The tension dissolved.

Introductions followed. Carlisle—a physician, like Harry’s cover identity—introduced his wife Esme and their adoptive children. There were questions, cautious but friendly. Harry told them just enough: a travelling neurosurgeon, a British wizard on sabbatical, far older than he appeared thanks to magic. He omitted the whole Master of Death bit, naturally.

Some truths were best kept buried.

“You should avoid Volterra,” Carlisle warned seriously once they’d warmed up to each other. “The Volturi rule our kind. They wouldn’t understand you. They’d try to control you. Or worse, conscript you.”

Harry nodded gravely. Even Death seemed displeased by the name—a dark chill curled at the edge of Harry’s senses like a warning.

Duly noted.

He had lived life as a man unburdened by war—visited bustling cities, learnt languages, practised medicine in places that needed it most. He saved lives, taught young healers, and left before anyone could question his unchanging face. He would stay far from Volterra.

He would avoid the Volturi like a curse.

Death would stay silent but present—not a shadow, but a companion. A father. A guardian.

That’s right, my Master, came the pleased whisper in his mind.

Harry smiled softly.

There was still much to do. But for now, he would live.

Later, as he wandered through the woods alone, Harry felt a rare lightness in his chest. For the first time in centuries, he’d laughed. Connected. He would make new memories that didn’t involve war or death or obligation.

The trees breathed around him.

Hadrian Black knelt on the moss-covered earth, his palm pressed to the ground. The soil was damp with rain, rich with life, and laced with something older — something buried deep in its marrow. Magic. Wild, ancestral, untamed. It pulsed up through his skin like a heartbeat, resonating with something within him.

He was in La Push.

The Tempus charm had said 1936. America. His theory, absurd though it once seemed, was proving correct. The diluted blood of the Black family—exiled squibs, shunned by pureblood England—had found its way to the colonies. And here, nestled in the mist and pines of the Olympic Peninsula, it had not vanished.

It had evolved.

The forest was alive with whispers—not just of wind through pine, but of something older, deeper. Hadrian Black, known in another life as Harry Potter, the damp earth beneath his boots grounding him in this unfamiliar yet oddly comforting place. The magic here was ancient, woven into the land and its people, resonating with the dormant power that thrummed beneath his skin.

He stood at the border of the Quileute territory, drawn by the threads of a theory long held: that squib descendants of the Black family had found refuge here, their diluted bloodlines mingling with the Quileute tribe. The magic was faint but unmistakable—a familial echo that called to him. As he ventured deeper into the woods, the air shifted, charged with a tension that prickled at his senses. He wasn’t alone. He breathes deeply, scenting salt, cedar, and smoke.

Then the unmistakable sound of snapping twigs.

“You’re not from these parts,” a voice calls out. It’s deep, measured—curious but cautious.

Harry doesn’t flinch. He slowly turns to see three men stepping into view. Broad-shouldered, earth-toned skin, braids tied back with leather. Each carries the weight of leadership in their eyes, and one—the tallest with proud posture and ancient magic curled around him like a mantle—steps forward.

“You smell like family,” The leader says. “Name yourself.”

Harry inclines his head. “Hadrian Black. Or Harry, if you’d like. I’m looking for someone,”

The leader eyes him warily. “You must be the one the winds warned us of, people don’t just crossed the old lines without triggering an alert. Either you’re reckless… or kin.”

Harry doesn’t break the gaze.

“Perhaps both. You have magic in your blood,” Harry said gently. “Old magic. Your ancestors may have left the Isles, but they carried the fire with them. It didn’t go out.”

“…”

“I was invited,” Harry said easily. “Though the invitation was… a bit ancient.”

The tension hangs a moment longer before the older man steps closer and offers his hand.

“Ephraim Black. These are Levi Uley and Quil Ateara. We don’t make it a habit to welcome strangers, but… we feel like we already know you. You carry the old weight. Like thunder in the bones.”

Harry clasps Ephraim’s hand, magic sparking briefly between their palms.

“Been told worse,” he replies with a crooked smile.

The others murmur to each other in Quileute.

Ephraim motions for Harry to follow. “Come. Let’s talk where the fire burns warm.”

Quileute Reservation, La Push, Washington

Inside the longhouse, smoke spirals lazily from a central hearth. Children’s laughter echoes faintly in the distance as women tend to fish and venison outside. The chief and his elders seat themselves cross-legged on woven mats, and Harry mirrors them, wand stashed safely in his boot.

“You have an old soul. I see you don’t age like a man ought to,” Levi observes. “You’ve seen wars.”

“More than I care to recall,” Harry admits. “I came because I’ve reason to believe our blood once ran together. The Blacks… not just here, but in Britain, too.”

Ephraim raises a brow. “We know the old stories. A son cast out across the sea. A firewalker, touched by wolf and storm.”

“I don’t know if I’m him,” Harry says. “But I feel the pull of this land like it’s written in my marrow.”

Quil rubs his chin. “Could be you were meant to come. We’ve had signs—strange dreams, birds flying backward, even the wind speakin’ nonsense.”

Ephraim leans forward. “You came looking for answers. You’ll find ‘em here—but mark me, we are not without enemies.”

Levi nods. “The Cold Ones.”

“Aye.” Quil spits into the fire. “These pale devils with red eyes had no heartbeat and their scent burnt our noses—Cold and cruelly sweet. We shift into wolves to protect our people from these human blood drinkers. One lot keeps to a treaty, strange as that sounds. They have yellow eyes and drink from animals. Name of Cullen.”

Harry files that away with a knowing smile disguised as a frown. “I’ve met them. They’re… tolerable.”

“They keep the line,” Ephraim says. “So long as they do, we do not act. But should that change…”

He lets the warning hang in the air like smoke.

Three years later

Weeks pass. Then months. Then years.

For years, Harry lived among the Quileutes. He taught what he could: protective charms carved into totems, wards weaved into the forests, dreamcatchers enchanted to anchor prophetic dreams.

He played with the children, sang with the elders, and hunted with the wolves.

To everyone’s surprise, Harry could shift too. Not into a wolf, no. Death had marked him long ago, and Death was a creature of many faces. When Harry turned, he sported bat-like wings and had a skeletal horse body. A Thestral — black as shadow, eyes green as flame.

The elders didn’t speak of it. They simply watched. And whispered. The children adore Harry, calling him Ts’its’a-ts’h, the One with the Silent Step.

He shared everything—except his past.

Ephraim asked, once. Just once, “Who are you really?”

Harry looked at him for a long moment, then said, “I’m the last breath of a dying war. A mistake Death kept alive. A boy who was meant to die but didn’t.”

Ephraim just nodded. He never asked again.

Harry grows close to the tribe. Harry the Thestral would be seen running in the forest with Ephraim, Levi and Quil as wolves, fur dark and thick, howls of laughter often heard echoing through the woods of La Push.

But time, always cruel, marches forward.

He knew it was time.

One evening, Ephraim and Harry both sat at the cliff’s edge overlooking the restless ocean, their legs dangling over the surf below.

“You’ll leave soon,” Ephraim says.

Harry doesn’t deny it. “The world’s not done with me yet.”

“You’ve left a mark, Hadrian Black. On our people. My grandson will know your name one day, though I will not live to see it.”

Harry looks over, gaze solemn. “When that time comes, tell him… tell him to keep the flame alive.”

“You’ll come back. You’re family now,” Ephraim says. “Whatever you are, wherever you came from, you’ve proven it with your heart.”

“I’ll return,” Harry promises.

Ephraim turned to him, “The pack will remember your promise.”

He clasps forearms with Ephraim, then Levi, then Quil. They each place a black feather at his belt—tokens of brotherhood.

“You’ll keep me a secret?”

They nod, understanding more than words convey. Ephraim smiled sadly. “Always.”

Harry pulled a small obsidian medallion from his coat, engraved with the Black family crest. He pressed it into Ephraim’s palm.

“If ever the darkness rises too far,” he whispered, “this will call me home.”

They embraced like brothers. Like wolves. Like kindred souls torn by time.

That night, Harry stands again at the edge of the forest. The pines sway above him, wind catching the feather talismans tied to his belt. He takes one last look back.

Children chase fireflies near the lodge. Elders tend the smokehouse. Ephraim stands at the fire, arms crossed, watching Harry silently.

Harry lifts a hand in farewell.

Then he Disapparates with a whisper of air and a fading shimmer of silver.

And just like that, the flame disappears into the night—leaving only legend behind.

Chapter Text

Year 2003 – Tokyo, Japan

It was during one of his quieter years that he drifted into Japan, choosing to work at a prestigious hospital under a pseudonym as he continued his never-ending masquerade as a prodigious healer. It was there, beneath the sterile lights and endless procedures, that he noticed the presence of beings no ordinary human could see—Shinigami. Reapers of death. Servants of Death.

They were grotesque, otherworldly things—leathery wings, skeletal grins, and eyes that gleamed with something far older than malice. But Harry, Master of Death, saw them clearly. He had no need to touch a Death Note to perceive them. The rules didn’t bind him. Not when he was the one they ultimately served.

He had sensed the disruption the moment Ryuk, a rogue Shinigami with an irreverent grin and insatiable taste for apples, dropped his spare Death Note into the human world. The ripples it sent through the balance of life and death were unmistakable. Harry watched silently as a boy named Light Yagami took up the cursed object and began playing god.

Of course, the Volturi noticed the spike in death rates. They were drawn to patterns, to chaos, to talent. And though Harry had managed to evade them for decades, he knew this performance in Japan would light a beacon too bright to ignore. As usual, he moved on before they could close in. But even so, the whispers remained—about a mysterious young neurosurgeon named Dr Hadrian Black, a man who performed miracles but could never be photographed, whose features seemed to slip away from memory. Magic, of course. Subtle charms. But also intentional.

They had no idea what walked among them.

And Ryuk? Ryuk was fascinating. The other Shinigami were shadows—dull, predictable, obedient. But not Ryuk. There was something… different. The anarchic spark in him reminded Harry of someone he’d once loved dearly.

Dobby.

Yes, that was it. That same rebellion, that yearning to be more than what he was told to be. Even Ryuk’s fashion sense—tattered black leathers and spiked accessories—seemed hilariously adjacent to Death’s own dramatic flair. It endeared him to Harry more than he expected.

The day Ryuk noticed Harry was almost comical.

The Shinigami had just caught another apple Light tossed him when his golden eyes locked onto Harry standing beneath the sakura tree across the alley. The apple dropped. Ryuk gagged violently, clutching his throat and wheezing, his skeletal fingers scraping at his neck.

Harry, amused, strolled over casually.

“Choking, are we?” he said with a grin, thumping Ryuk between the wings. The poor creature squirmed under the touch like a misbehaving child.

“There, there. All better.”

Ryuk gasped out the half-eaten apple and slumped forward with a groan.

“Fancy meeting you here, Ryuk,” Harry said cheerfully, fingers curling into the dark feathers at Ryuk’s nape, just in case the Shinigami decided to flee. “So, tell me… what brings you out of the realm of the dead?”

Ryuk didn’t try to escape. Instead, he collapsed to his knees, clutching Harry’s boots as if Death himself had come to collect him.

“M-Master,” he mumbled. “I was… bored. That’s all.”

“Ahh…” Harry nodded sagely, smoothing the Shinigami’s ruffled feathers. “Understandable.”

And because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on Ryuk’s bony forehead.

The Shinigami’s eyes bulged again, and he made a weird hiccuping noise.

“Good boy,” Harry murmured, conjuring a small black studded pouch and looping it onto Ryuk’s belt. “For you. Bottomless apple pouch. Enjoy.”

Ryuk fumbled with it, hands trembling.

“Think of an apple,” Harry encouraged with a teasing wink.

Ryuk did. With a soft pop, a plump red Fuji apple materialised in his hands. He stared at it in reverence before offering it to Harry with trembling fingers.

Harry accepted it, smiling fondly.

“Thank you, Ryuk.”

Light Yagami, who had been watching the entire exchange from the shadows with growing horror, felt the chill of dread settle in his bones. Ryuk—his fearless, godlike companion—was grovelling. And this strange boy who looked no older than him… had kissed him?

Harry took a slow bite of the apple, eyes finally flicking to Light.

“So young. So easy to die,” he murmured.

Ryuk nodded solemnly beside him, eyes gleaming with unshed awe.

Then Harry waved.

“さようなら,” he said gently, voice echoing with finality before he vanished in the blink of an eye.

“Ryuk… who was that?” Light whispered. “RYUK?!”

But the Shinigami didn’t respond. He was too busy hugging his new pouch like a child with a security blanket, murmuring, “More… more apples…”

Meanwhile in the Volturi Castle, Volterra, Italy

Blood pooled across the stone floor of the throne room. A few carcasses—Heidi’s latest offerings—were being dragged away by silent guards.

Marcus sat slumped on his throne, hollow-eyed and disconnected. He barely noticed the gore. He only felt the ache, the cold, the unbearable absence of something once blindingly bright.

It had been seventeen years. Seventeen years since he last felt it. The warmth. That presence.

He had called it love, once. The kind that transcended time, logic, species. It had been the only thing to touch his soul in a millennium—and then it was gone.

He didn’t regret it. He couldn’t. Not when it had burned so beautifully.

Caius, ever the paranoid, was glaring at nothing in particular. His fingers drummed against the marble arm of his chair as he tried to remember. Something had changed back then—something fundamental. He still couldn’t grasp it. But Marcus had changed that day. The air had changed. Caius felt it in his bones.

And when Caius felt something, he knew it wasn’t over.

Aro, meanwhile, watched the cleanup with manic delight. He laughed, clapped, theatrically performed his little acts of sadism for his own amusement. But inside? He was fraying.

His gift—his curse—let him see too much. The moment he touched Marcus back then, he had seen everything. That light. That soul. That boy. The moment it vanished.

It haunted him. So he smiled wider and laughed louder to drown the memory out.

Chapter Text

Present Day: Azkaban Prison

In a heavily warded cell, surrounded by ancient runes and reinforced with every anti-magical barrier known to wizardkind, a man hovered a foot above the stone floor, legs crossed in meditation.

Shackles bound his wrists, thick chains weighed his limbs, yet he sat perfectly at ease. His long black hair drifted as though in water, revealing a constellation of black studs on his ears—each one etched with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

His face was heartbreakingly beautiful, lips curled into the suggestion of a smirk. Even unconscious, he seemed aware. Waiting.

The lightning bolt scar on his forehead glowed faintly under the moonlight spilling through the barred window.

Then the shadows shifted. A figure emerged—formless, whispering, cloaked in darkness.

“Death,” Harry greeted without looking.

The shadow bowed.

Brilliant green eyes opened—unnatural, inhuman, Shinigami eyes burning with power—and flicked lazily to the corner.

“I trust you didn’t come empty-handed,” Harry said coolly.

He no longer needed glasses. Hadn’t for years. Not since he’d sacrificed his last human weakness to become what he now was: Master of Death, defier of time, and the one thing even monsters feared.

And the game, once again, was beginning.

Throwback to how he got himself imprisoned…

It was laughably easy. No witnesses, no casualties—at least none that mattered—and yet Harry had still managed to land himself in Azkaban. He simply walked into the Ministry of Magic one grey morning, hair grown long enough to conceal the infamous lightning scar, and calmly confessed to a terrorist attack. No one recognised him. Not one. Everyone who had ever known Harry Potter personally was long dead. The only memory the wizarding world still clung to was the scar… and he had buried it beneath a heavy fringe.

He’d wanted to know what Sirius had felt—trapped, betrayed, condemned. He’d left out the detail that the “victims” in his so-called rampage were inferi, not Muggles. A convenient omission. The Ministry, blinded by fear and the scent of a high-profile conviction, barely questioned it.

They confiscated his holly wand—the same wand that had followed him through every war, loss, and fleeting victory—and used Reverse Spell to track his last few castings. The results were predictably damning: Fiendfyre. Avada Kedavra. Dozens of lethal spells in succession. They snapped the wand right then and there, like breaking a twig, ignorant of the weight it carried. His heart didn’t shatter with it, but something within him exhaled its last.

The Dementor’s Kiss had been considered. But when the creatures were summoned, they recoiled. They fled. The Dementors feared him.

So instead, they condemned him to life in Azkaban—alone, immortal, and undying.

He hadn’t needed the wand anyway. Wandless magic had become second nature. But he’d loved that wand. Not for power—he was power—but for the memories bound to it, for the boy it had once served. Its destruction felt like a clean severance. A final goodbye to Harry Potter, the-boy-who-lived, the-man-who-conquered. He hadn’t been that person in a very, very long time.

Returning to Wizarding Britain after so long had been a mistake. Everyone he’d loved was gone, their descendants pale echoes of their predecessors. He’d tried—Merlin, he had tried—to stay in touch. But every conversation, every kind smile or familiar gesture, cut him deeper than any blade. They grew old. They died. He did not. So he faded into legend, and then myth, until he was nothing but bedtime stories told to wide-eyed children: The Boy Who Lived. The Man Who Conquered. The ghost that walked unseen.

Azkaban had seemed… fitting. Familiar. Punishing. Maybe Sirius had found a twisted kind of comfort here, surrounded by nothing but stone, sea, and silence. Harry thought maybe, just maybe, he could too. But it had also been the beginning of his suicidal phase.

I should be dead. I was supposed to die. Why am I still here?

He had whispered it to the cold walls for years. Death had refused him over and over, like a petulant god denying a blessing. The killing curses meant nothing. Neither did Fiendfyre. Even draining his magical core—that had hurt—but it only rendered him unconscious before he woke again, aching but intact. Over time, his pain threshold rose unnaturally high. Another reminder that he wasn’t normal. Not anymore.

But then again… being normal had always been overrated.

The Deathly Hallows had long since fused with his very essence. The Elder Wand’s power flowed in his blood, the Resurrection Stone pulsed beside his soul, and the Cloak of Invisibility had become part of his very shadow. The Hallows marked him now, etched into his skin—a bold, black symbol over his heart, like a tattoo, or a brand. It looked like ink at first glance, but beneath the surface it burned like scar tissue, a seared brand forged by the moment Voldemort killed him in the Forbidden Forest. Death had marked him as its own.

And Death had a flair for irony. Every failed suicide attempt earned him another Deathly Hallows earring—tiny, intricate, and absurdly gothic. His ears had even been pierced when he came back to life, as if Death had been preparing. He wore them all. Some dangled, others gleamed with obsidian sheen. He figured if Death wanted to mark him like a prize stallion, he might as well look good doing it. They suited him anyway.

His body bore other marks too—battle scars, old curses, and self-inflicted wounds that had refused to fade completely. A map of suffering and survival. Every inch of skin told a story.

To anyone else, he might’ve looked like a madman obsessed with a geometric symbol. But Harry knew the truth. Death was the one obsessed—with him.

Back to the Present

“My master… it is time,” Death’s voice coiled through the air like a purr, equal parts reverent and pleased. “Your mates are finally ready.”

Harry didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. Of course Death would sound smug. For centuries, he’d watched Harry decay inside himself, isolated in time, sanity slipping away piece by piece. But Death had never interfered—only waited, knowing the inevitable.

He had been mildly amused when Harry ventured into the Muggle world, leaving behind everything magical, but baffled when the immortal man had returned to rot in Azkaban, of all places. Death understood now: it was punishment. It was mourning. It was madness.

And it had to end.

“If I’m to meet them, let’s go,” Harry replied flatly. He uncrossed his legs and floated to the ground, but never truly touched it—his bare feet hovering inches above the floor like gravity had given up on claiming him. Another reminder of what he’d lost.

Humanity. Mortality. Everything.

“Yes, Master,” Death whispered, skeletal fingers lifting. “Your wish is my command.”

And with that, they vanished, leaving behind an empty cell, some dust, and a few rats who would never know a god had lived among them.

“You may cage a storm, but it will still thunder.”

The air in the Throne Room was thick with blood and satisfaction—an afterglow of feeding still clinging to the elegant columns and velvet shadows. At the far end of the chamber, three thrones loomed, housing the vampire kings Aro, Caius, and Marcus in all their ancient, chilling majesty. Around them, the Volturi guard lingered, crimson eyes glinting in the torchlight. Until—

Crack.

The sound was small but absolute. Heads snapped toward the epicentre.

A man stood in the centre of the chamber, head bowed, raven-black hair falling over his face. Despite the prison-like garb that hugged his lean frame—something between zebra-striped pyjamas and a fashion crime—he radiated danger. His wrists were shackled by heavy chains etched with ancient runes, and an intricate tattoo peeked through his stretched collar. The scars littering his visible skin were the stories of survival—some shaped like runes, others like wounds refused to fade.

He hissed low, incomprehensible to the humans long gone from this world, but all too clear to the vampires around him.

“Urgh… Death… how many times must I tell you not to be such a show-off.”

Parseltongue. The vampires, with their keen ears, understood the hostility in the tone even if not the words.

Then the stranger straightened. Slowly. Deliberately. And when he lifted his head, emerald green eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence and maddening calm. His British accent cut through the silence like a knife.

“Oh! Don’t mind me. Please, carry on with whatever this… vampire wine tasting was.”

Every red-eyed immortal tensed.

“Vampires, huh?” he mused aloud, unfazed. “That’s something… Wonder if the Cullens are still in Forks. Been seventy years. Tempus and all that.” He tilted his head. “Red eyes. Cannibal club then. Lovely.”

And then he locked eyes with Caius.

“Whoa. This one’s angry,” he said with mock concern. “You’ve got a bit of blood on your chin, by the way.”

Caius snarled, wiped his face with disdain, and glared—only to be met with the human sticking his tongue out at him like a petulant child.

“You’re welcome,” came the cheeky reply, capped with a wink.

Amused chuckles echoed from Aro’s direction, while Marcus remained motionless, his unreadable gaze fixed on the stranger.

“Ahh, the royal trio,” Harry purred, hissing softly in Parseltongue. “Aro. Caiusss. Marcusss~”

His gaze swept over each king with an assessing glint.

Aro: gleeful, twitchy, power-hungry—clearly the collector archetype.

Caius: all arrogance, pale rage and icy menace. Cute. In a lethal, stab-you-for-blinking-wrong sort of way.

And Marcus…

Harry’s body moved before his mind could catch up. Floating, without touching the ground, toward the bored king whose eyes held quiet agony. Raising a shackled hand, he placed it against Marcus’ cheek. The contact was electric.

“Suicidal. Definitely suicidal,” Harry muttered, and the vampire leaned into the touch instinctively. For a moment, the weariness in Marcus’ eyes cracked.

A cold hand brushed his in return, and Harry pulled back—too soon. Marcus mourned the loss of warmth with a frown, looking down at his own hand in confusion.

He didn’t understand why he yearned for more.

Then Jane struck.

“Pain,” she intoned, venomous and spiteful.

To her horror, instead of screaming, the man laughed. And laughed. Uncontrolled, breathless, deranged hilarity.

“Arghhhahahaha!! M-Merlin—s-stop! I-it t-tickles!”

It was… wrong. Unsettling. Not even vampires could make sense of it. The giggling only grew more hysterical as Jane, unnerved, tried to increase and then reduce the intensity, desperate to force a reaction that fit her expectations.

The kings felt it then—a pain in their chest, unfamiliar and ancient. When Marcus saw Harry gasping, shaking with laughter not pain, something ancient inside him snapped.

“MINE!”

Marcus launched himself forward, shielding Harry with his own body. Jane’s power collided with him like fire, and he collapsed onto one knee.

“BROTHER—!”

“JANE, STOP!”

Aro and Caius shouted in unison. The silence that followed was deafening.

Marcus, trembling, scooped the smaller man into his arms and carried him to his throne, ignoring gasps of shock and murmurs of disbelief.

Once seated, he pulled Harry close, broke the enchanted chains with ease, and cradled his mate like a precious relic. He purred—deep, resonant, primal.

Around them, the guard stared. Stared until Marcus glared and snarled, baring his fangs.

Harry, for once, was silent. Not because of fear—but because Marcus’ purring was dangerously arousing. That and the magical suppression from the chains was gone, his accumulated magic now surging through him like a livewire.

The room began to shake. Magic rippled like a living force, reacting to his emotions.

He glowed—literally. Light poured from his skin in pulses. No vampire dared move.

Marcus, however, only gazed in recognition and wonder. He had seen this glow once before. He had never forgotten it.

Harry knew he needed to act fast—his uncontrolled magic was crackling against the air itself, threatening to tear the ancient stone of the Volturi’s castle apart from the inside. Without a word, he threw up a wandless, non-verbal Fiendfyre spell, the dark flames surging into the air with terrifying majesty. The fire twisted and roared, forming a massive winged beast—a dragon, unmistakably shaped like a Hungarian Horntail—its blackened flames licking the vaulted ceiling of the Throne Room.

The creature unfurled its flaming wings, soaring above the gathered vampires. With a deafening roar, it blasted a stream of fire across the room, scorching a fifty-foot trail into the air and leaving behind a lattice of dark, smouldering stone.

Heat waves rolled over the stunned vampires, breaking their illusion of safety. No, this wasn’t a trick. No illusionist could conjure something this visceral, this real. The flame dragon circled above them, screeching and snapping, born from the chaotic depths of Harry’s magic—and it had manifested right after their little tourist snack courtesy of Heidi.

And then, with a flick of his fingers and the barest breath of focus, Harry lazily summoned a counterspell. The dragon collapsed into sparks just as he conjured a torrent of water from nowhere, shaping it into a team of translucent figures—dragon tamers. Charlie Weasley led the ethereal group, wrangling the remnants of the Fiendfyre beast into a massive, summoned cage. Before vanishing, Charlie threw Harry a cheeky salute.

Without pause, Harry swept his hand across the air. Dozens of Patronuses shimmered into being, silver and surreal. They prowled the space with quiet grace—stags, does, otters, wolves, owls, and even a looming black Grim—soothing the disturbed magical current in the chamber. As they glided across the stone floor, the ambient tension evaporated, replaced by a subtle hum of comfort.

The Volturi guard stood frozen—some gaping, others backing away. First the flaming dragon—an elemental horror capable of killing them permanently—then the water-born warriors, and now these glowing magical beasts. And yet… the warmth they radiated felt so good, making even hardened vampires feel lightheaded with bliss. Still, unease lingered.

All except Marcus.

Marcus, now purring loudly, wrapped Harry protectively in his arms, holding him close, as if shielding him from the world—even from his own outburst.

Caius, meanwhile, was seething.

He will pay for this. For mocking me! He dared to waltz into our home and insult our intelligence! He knows things he shouldn’t—

Then, he froze.

That scent.

A heady, dark aroma of seduction and storm-washed power curled into his senses like a drug. It made his pupils dilate, made him purr, involuntarily.

He whirled around to find the source—and locked eyes with the green-eyed intruder. That man, cradled in his brother’s arms. He looked like a fallen angel, sculpted in shadows and moonlight.

Mine.

The word left his mouth as a triumphant snarl.

Caius’ vampire soul surged forward, roaring in recognition. For centuries, he’d lived in rage and restlessness, haunted by a void he couldn’t name. And now? The ache made sense.

His mate had come home.

Wait—he’s Marcus’ mate too? And Aro’s… could it be—

A sideways glance at Aro confirmed it. The black-haired king stood utterly still, entranced. His crimson eyes wide, chest trembling.

Aro inhaled, and the air stole his breath.

There. There was the scent he’d been dreaming of his entire undead life—power, mystery, and that addictive something that made his whole body hum.

His vampire whispered: Mate.

He took a staggering step forward, pupils blown wide, voice lost in wonder. For a moment, he was nothing more than a man—awestruck and enchanted by the being in his brother’s arms.

But Harry had had enough attention.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat with a grimace, reminded all too suddenly of her—Dolores Umbridge.

Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead! Death sang cheerfully in his head.

Snorting in amusement, Harry slipped out of Marcus’ arms… only to be yanked backward and deposited into another lap. This one more rigid. Cooler. Stronger.

Caius.

The blond king purred smugly, arms wrapped around his treasure like a dragon hoarding its gold. Harry sighed dramatically, craning his neck to find yet another vampire smirking at him.

Aro.

Sitting on the central throne, Aro leaned forward, eyes gleaming with sin and curiosity. One hand slipped beneath Harry’s shirt, fingers finding warm skin and making Harry jolt with a hiss.

Aro’s expression shifted to confused outrage.

“Why can’t I read your mind?” he whined, pouting like an offended child before licking the shell of Harry’s ear. “My gift isn’t working!”

Harry’s magic flared dangerously.

“Because I practice Occlumency, you idiot legilimens,” Harry snarled, his pupils glowing with power. “Try that again, and I’ll rip your soul to pieces. I’ll burn you down and rebuild you just to do it again. Understand?”

He jabbed Aro in the chest with every word. Aro moaned.

Instead of fear, Aro looked utterly enchanted.

The threat made him shudder with delight. “Yes, yes, my love,” he whispered, raising his hands in surrender, still grinning like a lunatic.

Caius, not to be outdone, growled and reclaimed Harry into his lap with possessive satisfaction.

Harry rolled his eyes. These three are going to be exhausting.

Still, the lap was… comfortable.

At least they’re pretty, he mused, settling into the blond’s arms.

Caius purred even louder.

Then came the question that hung heavy in the room.

“What is your name, young one?” Caius asked, voice low and reverent.

Harry tilted his head, smirking.

“Harry. Just Harry. Though I went by Hadrian Black while travelling. I’m a wizard… not quite as young as I look.”

Aro visibly stiffened.

Hadrian Black.

Of course he knew the name. That elusive, miracle-working human doctor from the New World. Aro had been this close to kidnapping him. But no photos, no memories, no traces.

And here he was.

Their mate.

“Why did you hiss like a snake earlier?” Marcus asked gently, almost bashful.

Harry blinked. “I did?”

A chorus of nods answered him.

“Oh. Parseltongue. I’m the last known parselmouth alive. Thanks to dear old Voldemort.”

They flinched.

“He gave me the scar. Tried to kill me when I was one year old. Failed. Gave me snake speech instead.” Harry gestured lazily to his lightning-bolt scar.

“How did you survive?” Aro murmured.

“I died. Came back. He didn’t.” Harry replied with a shrug, flames dancing on his fingertips.

Marcus, trembling, asked, “How old were you when you died?”

“Seventeen. Why?”

Marcus let out a choked breath, clutching his chest.

“I felt you,” he whispered. “For seventeen years, I felt you in the back of my mind. Then one day, you vanished. And it broke me.”

Stunned, Harry tugged his shirt down and stared at the Death Mark on his chest. “You… felt that?”

All three kings reacted—eyes locked on the scarred expanse of his chest, etched with memories and pain.

Caius explained softly, “Marcus was most affected because of his gift. He saw glimpses. Felt you. And when you were gone, he… shattered.”

Wordlessly, Harry climbed into Marcus’ lap and cupped his pale face, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m here now,” he whispered.

Marcus closed his eyes, purring as his arms tightened around Harry.

Aro added, voice thick with emotion, “We didn’t know what we were missing. But we felt it. I became obsessed with power. Caius grew bitter. Marcus… he just disappeared into grief.”

Caius nodded solemnly. “It felt like our souls were screaming—and we didn’t know why.”

Harry looked at the three of them. Broken, powerful, ancient—and now irrevocably his.

“So,” he said softly, a wicked smile curling at his lips. “What do we do now?”

Chapter Text

The Volturi’s private jet cut through the clouds like a blade. Harry stared blankly out the window, Aro’s hand loosely wrapped around his own while Caius silently read a leather-bound tome across from them.

Marcus hadn’t said a word since Volterra. He sat beside Harry, his expression pensive but his hand never strayed far.

“You’ve been… quiet,” Aro finally murmured, dark eyes unreadable.

“There’s something waiting for me at Black Manor… something I forgot to retrieve.” Harry replied. “A memory. I need to know what it means.”

Aro tilted his head, a flicker of interest in his ancient eyes. “What sort of memory, amore mio?”

Harry’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. “A prophecy, I think. About my bloodline. About wolves.”

That caught even Caius’s attention. The sharpness in his gaze was immediate.

“Wolf shifters?” he asked, voice laced with cold precision. “The Quileute?”

Harry glanced at him. “You know them?”

Caius’s lip curled faintly, not in distaste—but memory. “A fringe tribe. Isolated. Their kind… doesn’t trigger our bloodlust. Not quite human. Their ancestors once tore apart a vampire we pursued near the Pacific coast in the 1800s. We underestimated them. We never did again.”

Harry blinked. “And you didn’t destroy them?”

Marcus answered this time, voice heavy with the weight of old decisions. “Some threats aren’t meant to be ended. Just… watched. The Quileute are an old knot of blood magic. Forgotten by most. Feared by those who remember.”

Harry gave a soft, nervous laugh. “Well. We’re related.”

The air stilled.

Aro leaned forward, brushing a cool finger along Harry’s jaw. “Then we go with you.”

Caius looked away, “We’re coming with you,” said firmly.

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Since when do vampire kings take personal field trips?”

“Since our mate refuses to explain where he’s running off to,” Marcus said, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to vanish without us.”

That earned a blink. “I wasn’t vanishing, I was—”

“—going off to consort with wolves without telling us?” Caius cut in, sharp and icy.

Harry stiffened, but Aro gave him a small smile. “Let us see. Understand. If this is your legacy, it’s ours too.”

Harry sighed in exasperation , pressing his forehead to the glass. “Fine. But no biting anyone unless they bite you first.”

The Black family manor was less a home and more a mausoleum. As Harry stepped through the cracked wards, the magical pressure shivered outward like a gong.
 

At La Push, Washington

The cliffs above the ocean trembled.

Jacob Black jolted upright in bed, heart racing.

Downstairs, the elders had already gathered. The fire pit in the centre of the longhouse was blazing far too high, flames snapping like they’d been doused in moonlight.

“Something crossed,” Billy Black said quietly, wheeling himself closer to the fire. “Old magic.”

The crackling fire spit out a weathered stone onto the floor—an obsidian shard carved with runes none of them had seen in a generation.

Billy reached for it with reverent hands.

“The Black Flame,” he whispered. “The old blood… it just woke up.”

Hundreds of miles away, three wolves howled in unison.

The stone in Billy Black’s hand burned hot.

A gust of sea wind snuffed out the fire entirely—and yet the heat remained.

“Hadrian Black is coming,” Billy whispered, voice reverent.

Jacob, not yet shifted, felt the electric tingle across his skin like a warning, or a promise.

Inside the Black attic, Family Manor, Location Unknown

Time held its breath.

The old Pensieve was half-buried beneath dust and tattered velvet, a relic of forgotten secrets. Aro ghosted a finger over its rim.“Black family memory vault. But this… is old magic.”

Harry brushed his fingers over the silver memory vial resting beside the basin. The script on the glass was elegant and familiar.

Hadrian. It wrote.

Harry groaned. He knew now who the owner of this memory was. 

“Protect the Line. The Black Flame must not die.”

He took a deep breath and poured the memory into the stone basin. The moment he touched the surface, the world inverted.

The memory reformed around them—a younger Black Manor, untouched by rot.

A pale, severe-looking man in dark emerald robes stood before a flickering hearth. His eyes were ancient and storm-cloud grey. He was handsome in the cold, cruel way only Blacks could be. But there was something… unearthly about him.

“Phineas Nigellus Black,” Aro whispered.

“He vanished in the 1800s. Thought dead.”

“I remember him,” Marcus added slowly. “He had the Sight.”

“Not just the Sight,” Phineas said suddenly, startling them by turning directly toward them—a ghost seeing ghosts. “You’re late, Hadrian.”

Harry’s heart stopped and winced.

Phineas smiled tightly. “Yes, I know. No, this is not a trick. I left this memory seeded, layered. Destined for only one descendant—my last true heir.”

“You found my letters long ago so you knew what I was worried about. There were Blacks who fled the wizarding world after the last Purge. They settled where no one thought to look—America. They married into native lines, carrying with them their dormant magic. But it didn’t remain dormant. It… evolved.”

“The Quileute,” Caius murmured.

Phineas nodded. “Wolves who shift not by moonlight, but the protective magic that runs through their veins. They are ours.”

“Then why send me?” Harry demanded. “Why only now? My brothers were already dead.”

“Because only you, untouched by the Pureblood prejudice, can reach them. Claim them. Remind them of their roots before the world sets itself aflame and burns it away.”

Phineas’ image began to fade.“Be cautious, Hadrian. You carry more than magic. You carry fate.”

Back in the attic

The Pensieve cracked down the middle.

Marcus caught Harry before he could collapse from the revelation.

“I have to go.” “We’re going together.” Both Harry and Marcus said in unison.

“You understand now?” Harry looked at his mates, Caius rolled his eyes but nodded.

“Yes,” Aro looked serious for once and said grimly. “And we’ll stand with you.”

Harry nodded, but his thoughts were already miles away, in forests shadowed by legends, where wolves waited and blood remembered.

Later…

“You can’t go to the wolves alone, they’re dangerous! You’re our life now.” Marcus stood in front of the bedroom door like a vampire-shaped barricade.

Harry rolled his eyes. “They’re my family, Marcus. I’ll just go check on them real quick. You guys won’t even notice I’m gone. Now shoo! You have an empire to run.”

“No. Aro and Caius can handle the trials just fine without me. But Harry, please—be reasonable.”

Harry raised a brow. “What can you do? Bite me?”

Marcus froze.

Then, slowly, a dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“That can be arranged.”

Before Harry could process, Marcus pressed him against the wall, one hand beside his head, the other at his waist. Their lips met with a crash of heat and centuries-old longing.

Harry gasped, unsure whether to shove or melt—and promptly did the latter.

The kiss was all-consuming: tongue, teeth, cinnamon and desire. Marcus wasn’t gentle. He was claiming. Worshiping.

Harry’s moans only spurred him on as he dragged his mate to the bed, stripping himself en route.

Buttons popped. Clothes scattered.

Harry didn’t complain when he was lowered onto the mattress, Marcus over him like a thundercloud. “Oh, God—” he moaned as cold lips found his throat.

“You invited this,” Marcus whispered against his skin.

“Remember that.”

Just then, the door burst open.

“Wasn’t expecting to catch you with your pants down, brother,” Aro drawled.

Caius raised an eyebrow at the scene on the bed. “Don’t mind if we join.”

Harry blinked, shirt open, hips bare, and entirely at the mercy of three ancient predators who wanted nothing more than to worship him.

“Hi… guys,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

And then there were hands. Lips. Cool fingers and hot skin and the sounds of kings forgetting their crowns in the wake of a boy who had no idea the power he held.

The Next Morning

“Bite me,” Harry rasped suddenly, breaking the lazy, intimate silence of their bedchamber.

The words hung in the air like a spell.

He lay sprawled in boneless contentment across the massive super-king bed, three cold, gloriously naked vampire kings curled around him like predatory lions lounging after a feast.

His skin still tingled from their night of indulgence, but when his eyes caught the flicker of maroon in their irises—hunger barely restrained—possessive heat flared inside him.

“You should only drink from me,” he added, cheeks darkening. “No one else.”

The second the words left his mouth, he flushed crimson. “Oh, Merlin…” he groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

But he had. Because he wanted it—wanted to feel their lips against his skin again, their fangs buried in him, feeding on him and no one else. It was possessive and irrational, and he didn’t care.

They were his, and he was theirs.

A shadow fell over his face.

Fingers, cool and reverent, gently pried his hand away and brought it to a waiting mouth. Marcus pressed a kiss to his palm, lips brushing his pulse point.

“Do not be ashamed to ask that of us,” he murmured, voice like satin over steel.

“It would be our honour to bear your mark as you bear ours—to drink only from you, our beloved.” A ghost of a smile danced at the corner of his mouth.

“I remember you asking before… though we got a little distracted.”

Marcus shot him a knowing look and a wink. A shared pulse of heat and memory flickered through the bond.

In the next moment, before Harry could say a word, he found himself pinned—straddled by the three kings.

Cool marble bodies pressed into his overheated skin, the weight of their desire tangible.

He sucked in a breath as lips descended, three at once, urgent and reverent. Their tongues lapped at his skin in synchronised rhythm—Marcus on the hollow of his throat, Caius just beneath his ear, and Aro at the base of his neck where pulse met collarbone.

The contact was electric.

Their venom tingled like sparks, branding invisible sigils into his flesh.

Harry let out a breathless laugh as he realised exactly where they were biting.

Of course. The most visible places, aside from his face.

“Show-offs,” he muttered, but didn’t stop them. He arched instead, offering more of himself.
His laughter melted into a gasp.

The pleasure was too much—too intense. His body arched like a bowstring as they teased and licked, marking him with their tongues before their fangs ever touched him. His skin flushed, chest rising in shallow pants as he gave in, completely.

Sensing his surrender, the vampires moved as one.

Razor-sharp teeth descended, slicing into tender flesh in unison—three bites, three places, one soul-staggering connection.

He cried out as they drank, his orgasm tearing through him like fire as the sensation of being claimed overtook him. Their mouths drew deeply, moaning into his neck, and the kings climaxed as his blood hit their tongues—rich, magic-soaked, utterly theirs.

His body slackened as the world dimmed.

Harry didn’t feel himself fall unconscious. He didn’t hear the final gulps or the desperate restraint the Kings forced upon themselves as his heart faltered—then slowly, impossibly, restarted.

Silence reigned.

The kings sat frozen, crimson mouths parted, breathless though they didn’t need air. Their mate lay pale and still in the middle of the bed, bathed in moonlight, adorned with their marks.

Then—He stirred.

Emerald eyes fluttered open. Marcus leaned closer, but then froze. “Harry… your eyes—”

“What?” he asked groggily, propping himself up. He didn’t feel different. A little weak, sure. A little sore—very sore—but nothing alarming. “I’m fine, aren’t I? I don’t die from blood loss, remember?”

Aro reached for his face and tilted his chin up with a reverent touch.

“Look.”

Marcus conjured a small mirror.

Harry blinked into it. His usual emerald eyes stared back at him—but there, just along the rim of each pupil, was a faint ring of ruby red. Subtle. Nearly imperceptible. But definitely not human.

“You’re changed,” Caius said quietly. “Not fully turned, but… something new.”

“Something ours,” Marcus added.

Harry studied himself a little longer, then shrugged. “I don’t feel any different. No blood cravings. But I do really want one of those blood pops from Honeydukes…”

That earned a chuckle from all three vampires.

His scars remained, unmoved by death or transformation—stubborn as ever. His enchanted tattoos shimmered faintly, undisturbed even by the power of the mating ritual. And on his neck, etched in flushed red and healing silver, were three fresh bite marks—his crown, his brand, his belonging.

He traced them with reverence, then looked up at his mates, something wicked and fond burning in his newly changed eyes.

“Well,” he murmured, voice still hoarse. “You’ve had your breakfast. Now come back to bed.”

Chapter Text

La Push, Washington, United States

Forks is soaked in silver mist when Harry steps out of the sleek black car, the quiet purr of the Volturi’s vehicle falling silent behind him. The Pacific Northwest air clings with ancient magic and salt and pine, something earthy and old threading through the present like a ghost of the past. At his side, the three Kings emerge—Aro regal and curious, Marcus stoic but watchful, and Caius tense with an edge that’s never quite dulled.

The sea breeze swept across the La Push coastline, whispering of ancient pacts and buried truths. Mist clung to the edge of the forest where trees stood tall like sentinels—guardians of bloodlines and buried legacies. At the heart of this convergence stood Harry, no longer just Harry Potter, but Hadrian Black, magic incarnate and the bridge between worlds long kept apart.

The Volturi, cloaked in tailored black, were out of place amidst the earthy tones and salt-weathered wood of the Quileute reservation. But beside Hadrian, they waited—silent, regal, and composed. Marcus stood at his right, ever calm, reading threads of bonds like pages in a familiar book. Aro, curious and bright-eyed, watched every detail like a scholar hungry for context. Caius was, as expected, stiff with old resentment, but he stayed at Harry’s side regardless, a protective hand resting on the curve of his mate’s back.

They’ve come honour a promise. And the Quileute people are waiting.

The La Push reservation isn’t much changed from what Harry remembers from the 1930s. Time has shifted the shapes of homes and roads, added power lines and cars, but the spirit of the land—alive and humming with magic—is as present as ever.

The crashing surf of the La Push coastline whispered secrets older than memory. The wind carried the salt of the sea and something else—something older, deeper, and more magical than most would dare to believe.

A procession moved silently along the cliff path, their presence too graceful, too still to be human. Aro, Caius, and Marcus walked in unison, flanking a smaller figure at the centre of their formation. Where they walked, nature hushed in reverence.

La Push was calling.

And Harry, cloaked in midnight-black and flanked by deathless kings, was here to answer.

Billy Black is the first to greet them, flanked by his son Jacob and a wary but respectful Sam Uley, now Alpha. Jared and Paul stand just behind, curious, alert. There’s tension in the air, but it doesn’t escalate. Not when Harry steps forward, his magic like a calming tide blanketing the unease.

Billy Black had seen many strange things in his life, but the sight that greeted him at the edge of the forest stole the breath from his lungs.

“They’re here,” he murmured, gripping the edge of his wheelchair tightly. His son, Jacob, stood behind him, frowning toward the treeline. The pack tensed.

“Chief, those are the Cold Ones,” Sam warned, voice low and uncertain. “I can smell them from here, they burn my nose.”

“No,” Billy corrected, his voice distant with awe. “That—” He pointed with shaking fingers to the figure between them. “That is something more.”

Jacob shifted uneasily. “Dad, I feel kinda off—”

“Be quiet!” Billy hissed. “This meeting… is mine.”

Jacob opened his mouth to protest but then paused as the air shifted.

The group stepped into view.

Billy had met many magical beings in his youth. He had spoken with witches in the hidden places of the Pacific Northwest, had stood beside elders who called the wind with words lost to man. But never had he seen anyone quite like Hadrian.

The stranger who stepped from the shadows — no older than twenty-five, emerald eyes ageless, a scar faint on his brow. Power coiled off him like smoke.

His presence was a contradiction—ethereal and grounded, gentle yet terrifying, with eyes that looked through time itself.

Billy gave a respectful nod as they stopped before him.

“You came,” he said.

Hadrian stepped forward. “I was always meant to return.”

The meeting took place around the sacred fire ring on the cliffs, where the sea mist kissed the stones and the spirits of the ancestors watched unseen.

Billy had arranged for a few elders to attend—those still steeped in the magic of the old ways.

The Volturi made no move to speak. They understood the weight of the moment, the way Harry needed to lead.

“I am Hadrian Black,” he began, his voice warm but resonant with quiet power. “Once, my blood ran with wizard fire. But that was not all. There is another line within me—a line you share.”

Across from them stood Billy Black, his wheelchair grounded in the earth, eyes narrowed and sharp. Old magic clung to him—not the spell-bound kind, but ancestral. Next to him, Jacob Black hovered, arms crossed but heart open. He was only a teenager, still not awakened, but the bond between him and Harry pulsed strong—ancestral and unmistakable.

“You are Hadrian Black,” Billy said, voice strong despite his years. “That name runs through our bloodlines. My grandmother used to whisper stories of Ts’its’a-ts’h, the One with the Silent Step. She said he walked with Death and yet came back with life. Now you stand here with bloodsuckers at your side.”

Harry smiled softly, stepping forward.

“I’ve walked through death, seen gods die and worlds collapse. But I’ve never forgotten blood. My blood. Our blood.” He brushed his fingers over the black feather talismans at his belt.

Billy’s eyes flickered over to it and his brows rose in surprise before continuing in a calm voice, a storm hidden behind his eyes as he scrutinised the pale face before him. “We know of the Black line. Some say we were cursed with the wolves, others say blessed. But we remember the name Hadrian. A ghost in our songs.”

“You remembered,” Harry said softly. “The Blacks fled magic long ago, before the rise of the Ministry. They hid in America, found sanctuary here. When the curse of the wolf was born, it touched those with my blood first.”

Billy’s eyes searched his face, long and hard, and something in him softened.

Sam, however, stepped forward with a stubborn frown. “So if you’re one of us… why come back now? Why not sooner?”

Harry met his gaze without flinching, eyes briefly flickered to the air above his head to retrieve his name. “Because time doesn’t heal everything. Some things need to be broken open to heal properly. I didn’t come here to rule you, Sam Uley. I came to remind you of who you are before your world changes.”

Sam’s brows rose before he tilted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry turned his head slightly, and with a small wave of his fingers, the magic shimmered. The boundary of the forest glowed with ancient wards, and the illusion pulled back to show ghostly memories echoing: wolves running beside the wizard turned Thestral, sigils burned into fur and flesh, a dark-haired man—Ephraim Black—kneeling in the forest surrounded by spirits. The air shimmered with power.

The tribe gasped. Even Billy jerked in his chair, wide-eyed.

“That’s — you knew my father,” he whispered.

Harry smiled, the same wolfish curve of the lips. “He and the pack called me brother.”

Sam blinked owlishly. “You mean… you knew him? Back in the day?”

“I ran beside him,” Harry says, stepping forward so he’s eye-level with Jacob, the boy who would become Alpha one day. “We were brothers in arms, bound by blood and spirit. I shifted with him, Levi and Quil. We lived together for three years before I was called away.”

The pack stirs. Sam takes a step forward, brows drawn low. “You shift?”

Harry nods. “Not into a wolf.”

And before anyone can ask what that means, his form shimmers—fluid as starlight—and shrinks. Where Harry once stood, now looms a skeletal, winged creature cloaked in shadows. A Thestral, black as night with glowing emerald eyes.

Paul actually yelps. Jacob stares, wide-eyed. Sam doesn’t move, but his mouth tightens.

Billy swallowed hard. “He never told me.”

“He made a promise. And kept it.” Harry shifts back a moment later, calm and composed, his robe fluttering with residual magic. “This form is a gift—and a curse—from war. I earned it by seeing death too young. But it connects me to the spirit of the world.”

“You’re like us,” Sam says slowly. “But also not.”

“I’m your family,” Harry answers, got down on one knee and rested a hand on Billy’s shoulder to comfort him. “That won’t change. Even in death.”

Billy flinches slightly—overwhelmed, maybe—but then nods. “We’ve… felt your magic before. When you passed the Black wards months ago. It echoed through the ancestral lines.”

Sam tilts his head. “And your… companions?” he gestures carefully at Aro, Caius and Marcus, who’ve been silent all this time.

Caius lifts a brow, expression unreadable. “We’re here because he is our mate. His cause is ours.”

There’s an audible intake of breath. Sam’s nostrils flare.

“Mate?” Jared mutters, clearly scandalised.

Harry sighs. “It’s complicated.”

Aro steps forward, finally smiling. “Not so complicated, I think. He is precious to us. He holds power that surpasses even ancient vampires, and yet he chose us. We respect his family—his pack—as he does.”

That lands heavily. The pack digests the words in silence.

Harry stepped forward and held out a medallion. The obsidian crest gleamed in the light.

“Family,” Harry repeated quietly.

And the air shimmered with something old, something sacred.

“You are one of us,” Billy said, reverently.

Jacob looked between them. “So what does that mean? You’re a wizard? And a vampire?”

Harry chuckled lightly. “I’m what happens when death lets go and magic forgets to say no.”

Aro stepped forward now, offering a slight bow, his red eyes respectful. “The Volturi do not come to conquer. We come because our mate asked it. And because the bond between your kind and his is undeniable. It runs deep. Deeper than the wars between our kinds.”

Jacob frowned. “What kind of bond?”

Marcus finally spoke, voice soft but clear. “Hadrian carries the mark of both death and life. The wolves in your line recognise him even now. Your blood stirs because of him. You haven’t phased yet, but you will. And when you do, you’ll remember.”

That silenced Jacob. His eyes narrowed. His lips parted like he wanted to argue—but couldn’t. Because deep inside, something was stirring. A pulse. A pull. Like a deeper part of him was running towards Hadrian Black. 

Listen to Hadrian and keep the Black flame alive. That voice said. If Harry had heard it, he would have recognised at once that the voice belonged to Ephraim, his brother.

Aro smiled indulgently. “He is more than either of us. A being who carries magic and memory. He does not belong to the Volturi. We belong to him.”

Billy looked sharply at that. “You are the kings of your own kind.”

“We were,” Marcus said with the voice of ancient ruin. “But Hadrian binds us. As he will bind you. With nothing but the truth.”

“Why come now?” asked one of the older women, voice wary. “Why show yourself after all this time?”

Harry looked toward the sea. “Because change is coming. I’ve walked many roads, some drenched in blood, others in ash. The Cullens will return to Forks. A girl will come with them—a catalyst. The wolves will rise again. You must be ready.”

Jacob frowned. “What girl?”

“She matters little,” Caius said with a dismissive wave. “What matters is that her presence triggers your awakening. We have seen such destinies before. And they always end in death—unless someone changes the script.” His eyes fell on Harry.

Harry nodded grimly and said, “I’m here to be that change.”

Later that evening

Jacob had asked to speak with Hadrian privately. Harry walked alone with Jacob toward the forest’s edge. The boy—because that’s what he still was—had questions that needed to be asked away from the weight of politics and tradition.

They sit by the cliffs, legs dangling over the jagged rocks and foaming surf. The sun bleeds orange into the horizon. Jacob leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I dreamed of running with wolves,” he says. “Before this happened. I think it was you. You were always ahead… always just out of reach.”

Harry hums. “Magic remembers. It called you to me long before you even met me.”

Jacob glances at him. “You’re like a grand uncle to us, huh?”

“I suppose I am,” Harry grins. “The ageless, secretive one who shows up when you least expect.”

Jacob grins too. “So, when the Cullens show up again…”

“You’ll need all your strength,” Harry finishes, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “They mean well—but they’re not built for nuance. And things will be different this time.”

“So you’re saying I’m going to become a werewolf?”

“No. You’re going to become a protector,” Harry said, pausing to touch a nearby cedar tree reverently. “It will feel like a curse at first. Pain. Rage. Loss of control. But it is ancient magic. One that recognises danger and answers in kind.”

“Will it happen soon?” Jacob asked.

Harry turned to him. “You already feel it, don’t you? The heat under your skin. The way your senses sharpen.”

Jacob looked away, nodding faintly. “Yeah.”

“I can slow it,” Harry offered. “Just until you’re ready.”

“What about them?” Jacob asked, voice thick with confusion. “You’re with them. Won’t they be unhappy with you hanging out with us?”

“The Volturi?” Hadrian gave a soft laugh. “They’re mine, Jacob Black. Not the other way around.”

He leaned in closer. “We are family, your blood calls to me. You’re the last living remnant of a promise I made before I died the first time. This world is about to change again, and if I can anchor people in that storm to keep the Black Flame alive, then I will.”

Jacob stared into his eyes for a long time. “You’re weird, grand unc.”

Hadrian grinned. “You have no idea.”

Back at the reservation

The Volturi mingled awkwardly. Caius had a sour expression, but surprisingly, he was being tolerated by the elders.

Aro had taken to satisfying his magical curiosities—his old soul delighting in Quileute legends—and Marcus, quiet as ever, stood like a shadow behind Hadrian whenever he entered a room.

“I must admit,” Aro whispered to Marcus later that evening, “this alliance may prove more fruitful than I expected.”

Marcus nodded, eyes watching Harry fondly as he laughed with Jacob and the others. “Because he is the centre. Our axis.”

Aro smiled. “And we revolve around him, willingly.”

Harry turned and caught their gaze, lips curling in a secret smile. He’d felt the pull of fate since the moment he returned to the Manor and unlocked the Pensieve’s memory. That pale figure—Phineas Black—had told him the future, yes, but not through Seer magic. No, Phineas had bound his own memories into the stone, a spell woven with prophecy and ancestral blood. A message meant for Hadrian alone.

“You are the bridge, Hadrian,” Phineas had whispered. “Between death and life. Between wolf and wand.”

And now, the bridge was being walked.

Back on the edge of the cliff…

Jacob finally spoke again. “So you said I’ll become one of those wolves.”

Harry nodded. “You will. Not yet, but soon. Your magic is stirring, Jacob. Just promise me one thing.”

Jacob raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“When the change happens, don’t fight it. Accept it. Embrace who you are.”

Jacob looked away, his voice uncertain. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Harry’s voice was soft. “You won’t. Not if you remember what matters.”

Jacob nodded slowly.

This… was only the beginning.

Down by the firepit, Billy watched them both.

Marcus sat beside him in companionable silence. The fire popped and crackled between them.

He caught Marcus’s gaze and gave a small nod. The vampire inclined his head in silent respect.

“You love him,” Billy said quietly, not a question.

Marcus inclined his head. “We do. It is… beyond names. Beyond hunger. He is the only thing that stirs our still hearts.”

“You’re not afraid to share him?”

“We do not share him. We belong to him. That is not the same.”

Billy nodded. “And he loves you?”

Marcus’s expression softened. “Enough to let us follow him anywhere. Even here.”

Billy poked at the fire with his cane. “The tribe will need time. Some won’t trust him. Some won’t trust your kind.”

“They don’t have to trust us,” Marcus said. “Only him.”

At the Clearwater’s

The scent of pine hung heavy in the still air, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the rustle of the trees. Inside the small wooden cabin, the mood was far from peaceful.

The door opened, and Hadrian Black stepped into the room, quiet as a shadow.

The Elders sat across the room, solemn and watchful. Billy Black, Old Quil, Harry and Sue Clearwater had seen many things in their time—but even they fell quiet.

“I was summoned,” Hadrian said softly, voice smooth but firm. He moved forward with quiet purpose, nodded to the Elders, though his eyes flicked to Sam, his large hands clenched into fists, eyes full of guilt and despair, and then softened as they landed on the girl on the couch, her shoulders trembling despite her silence.

Emily’s face turned away, but even that couldn’t hide the angry red slashes trailing down the right side of her face—raw, jagged, and fresh. Her pain echoed in the strained silence that filled the room.

Hadrian stepped forward with quiet certainty. “May I?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

Emily turned, slowly. Her brown eyes were wide, swimming with pain—but also recognition and trust.

“Go on, Ts’its’a-ts’h.” she whispered.

Hadrian smiled gently and rested a hand gently near the edge of the worst wound. His magic stirred in response—sensitive, intuitive. This was no ordinary injury. A wolf’s rage left more than just physical damage. It left echoes.

“Let’s begin,” he murmured, tracing his fingers lightly over the deepest gash, “Vulnera Sanentur.”

Sam stood close by, tense, shoulders hunched in guilt and self-loathing. Jacob hovered near the door, his expression flickering between concern and barely-contained fury—at Sam, at himself, at the helplessness of it all.

The watching Quileutes tensed as they felt the energy in the room shift. It wasn’t just wizard magic—it was older, rooted in something primal. Nature. Connection. Healing in its truest form.

Golden light poured from his fingertips in a slow, steady rhythm, as though his magic was singing to the wounds, coaxing them closed. The gashes shimmered, knitting together with almost dreamlike grace. Her breathing steadied, the tremors in her hands fading.

But he didn’t stop there.

Hadrian leaned closer, he moved his free hand over her forehead, pressing two fingers lightly to her temple.

“Animi Lenitudo,” he murmured, his voice like a lullaby of wind and water. A soft warmth flowed into her, smoothing out the sharp edges of fear still coiled in her heart.

A soft gasp escaped Emily’s lips. Her shoulders relaxed, the rigid tension dissolving as the magic soothed her spirit. Not just a healing of flesh, but of the soul.

When it was done, Emily exhaled shakily, as if she’d been holding her breath for days.

She opened her eyes slowly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

She reached up, touching the faint, silvery lines that remained—They were healed, no longer raw, a reminder of survival, not shame.

The room remained silent for a moment.

Sam stepped forward, his throat tight. “Thank you.”

Hadrian rose, his gaze sharp but not unkind.

“Keep your control, Alpha. Love is not a thing to be feared—but neither is it a shield against the consequences of power. Power loses meaning if it cannot protect what matters,”

Sam dipped his head, chastened and looked like he might cry.

Hadrian turned to Emily, his voice soft once more. “You were seen. And now—you are whole.”

His gaze sweeping across the room—settling on the air above Harry Clearwater.

Hadrian didn’t want to look. Not really. But the Shinigami eyes—his curse and inheritance—did not lie.

Above Harry Clearwater’s head floated the numbers.

00:00:47:13:09

Forty-seven days. Thirteen hours. Nine minutes.

Hadrian’s heart clenched when he saw the hovering numbers. Too soon.

The digits were burnished gold, the same sickly shimmer he’d seen over Ephraim, over Levi, Quil, and too many others he’d loved. But it was different now. It was too soon.

“You’ve gone quiet again,” Billy Black muttered, raising a brow from his wheelchair. “Like you’re listening to ghosts.”

“I am,” Hadrian replied, voice steady but low. His red-green eyes flicked between Harry and Sue Clearwater.

“What is it you hear, Master of Death?” Old Quil asked quietly, ancient and knowing.

Hadrian’s throat tightened.

“I see it,” he said softly, the honesty too heavy to dress up in metaphor.

Hadrian exhaled. He didn’t hide anymore. Not from these people.

“I see time. That is left.”

They all stilled.

Harry Clearwater blinked, but he didn’t flinch. He let out a breath like a man expecting this very moment.

“How much?”

Hadrian looked at him fully, eyes glowing faintly with the magic of the Hallows.

“Forty-seven days and thirteen hours.”

A beat of silence. Firewood snapped.

Harry looked around the circle—his old friends and his wife, “That’s really helpful, no wonder Ephraim Black and the tribe elders trusted you more than the spirits.”

Silence stretched again. A raven called somewhere above.

“I could stop it,” Hadrian admitted.

The words were heavy, defiant. “I could shift the balance. Death answers to me. I could anchor your soul here, breathe more time into your bones.”

Harry Clearwater turned to him, brow furrowed.

“And would I still be me? There is always a heavy price to pay when one bargains with Death. See what happened to the Cold Ones, I would rather die than live like a monster.”

Hadrian’s hands tightened at his sides, his voice cracked around the edges.

“You’re family, Harry. It’s too soon, I can’t—”

The older man reached out, placing a weathered hand on Hadrian’s arm.

“You’ve walked with Death too long, unc. It doesn’t always have to be a war.”

“But you haven’t finished what you were meant to do,” Hadrian pressed. “Leah. Seth. The Council—they need you. Especially with what’s coming.”

Harry Clearwater looked toward the forest, his jaw tight.

“Then help me do it. Not by changing the end, but by making these last days matter.”

A beat passed.

“Then I’ll slow the clock. I can fortify your heart, slow the rhythm,” Hadrian finally said, his eyes glowing. “Just enough to give you clarity. No tricks. No immortality.”

Harry nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

Hadrian rose and raised his hand, fingers glowing faintly with an eerie silver light—stepping around the circle, and pressed two fingers to Harry’s sternum.

Ancient magic pulsed into the air, the taste of it metallic, sharp, like the veil brushing too close. The glow faded, and with it, the countdown shifted—slower now, no longer a fall but a drift.

Harry gasped, then exhaled. “Feels… clearer.”

“You’ll still die,” Hadrian said. “But not broken. Not before you’re ready.”

A silence fell, reverent and heavy.

Sue reached out to hold Hadrian’s hand. “Thank you.”

Hadrian gave her hand a squeeze before placing in on top of Harry’s. “We’re family.”

The forest watched as the Master of Death act not to defy the end, but to delay it just long enough, gave an old man the gift of time—to say what must be said, to lead once more, and to go with dignity.

“I’m not afraid, Sue.” Harry took her hand. “But if I have even one more month to steady this tribe, prepare you, stand with the Council—I want that. Not forever. Just long enough.”

Billy Black nodded.

“You’ve done more than magic tonight, unc. You’ve given us time—and that’s the rarest thing there is.”

And so, in the firelight of the Council House, as the Elders bore witness, the Master of Death as the truest kind of miracle.

La Push, Washington

Night had fallen completely by the time the Elders summoned Hadrian outside.

The Uley cabin now glowed softly from within, a sanctuary of warmth where Emily rested peacefully, her breathing steady.

The Volturi Kings remained nearby but had respectfully withdrawn into the shadows of the trees, silent witnesses rather than rulers.

Hadrian stood with Jacob at his side, both facing a small fire that had been lit at the edge of the forest clearing.

Billy Black, in his wheelchair, sat across from them beside Old Quil, Harry and Sue Clearwater. The flames danced in the night, casting flickering light over the Elders’ weathered faces.

The wind off the water carried salt and memory.

Sparks danced into the air like spirits summoned by name.

Billy Black sat before the fire, wrapped in the ceremonial wolfskin cloak of the Black bloodline. His eyes, once dimmed by age, now gleamed with a clarity that left the young uneasy.

He raised one hand, and silence fell.

“Long ago,” Billy began, his voice echoing across the shoreline, “our people were warned of a time of great shadows—a world where life and death would lose their meaning, where spirits would grow restless, and where wolves alone would not be enough to hold back the dark.”

The bonfire cracked loudly, punctuating his words.

“In that time, the elders said, a flame would walk among us. Not born of our line, yet bound to our blood. He would bear Death not as a curse, but as a crown. And he would love us—not as conqueror, but as kin.”

All eyes turned to Hadrian Black.

He stood just beyond the fire, dark robes rustling in the wind. His black hair shimmered with starlight, his eyes glowing faintly silver—like the moon reflected in the river of souls.

Billy turned his gaze to him.

“You are that flame, Hadrian Black. The Eternal Fire. The Guardian Who Walks With Death. We have seen your soul, your mercy, your wrath. We have felt your magic in our bones. We know your heart is bound to this land, as tightly as Ephraim Black bound the wolves.”

The crowd stirred.

Mothers held children tighter.

Young wolves bowed their heads.

Sue Clearwater, standing just behind the circle, wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Tonight,” Billy continued, voice rising with the wind, “we do not name you friend. We do not call you brother. We call you Guardian.”

He gestured wide to the people. “Repeat it now. Let the spirits hear you.”

One voice, then many:

“Guardian.”

“Master of Death, protector of souls, keeper of balance.”

“Master of Death.”

Billy’s hands lifted toward the sky.

“You who do not die. You who bring peace to the dying and fire to the living. We name you not only man, but divine flame, the one who burns and does not fade.”

He turned to Hadrian directly. “Will you accept this? Will you walk with us—?”

Hadrian stepped forward into the firelight.

He should have felt shame. He had walked through too much blood, too much sorrow. He had failed as often as he had saved.

But here, under the stars, among this tribe that had given him belonging when Britain had only given him war, he felt only honour.

“I am no god,” he said, voice strong. “But I will be your fire.”

The wind howled like the spirits rejoiced.

Billy smiled.

“Then from this day, in our songs, in our prayers, you will be named.”

Sue Clearwater stepped forward, carrying a shallow wooden bowl filled with cedar, sage, and sweetgrass.

Smoke curled from it in delicate spirals, fragrant and ancient. She offered it to Hadrian, who accepted it with both hands, inclined his head slightly in understanding.

“Eternal Black Flame. Guardian of the Quileute. Master of Death. Keeper of the Veil. We walk in your fire, and you walk with us.”

Hadrian stood beneath the red cedar tree—two centuries old.

He placed a hand on the bark and whispered a promise in a language the trees still remembered.

The winds howled in response.

The earth thrummed in recognition.

When he turned, every Quileute present bowed their head.

And as the flames rose higher, reflected in the Master of Death’s eyes, the stars above La Push shimmered brighter—as though the universe itself bore witness to the making of a god.

The alliance was sealed.

A cheer echoed from the trees as several Quileute elders emerged.

Sam Uley, tall and proud, stood in the back, gaze fixated on Hadrian and felt his wolf bowed in reverence at the sight of this man.

Jacob looked at Hadrian with awe, his shoulders squaring.

A single hawk’s cry pierced the quiet above as the wind shifted, carrying the scent of smoke and sea.

From the trees, Marcus inclined his head in approval. Aro’s eyes gleamed with something deeper than curiosity. Even Caius, ever sharp and sceptical, gave the faintest nod.

Later…

As they prepared to leave, Jacob jogged up to Hadrian.

“Hey,” he said, voice gruff. “You’ll come back, right?”

Hadrian smiled. “I never left.”

Jacob made a face. “Okay, that’s creepy.”

From behind them, Caius chuckled. “He is the Master of Death. Creepy comes with the territory.”

Jacob turned to him. “You gonna be nice to us now, fang-face?”

Caius bared his teeth. “Don’t push your luck, pup.”

Jacob smirked. “See you soon, then.”

As the Volturi and their enigmatic master disappeared into the mist, Jacob stood watching the horizon.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But for the first time, he wasn’t afraid of it.

Year 2003, Forks, Washington

The Cullens moved back to Forks in mid-autumn, after they stayed with the Denalis for a while. Their stay at Alaska with the other vegetarian vampires had to be cut short because their large numbers and similar features began to attract too much attention.

The Cullens had returned to Forks with the awareness that Ephraim and his pack were dead. They would still respect the treaty by staying away from the Quileute Reservation and not harm humans.

The town buzzes with gossip.

The strange, beautiful family of seven appears overnight—same pristine features, same hushed grace.

The townspeople stare, whisper, speculate.

But at the edge of the forest, hidden beyond the treeline, Jacob and Hadrian watch the Cullen family re-enter town.

“This is it,” Jacob murmurs, adjusting to his wolf-enhanced senses. “They’re back.”

Hadrian nods. “We’ll see how it plays out. This time, things are different. You’re not alone.”

That night…

Under a moonlit sky, Hadrian shifts and joins the pack for a run.

They race through the forest like children of the wind.

Jacob howls in joy beside him.

Hadrian’s wings spread wide as he soars just overhead, circling and diving, weaving between tall trees and star-strewn skies.

The pack calls him Hadrian, the grand unc.

The wolf who is not a wolf.

The guardian who came back from death itself to keep them safe.

—

And far away, in Arizona, Bella Swan dreams of falling.

Of golden eyes and cold hands.

Of a forest that watches.

And a whisper in her mind she doesn’t yet understand:

Hadrian Black.

Chapter Text

Lake Crescent, Forks Washington

Charlie had no idea how Billy convinced him to go fishing that morning. It was cold. It was foggy. It was early. And Jacob had shown up with that man—Hadrian—the one with the British accent, the quiet eyes, and the kind of calm that unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Charlie didn’t know much about Dr Hadrian Black, other than that he was British, too polite, and had the quiet air of someone who carried an old grief with practiced grace. He wasn’t loud. Didn’t arrive with fanfare. He’d rented the old Haskill cabin out by the treeline—neat but worn—and introduced himself to the locals with a soft accent and patient eyes. The town knew him as a freelance researcher and naturalist, using the title “Doctor” out of courtesy.

A week later, Jacob started bringing him along on their fishing trip, and somehow the people on the Reservation—the Blacks, Clearwaters, Atearas—had all known the man already, all greeted him like an old friend.

The four of them—Charlie, Billy, Jacob, and Hadrian—sat along the mossy dock with fishing rods in hand. The lake shimmered under a low fog. Jacob kept trying to one-up Hadrian’s casting form, which Hadrian indulged with good humour.

“Not bad for a foggy morning,” Jacob said, casting his line out like he’d been doing it his whole life.

“Better than paperwork,” Charlie grunted, cradling a thermos full of what passed for coffee.

Billy sat next to him, bundled in his coat, sipping his own brew. “You could try enjoying a day off, Chief.”

“I’ll enjoy it when I catch something.”

Hadrian, seated quietly beside Jacob, gave a small smile. His hands were tucked in fingerless gloves, his fishing rod resting across his knees. “Catching something isn’t the point. The point is to be still.”

“You always this good at fishing, Doc?” Charlie asked, side-eyeing the man’s steady posture and immaculate coat that somehow wasn’t damp.

“I like quiet,” Hadrian replied, smiling faintly. “Stillness helps me think.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “That a London thing?”

“You could say that.” Hadrian didn’t elaborate. He rarely did.

“Jacob tells me you’ve been living out near the north trail,” Charlie said casually.

Hadrian nodded, his rod balanced lightly in his gloved hand.

“You a doctor of what, exactly?” Charlie asked.

“Bit of this, bit of that,” Hadrian said with a smile. “Mostly healing. Sometimes stories.”

Billy chuckled too. “He’s a walker-between. That’s what my grandfather would’ve said.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You saying he’s some kind of shaman?”

Billy gave Hadrian a slow, knowing look. “He’s got an old soul. You’ll see.”

Charlie snorted. “What I see is he can cast better than Jake. That’s magic enough.”

Jacob groaned. “You’re never gonna let me live that down.”

Charlie watched him out of the corner of his eye. There was something off about the doctor—not in a bad way, exactly. Just… odd. Jacob liked him, which was saying something. And Billy treated him like some old friend from another lifetime.

But Charlie noticed something. The air around Hadrian shimmered faintly when the man moved. The mist shifted as if giving him space. Charlie felt it in his bones—this wasn’t just a man who liked peace and quiet.

“How long you been in Forks, Doc?” Charlie asked.

“Not long. But I feel like I’ve always been meant to be here.” He glanced across the lake, where the morning mist drifted like silk across the water’s surface. “It’s peaceful. And there’s something in the woods here… something old. It remembers.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “You a part-time poet, or just weird?”

Hadrian laughed heartily—quiet, genuine. “Bit of both.”

Billy gave Hadrian a slow, knowing smile. “You’re a man of few words.”

“I’ve learned that talking too much gives away your cards,” Hadrian replied, glancing at Charlie’s thermos. “May I?”

Charlie passed it over wordlessly, much to the amusement of Billy and Jacob. Hadrian sipped and gave a mild grimace at the awful tasting burnt bitter concoction. Snape’s potions had tasted better.

Jacob snorted so hard he nearly dropped his fishing rod.

Charlie scowled, taking it back. “Shut up.”

Billy wheezed with laughter at that.

A gentle quiet fell after that, broken only by the occasional call of birds and the ripple of fish just below the surface. The lake shimmered faintly as the mist began to thin. Hadrian exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment.

Jacob nudged him. “You falling asleep?”

“No. Just… listening.”

“To what?”

“The trees,” Hadrian said simply.

Charlie side-eyed him. “You get enough sleep last night, Doc?”

“I don’t sleep much,” Hadrian replied honestly.

That earned a squint from Charlie, but before he could prod further, Jacob’s rod bent suddenly. A fish. A big one.

“Whoa!” he shouted, gripping the pole with both hands.

Billy whooped. “Hold it steady! Don’t yank!”

Hadrian reached over calmly and touched the base of the rod—just once. Jacob’s struggle lessened as if the line had shifted in his favour. No one noticed the faint shimmer of magic that travelled from Hadrian’s fingers to the rod and vanished into the line like a whisper.

Moments later, Jacob, reeled in a fat, glistening rainbow trout with an ease that seemed too lucky, Charlie thought he saw Hadrian brush his fingers against the rod before the line pulled taut.

“Yes!” Jacob cried out, grinning from ear to ear.

Charlie blinked. “What the hell? That fish must’ve been the size of your arm.”

Hadrian leaned back, stretching lazily. “Looks like we won’t need breakfast.”

Charlie shook his head. “What are you, some kind of fish whisperer too?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” Hadrian deadpanned.

Jacob was already digging in the cooler for a clean cloth to wrap his catch, still buzzing. “This is the best morning I’ve had in forever.”

Charlie looked around—the mist thinning, the lake still, the warmth of his thermos radiating against his hands. Billy was laughing softly, Jacob was glowing, and Hadrian…

Hadrian looked like someone who had seen too much of the world—and finally found a corner where he could just be.

“Yeah,” Charlie said quietly, “It’s a good day.”he watched him out of the corner of his eye, the way one might watch a fox wander calmly through a backyard. Fascinated. Cautious. Knowing it didn’t belong—and yet somehow it fit.

As they packed up, Hadrian reached into his coat and pulled out a small tin.

“What’s that?” Billy asked.

“Shortbread. Family recipe. I carry it everywhere. In case of emergencies.”

Charlie took a piece cautiously. “You drug it with a prescription?”

“Only with love.”

It was damn good shortbread.

As the morning melted into noon and they headed back toward the cars, Charlie caught Hadrian looking up at the trees again.

“You really like the woods, huh?”

Hadrian gave a small nod. “They don’t ask questions. They just listen.”

Charlie said nothing for a moment.

Then: “You’re strange, Doc. But… I like you.”

Hadrian smiled, quiet and soft. “That makes two of us.”

Charlie Swan had good instincts.

Years on the force sharpened his gut into something close to clairvoyance—he could smell a lie, feel tension in a room before it crackled, and pick up on the unspoken details most folks missed.

So when he realised Dr Hadrian Black had been in Forks for just over three weeks and nothing about the doctor added up, his inner alarms started humming.

Softly. Not like a warning siren.

More like the low hum of static before a storm.
——

The first thing Charlie noticed was the kettle.

His ancient kettle would whistle minutes early whenever Hadrian was in the house. Bella’s old record player—broken for years—played a Dusty Springfield track perfectly the night Hadrian brought over a bottle of wine.

Once, Charlie stubbed his toe hard against the kitchen table. Cursed like a sailor. Hadrian crouched down, touched his foot lightly, and muttered something in what sounded like Latin.

Seconds later, the pain faded entirely.

“Don’t tell me that was psychosomatic,” Charlie muttered.

Hadrian only offered a knowing shrug. “Placebo’s a powerful thing.”

Charlie wasn’t buying it. Neither was his gut.

Then came the rainstorm.

One particularly foul evening —windy, wild, fat drops of rain pounding the roof like fists, Charlie had glanced out the window and saw Hadrian standing in the driveway. The storm was biblical—horizontal rain, trees thrashing—but during this torrential downpour, the man remained utterly calm, coat flapping like wings. Bone dry. Not even his hair was wet. It was like the rain parted around him.

Charlie stepped outside and was instantly soaked. The second his boot hit the porch, the rain nailed him in the face.

Charlie wiped his brow. “You’re not wet,” he said accusingly.

“Seems that way,” Hadrian answered calmly.

Charlie narrowed his eyes, “Seems impossible.”

Hadrian tilted his head. “Isn’t everything impossible until it’s not?”

That night…

Charlie couldn’t sleep.

He’d felt something all day. A charge in the air, like a wire stretched too tight.

He got out of bed, drawn to the back window. There—standing in the centre of his yard—was Hadrian.

And light.

It drifted off the man in threads—gold and silver, starlight spun into motion. He moved with slow, fluid grace, drawing symbols that hovered midair, glowing softly. A breeze circled him, warm and dry despite the chill. And then—

A hawk of fire exploded from the man’s shoulder, wings wide, a scream of flame and light in the dark. It soared high, circled once, and dissolved into embers.

Charlie stepped outside, not bothering with shoes.

Hadrian didn’t flinch. He simply lowered his hands.

“You saw.”

“I saw.”

“Are you afraid?”

Charlie considered. “No. But I am about to ask something that sounds insane.”

“Go on.”

“What the hell are you?”

Hadrian glanced up and raised an eyebrow.

“You walk like a soldier but talk like a professor. You spend more time with Billy and Jake than most locals ever do. You’re always in the right place at the right time. And don’t get me started on how that damn kettle boiled itself last Tuesday.”

A long pause.

Hadrian leaned forward. “What do you think I am?”

Charlie looked at him—really looked. The firelight cast shadows under his eyes, made the green glow faintly golden. Not threatening. Just… ancient. Like looking at the heart of the forest.

“I think you’re not dangerous,” Charlie said finally. “But you’re not normal either.”

Hadrian smiled, soft and sad. “Not for a very long time.”

Charlie held his gaze, “Alright, I’m ready.”

“Spill.” he let out a noisy little breath.

Hadrian looked up at the moon, then down again. “My name is Hadrian Black. I’m the Master of Death.”

Charlie blinked. “That’s not a title you say lightly.”

“I don’t.”

“And that firehawk?”

“Fawkes. He’s a phoenix I knew since I was small. He visits me once in a while.”

Charlie stood in silence, the cold forgotten.

“You could burn the whole damn world down, couldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Hadrian answered truthfully.

“But you don’t.”

“No, I won’t.”

Charlie took a long breath. “You ever think about running for mayor?”

Hadrian laughed—actually laughed—and the gold in his eyes dulled to warm green ruby rings again.

“I think I’d be too honest.”

“Forks could use that.”

Later…

A comfortable silence settled between them. Charlie glanced at the old wall clock. “Damn thing’s fast again.”

Hadrian flicked his fingers. The second hand hiccupped… and slowed. Just a little.

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

Hadrian sipped his tea, expression calm. “I have no idea what you mean.”

In the days that followed, nothing outwardly changed.

Hadrian still helped Billy with his garden. Still brewed Charlie’s coffee stronger than medically advisable. Still went on long, meditative walks through the forest with Jacob, sometimes barefoot, sometimes humming old melodies no one recognised.

But Charlie changed.

He no longer dismissed the strange.

He caught the glint of impossible things at the edge of his vision—floating lanterns behind trees, snowflakes that paused mid-fall, a phoenix-shaped shadow circling under the sun.

Forks was peaceful. For now.

But in the quiet, just before Bella Swan came home to stay—

—Forks had already met its first impossible truth.

And as Charlie lay in bed, the rain still whispering against the windows, he stared at the ceiling and muttered:

“Definitely not normal.”

But for some reason… Charlie Swan, for once, wasn’t afraid of what came next.
——
The town hadn’t changed. Not really.

Forks was still the colour of mist and moss, its streets damp and its skies full of unspoken promises. Bella Swan stepped off the plane with two overpacked bags, a frown fixed into her features, and a resigned ache behind her eyes. She’d expected the move to feel surreal. Instead, it just felt cold.

Charlie met her at the airport with a sheepish smile and the same brown flannel he’d worn for the past fifteen years. He helped her carry her bags, made awkward small talk, and tried not to look too hopeful when she said, “It’s good to see you, Dad.”

The drive home was quiet, filled with the hum of the engine and the occasional radio crackle.

About ten minutes into the forest road, Charlie broke the silence.

“By the way,” he said, eyes fixed on the road, “you’ll probably meet Dr Hadrian Black. Comes by sometimes. Bit of a recluse. British. Looks about your age. Don’t let that fool you.”

Bella blinked. “Okay… wait, why?”

Charlie hesitated. “No. Just… different. You’ll see.”

Bella met him the next afternoon.

She was unpacking in her room when she heard a quiet knock downstairs. Charlie had called it a work-from-home day, which in his world meant working while making chilli and occasionally swearing at the news.

“Doc,” Charlie greeted. “Come in, come in. Bella’s here.”

She came down the stairs slowly and saw him standing there in the hallway: a man too elegant for Forks. Tall. Coat perfectly tailored. Hair black as crow feathers and slightly wind-swept. His unique eyes were—no, not green, not at first—silver. Then green again with red outer rings when he smiled at her. The colours suit him.

“Miss Swan,” he said, voice low and melodic. “A pleasure.”

Bella shook his hand, surprised at the warmth of it. “Please call me Bella. You’re… a doctor-doctor?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Hadrian said chuckling lightly. “Only if there is a need, I’d say.”

Later, over dinner, Bella caught Hadrian humming a strange, mournful tune while helping Charlie dice onions. He never once looked at the knife. And the blade never once missed its mark.

Something about him made the back of her neck prickle.

Not dangerous.

But not normal, either.

Forks Grocery Mart, Evening

The weather in Forks was doing what it always did—raining with passive-aggressive persistence. The town’s only grocery store, an unassuming little corner mart with perpetually flickering lights, smelled of coffee grounds, damp wood and tangerines.

Dr Hadrian Black moved with quiet grace through the produce aisle, basket in hand, wool coat immaculate despite the drizzle outside. He paused before a crate of apples, lips curling in private amusement at their glossy perfection—reminding him of a apple-loving shinigami.

“Fancy seeing you again,” came a tremulous voice from behind.

He turned sharply.

Esme Cullen stood there holding a pack of sugar and looking as though she’d seen a ghost. Her golden eyes were a fraction too wide, but her smile remained soft. The years hadn’t touched her, not that they could. She was every bit the maternal warmth she’d been when they’d first met in 1936.

“Esme,” Hadrian said, genuine delight softening his aristocratic posture. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“You remembered me,” she replied gently while assessing him. “Neither have you, not one line. Still so polished I feel underdressed.”

He offered his arm with mock chivalry. “You’re radiant, as ever.”

She laughed softly and took it. “Carlisle will be thrilled. We all thought you were just a fleeting mystery when you disappeared.”

“I travel a lot,” Hadrian said simply.

Before Esme could respond, a low voice interrupted with surprise.

“Dr Black?”

Hadrian turned—and saw Edward Cullen.

The bronze-haired teen with a poet’s eyes. Standing taller now, more confident in posture but still wrapped in the same haunted quiet. His expression was somewhere between stunned and reverent.

“I’d heard you were in Forks,” Edward said softly. “But I thought it was a rumour. I didn’t know you’d come back.”Edward gave him a measured look. “It’s been close to 70 years. You were kind. Unusually kind—for someone with your power.”

Hadrian tilted his head, amused. “I’m flattered you thought so.”

Edward glanced at Esme. “We should probably tell the others. Alice has been going mad trying to understand the anomaly in her visions.”

As if summoned, two figures entered the aisle—one bright, sprightly, with close-cropped dark hair and the unmistakable energy of someone used to skipping ahead of time itself. The other tall, composed, unreadable and alert.

“Speak of the devil,” Esme said fondly. “Alice, Jasper—come meet someone special.”

Hadrian offered a gentle smile as they approached.

Alice froze a few feet away.

Her eyes were wide. Then suddenly soft. Then—brimming with something she didn’t often express: relief.

“Oh,” she whispered. “It’s you.”

Jasper, beside her, didn’t tense as he normally would around a stranger. Instead, he seemed calm—serene, even. He blinked once, then said simply, “You’re a balm.”

Hadrian raised a brow. “That’s a new one. Most people say ‘You’re a menace’ or ‘Please don’t levitate my car again.’” Recalling the times Charlie and Billy chided him.

Alice laughed aloud, warm and surprised. “I like him.”

Jasper nodded. “Me too.”

Hadrian dipped his head, acknowledging the praise like a gentleman receiving courtly affection. “Dr Hadrian Black. British wizard, surgical consultant, occasional herbalist. At your service.”

Alice beamed and looked at Edward. “He’s blank to me. Like a stone in the river. Everything flows around him, but nothing ever touches. It’s beautiful.”

Edward added, quieter, “And I still can’t hear a single thought.”

Hadrian looked faintly apologetic. “It’s nothing personal. I’ve always been difficult to read after my teenage years.”

They lingered a moment longer in the aisle, caught in a small bubble of stillness.

Then Alice tilted her head and narrowed her eyes curiously. “You’ve been somewhere warm recently. Citrus, sandalwood, and…” She paused, nose wrinkling, then lit up. “Bergamot? That’s Italian cologne.”

Hadrian’s smile never faltered. “I do travel.”

Edward looked alarmed but Jasper looked faintly amused before asking, “Been to Volterra, then?”

“Briefly,” Hadrian replied evenly, brushing over the weeks he’d spent tangled in silk sheets between the Volturi thrones, whispering ancient names and bleeding into eternal mouths that called him mate.

If he missed the way his heart stuttered at the memory of Aro’s breath against his neck, or the crimson devotion in Caius’s voice, or the steady hand Marcus always offered first—he didn’t show it. Though Esme looked at him in concern.

His eyes flickered, briefly, with red—but not one of them noticed.

Cullen Household, Later That Night

Evening had settled softly over Forks, mist curling at the corners of the Cullen house like breath against glass. Inside, the family gathered as they always did when something shifted in their carefully measured world.

“Hadrian invited us over for tea,” Esme said, bustling into the house as the others trailed behind her.

The name stirred a wave of recollection among the older Cullens. Emmett straightened. Rosalie narrowed her eyes.

Carlisle looked up from the journal in his lap. “Hadrian?”

Edward exhaled slowly. “Dr Hadrian Black. We met him in 1936—He looks exactly the same,” he said, turning to Carlisle. “Not older. Not changed. And I still can’t hear a single thought from him.”

“Thirty-six?” Jasper asked. “And he’s still alive? How?”

“I know! Magic! Wing-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa!” Emmett bellowed with theatrical flair, eyes gleaming with mischief. Alice giggled, a peal of laughter ringing across the room.

Before anyone could react, he lunged forward and swept Jasper off his feet with surprising ease, cackling like a mad man.

“Oi!” Jasper squeaked as Emmett unceremoniously dropped him onto the floor like a sack of flour.

Jasper, sprawled awkwardly. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how levitation works,” he laughed lightly.

“Worked just fine to me,” Emmett said smugly, flexing his arms. “Who needs magic when you’ve got guns like these?”

“He remembers all of us,” Edward chuckled lightly before he told a grinning Carlisle. “And he’s stronger now. Quieter too. But not less dangerous.”

“Does he feel like a threat?” Rosalie smiled at Emmett’s antics before she asked, arms crossed.

“No,” Jasper replied simply.

“He feels… older,” Alice said softly, her voice tinged with quiet wonder. “Like he already belongs to someone else—like he’s carried them with him, lived a thousand different lives, and pieced himself back together from every one.”

Carlisle turned to her. “Any visions?”

“None. And that terrifies me.”

She gave Edward a questioning look, “He’s shielded?” she asked.

“Not like anything I’ve ever seen,” Edward murmured. “His mind is a fortress. But it’s not cold. It’s… gentle. Compassionate. I used to think Carlisle is the kindest man I’d ever met until him.”

Esme smiled fondly. “He is. He had this calm about him. A quiet strength and warmth.”

“He played along with Emmett’s nonsense,” Rosalie added, smirking. “Conjured flowers and all.”

“I liked him,” Emmett said. “Still do. Didn’t even hesitate when he knew what we were. Just smiled like we were neighbours and he was borrowing sugar.”

Carlisle looked to Jasper. “And you’re sure he’s not one of us?”

Jasper nodded. “No scent of venom. No thirst. And no red or gold eyes either—though I could have missed it. He’s something… other.”

Esme entered the room again, this time with a faint wistfulness in her tone. “He was kind to us when he had no reason to be. And he’s still the same. Still impossibly gentle.”

Edward added quietly, “He’s someone you instinctively trust. Even if you know you shouldn’t.”

The family exchanged looks.

“Shall we visit?” Carlisle asked. “He may be expecting us.”

Dr Hadrian Black’s Cabin

The knock came just after midnight.

Hadrian was sitting by the fire, a book open in his lap, starlight glinting in his tea. He didn’t need to check the door—he already knew.

He waved it open.

Hadrian already had tea set for eight when they arrived. They filed in quietly, politely—except Emmett, who knocked twice before pushing the door open like a storm front.

The cabin is wood-scented and strangely timeless. Books lined the walls in neat stacks. The fire crackled softly.

Hadrian rose from his seat to greet them with a welcoming smile. His coat was midnight wool, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a delicate silver chain. His eyes—vivid green with a subtle outer ring of red—held a deep, unreadable stillness.

““Carlisle,” he said softly, “Esme. Edward. Emmett. Rosalie. Alice. Jasper.”

“You remember us,” Carlisle said with obvious relief.

Well,” he said warmly before taking Carlisle’s hand into a shake, “you haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you,” Carlisle said warmly, his eyes flicked to the colour change, but he said nothing. “It’s good to see you again, Hadrian.”

Hadrian’s gaze turned to them, softening.

“Good to see you all again,” he said sincerely.

Alice beamed instantly. “Oh! You smell like memory and lightning now.”

Hadrian laughed, genuinely amused. “That might be the best compliment I’ve received this century.”

Jasper extended a hand. “Sir.”

Hadrian took it without hesitation. The moment they touched, Jasper’s empathic sense went rigid—and then flooded with something else: balance. There was no dissonance, no pain, no fear. Just deep, quiet clarity.

“You… don’t lie,” Jasper said in quiet wonder.

“Not when I can help it,” Hadrian answered, turning his hand over for Jasper to see his scar: I must not tell lies.

Jasper and Edward gasped in quiet horror but said nothing.

“You haven’t aged,” Rosalie said from the threshold, where she lingered.

“Neither have you,” Hadrian replied, not unkindly.

Emmett hi-five him and plopped down onto the hearth, sprawling comfortably. “So, you just wandered back into Forks?”

“I never really left,” Hadrian said with a small smile. “Though I’ve travelled. Recently returned from the continent.”

Carlisle glanced at him meaningfully. “Not Italy, I hope?”

Hadrian tilted his head. “Is that still considered dangerous?”

Rosalie snorted. “If you value your neck, yes.”

Esme smiled, “I hope you’ll join us for dinner sometime. Not that we eat, but we like the conversation.”

“Of course,” Hadrian said gently. “I think it would do me good to be among old friends.”

He rose and returned to his seat. Behind him, a painting half-covered in cloth caught Alice’s eye. She wandered closer, then lifted the cloth.

It was a portrait—hand-painted in oil. Three men sat beside Hadrian, each distinct and regal. Expression neutral, betraying nothing.

Aro. Caius. Marcus.

Alice froze. A chill ran through her ageless frame.

She turned slowly. “This… is Volturi work.”

Hadrian didn’t turn. “Yes.”

Edward’s voice was calm, but there is a tinge of worry. “You met the Volturi?”

Hadrian finally turned, meeting Edward’s eyes.

“I wasn’t harmed,” he said simply. “No one raised a hand against me.”

That was answer enough.

Carlisle stared at him, voice low. “Hadrian… they fear no one. Except perhaps you.”

“I’m not an enemy,” Hadrian said.

“No,” Jasper said quietly. “You’re not.”

Alice smiled. “And you’re not alone.”

There was a moment of silence, soft and strange. The fire popped gently in the hearth.

Edward finally stepped forward. “I remember admiring you and your work,” he said. “Back then. In the ’30s. You were the most human man I’d ever met—kind, steady, gentle. And yet… I couldn’t read you. I never knew why.”

He looked again into those altered eyes. “I still don’t.”

Hadrian’s voice, when he answered, was low and knowing.

“Some things are meant to stay hidden,” he said. “Even from those who see too much.”

Alice nodded slowly. “There’s more. I saw… something.”

They all turned to her.

“Your shadow. In the forest. It was… huge. Winged. Wrapped in flame. But it wasn’t hurting anything—it was watching.”

“You’re not only a wizard, are you?” Alice asked quietly, observing his unique eyes.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“What are you, then?”

Hadrian didn’t answer right away. He folded his hands in his lap and his book flew back to the bookshelf.

“Hadrian…” Carlisle hesitated. “Are you something older?”

“No.” His voice was still kind. But firm. “Just changed. I died once. Came back with something I never asked for. Now Death follows me—”

Silence fell between them.

Then Jasper asked softly, “Should we be afraid of you?”

Hadrian’s eyes shimmered silver again. “Only if you are evil.”

Alice tilted her head. “You’ve seen what’s coming, haven’t you?”

“I’ve felt it. Bella Swan.”He rose slowly, coat settling around him like shadows folding.

Alice stepped forward. “We will stand with you.”

Hadrian looked at her—softly, with something like sorrow.

“We’ll see,” he said.

And with a wave of his hand, the fire crackled higher. A whisper of wings passed through the cabin.

The Cullens stood still.

Now they realised—they hadn’t known him at all.

Later That Night

The fire crackled softly as Hadrian stood by the painting in his sitting room. He touched his temples, watching the specks of red at the outer edges of his irises—memories burned into flesh.

“I miss you,” he whispered to the silence, to the bond thrumming across the ocean. “They would be amused to know I ran into the Cullens on a grocery trip.”

He let his eyes fall shut and thought of Aro’s joy, Caius’ possessiveness, Marcus’ aching steadiness.

My little flame, Aro would whisper.
Ours, Caius would snarl.
Always, Marcus would promise.

Hadrian’s lips curved.

They’d nearly caused a diplomatic incident when he’d tried to leave for Forks. Three kings—ancient, feared, untouchable—reduced to glowering bedfellows and dramatic clingers-on who’d tried everything from seductive bribery to mock exile to keep him there.

In the end, he’d slipped away with a kiss to each and the promise he would return before the moon changed.

It had only been a few days.

But he felt their longing like a song under his skin.

Soon, he thought.

He turned away from the painting.

For now, he had a town to watch. A girl to observe. And a secret life to guard with careful, old hands.

——
Volterra, Italy

The wind cut through Volterra like a warning—sharp, cold, and full of secrets. Cobblestones glistened with the remnants of spring rain, slick beneath booted feet. Shadows flickered in alleyways, drawn long by the wane of late afternoon. High above the ancient streets, within the heart of a fortress that had outlived empires, three immortals waited.

The silence after Hadrian left was not peace.
It was wretched.

Aro remained still long after the echo of footsteps faded into the marble, long after the scent of magic and skin and lavender faded from the folds of the bedding. The air still whispered with remnants of him, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was.

He stood at the foot of their bed—his bed, Caius’, Marcus’—and stared at the still-warm dent in the mattress where Hadrian had slept.

Their mate.
Their miracle.
Gone.

He hadn’t cried in centuries. Not since Didyme. Not since the war. But now, alone with the smell of shared magic and the phantom ache of a bond pulled taut across distance, Aro trembled.

His fingers grazed the place where Hadrian’s heart had beat so fiercely against him the night before. Where lips had whispered secrets meant for no one else.

“I’ll come back,” Hadrian had said, green eyes rimmed with scarlet, voice soft against Aro’s ear.

Aro hissed and turned sharply, cape flaring behind him as he strode through the chamber.

He found Caius exactly where he expected to: the throne room, pacing, snapping orders at trembling guards about enforcing “new security measures” around the city.

“A mortal could assassinate us with ease if we let our shields down,” Caius spat, his platinum hair wild, face tight with rage. “He left. He’s gone. And we—what? We sit here and smile like sycophants?”

Aro approached slowly, voice smooth and quiet, like the tip of a blade against skin. “He isn’t gone. He’s walking. Through the world. Carrying us in every breath.”

Caius growled low in his throat. “You don’t know that. What if he doesn’t return?”

“He will.”

“He said that last time,” Caius snapped, rounding on him. “And you just let him leave. You didn’t even fight it.”

Aro’s lips twitched into something between a smile and a snarl. “You think I didn’t feel it? That tearing? That raw, bleeding ache like bone grinding against bone? I let him go because I trust him. And if you knew what love looked like outside your anger, you might understand.”

That shut Caius up.

For all his fury, his coldness, Caius loved the deepest. His rage was grief. His silence, a scream held behind centuries of control.

Aro left him standing there—rigid, trembling, furious.

Marcus, however, was not angry.

He was haunted.

He sat alone in the gallery, where marble columns opened out to the Tuscan hills. It was raining—not enough to flood, but enough to blur the vineyards and paint the sky a sorrowful grey.

Marcus had not spoken since Hadrian left.

He simply sat. One hand on the empty cushion beside him.

Staring.

Waiting.

Aro knelt silently beside him. “He’ll come back.”

Marcus didn’t move. His voice, when it came, was slow, quiet. Truthful.

“I saw the thread fray,” he murmured. “The bond, Aro. It pulled. Like a harp string stretched too far. If it snaps…”

“It won’t,” Aro said quickly.

But Marcus looked at him with those tired, ancient eyes. Eyes that had seen every kind of love and the cost of losing it.

“He’s the only future I saw that lit up,” Marcus whispered. “Without him, it all just… dulls again.”

Aro swallowed hard and placed a hand over Marcus’. “Then we’ll wait. We’ll hold the string steady until he returns.”

Aro hadn’t fed that day. Hadn’t fed since Hadrian left.

The guards didn’t dare mention it. They saw his stillness and kept their distance, not daring to disturb a King who mourned while still awake.

He went to Hadrian’s chamber—their chamber—and laid down upon the bed again.

He buried his face in Hadrian’s pillow.

Breathed in what remained.

He wanted to weep, but the tears refused him. All that came was silence and longing and the unbearable echo of a voice he would not hear again for weeks.

“I live a life unpredictable,” Harry had once said. “But I always return to the things that anchor me.”

Aro closed his eyes.

“I’ll wait,” he whispered into the empty bed. “For every storm. For every impossible mile. I will wait until the stars fall from the sky. But do not make me wait forever, love.”

“Because I do not know how to survive a second eternity without you.”

Flashback…

The room smelled of myrrh and candle wax. Heavy velvet drapes blocked the moonlight, casting long golden shadows from the fire dancing across stone walls and silk sheets.

Hadrian lay on a vast bed carved from volcanic obsidian. He was not alone.

Aro traced lazy, reverent circles into Hadrian’s bare chest, as if writing sacred runes with his fingertips. His dark eyes glittered like ink in flame, voice low and murmured.

“You realise, of course, that if you stay away too long,” Aro said, “I will lose what little patience I have.”

Hadrian smiled faintly, lips parted just enough to breathe Aro in. “You say that as if I’m not returning.”

“You’ll return,” Aro whispered. “You always do. But it’s the time between your absence and arrival that drives me feral.”

“Feral?” Hadrian teased, glancing down at the faint red bite marks across his collarbone. “That wasn’t feral?”

At that, Caius growled from behind, his strong hands tightening around Hadrian’s hips. “Do not mock us, wizard. We barely tolerated you trying to leave the last time.”

“You tolerated it fine,” Hadrian said dryly. “You burnt half a library.”

“Only the irrelevant volumes,” Caius snapped. “They were taking up too much space.”

“Ever the optimist, I see.” Hadrian murmured.

From the corner of the chamber, Marcus stirred.

He moved like mist—silent, graceful, a shadow wrapped in starlight. He approached with reverence, his dark robe slipping open at the chest as he sat beside them. His fingers brushed Hadrian’s cheek as if touching something sacred.

“You anchor us,” Marcus whispered. “In a world that stopped moving centuries ago, you make the blood stir again.”

Hadrian’s breath caught at the softness in Marcus’ voice. He looked into those eyes—ancient, wise, mournful—and saw the truth. He wasn’t just a mate. He was a balm. A mirror. A reason.

“Stay,” Marcus said, brushing their foreheads together. “Don’t leave. Let the mortals fend for themselves.”

Hadrian’s heart ached with need. Their need. His own.

“I’ll return,” Hadrian whispered, threading his fingers through Marcus’. “I always do.”

Aro leaned down, pressing a kiss to Hadrian’s throat, over the pulse that no longer beat. “Amore mio,” he murmured, voice like satin and steel. “We’ll let you go… but don’t forget what we taste like.”

“Don’t forget what you sound like when you beg,” Caius added wickedly, lips brushing the shell of Hadrian’s ear.

And Hadrian gasped as the red heat curled around him—Aro’s bite at his throat, Marcus’ fangs at his shoulder, Caius’ lips pressed to the small of his back.

Their venom sank into him—slowly, reverently, completely.

And when he came undone in their arms, magic unspooling through his body like firelight on snow.

——
Next up:

It started the moment Bella Swan entered the room.

Her scent was overwhelming—potent and complex—his thirst flared and damn near burnt him alive—but it wasn’t the only thing that made Edward react strongly that day.

Hadrian was near.

He wasn’t at the school. Not physically. But Edward could feel him.

A feather-brush of sensation along his mind. Not thought. Not words. Just a presence. Steady. Timeless. Burning and cool at once.

That wasn’t supposed to be possible.

Edward could not read Hadrian’s mind. Not now, not ever. Not even a flicker of mental texture like he sometimes got from true empaths or gifted witches. There was nothing. Like the void between stars.

But this was worse.

Because now, Hadrian wasn’t just shielded—he was echoing.

He tried to focus, tried to centre himself, but the more he thought of Hadrian, the more disoriented he became.

His eyes.
His voice.
That otherness.

“Something’s changed,” Edward muttered as he stared out the biology lab window, the rain blurring everything into vague silver lines.

Hadrian had changed. He looked the same. Sounded the same. But his magic was everywhere now. Deep. Ancient.

And that faint ring of crimson now circling the edge of his green eyes?

That was dangerous.

Edward couldn’t stop thinking about the crimson edge around Hadrian’s eyes.

It was subtle. It shimmered only in sunlight. But Edward’s instincts screamed danger.

That terrified Edward more than any monster he’d ever known.

Hadrian had always been unreadable. But now?

Now he was a secret cloaked in sacred power.

He was no longer the man they had met in 1936.

He was something more.

And yet Hadrian smiled like nothing was wrong. Walked like the world owed him nothing. Loved like someone who had survived every kind of grief and chosen still to be kind.