My Soul, Your Heart

Petty Cats and Meeting the Dogs

It struck Harry that the Cullen's didn't give him a specific time for the meeting with the fake were-wolves and had no way to contact him, this gave Harry the very tempting idea to lock his door and spend the evening how he wanted to: sprawled across the sofa, Buckbeak's head in his lap, Fawkes perching close by, staring into the fire imaging himself burning to death and staying dead.

But no, the picture of Jasper Hale with a slight pouting frown plagued him. So Harry would just turn up at 7 and hope for the best, maybe he'd offer Jasper a way to contact him to avoid these opportunities for little mistakes.

Was that too forward? Offering his number to the immortal blood sucker?

It felt more childish and clumsy than anything else, they hadn't discussed the whole 'soulmate' thing. Jasper didn't even know that Harry knew yet.

Harry winced at the image of a similar conversation to the one they had in the woods.

It was painful how oblivious the entire clan was, sure Harry had a lot more knowledge than a lot of the wizarding world when it came to dangerous situations let alone the tiny town of Forks, but it was blatantly obvious there was something up with the Cullen's. So he couldn't be blamed for figuring these things out.

Bland-Bella figured it out.

It was really bothering Harry how someone so dense could figure out a secret like that, it meant the Cullen's were putting themselves at risk.

Jasper was potentially at risk.

That thought pulled at something inside Harry that he ignored.

Harry groaned at the uninvited emotion and wordlessly summoned a bottle of firewhisky (He'd stocked up earlier that day) and took a harsh gulp of the burning liquor.

Turning up drunk to a meeting with 7 vampires, Merlin knows how many wolves and a whiny human would be a low moment but one he was more than capable of over coming.

Harry's mind once again wondered to what these wolves really were, they sounded more like some rare genetic Animagus from the books he'd found of local tribal myths. It would be interesting to see how magic reacted to them, not that Harry planned on fighting a wolf but you never know.

The sun began to set and dusk drew in far faster than Harry would like, soon he was sliding his leather jacket over his shoulders. He was still wearing the clothes from the day before, simply coating himself in a few Scourgify charms to save face.

Being around a bunch of creatures with an impeccable sense of smell was going to hurt Harry's self-esteem.

Harry strolled downstairs into the living room, Fawkes was eating some kind of purple lizard, making a terrible mess of Harry's sofa. (probably revenge for making the Phoenix worry about him)

Buckbeak had somehow squashed himself behind one of the arm chairs in the far corner of the room; and seemed to be making a nest out of empty liquor bottles, torn blankets, Harry's cigarette butts (that Buckbeak kept stealing from the various ash trays dotted about the house) and various other concerning objects.

Harry blinked at the Hippogriff, who stared back at him from his place nestled amongst the things he'd collected, an innocent glee in his yellow eyes saying 'Look what I made'.

Harry was once again painfully reminded that if the great and mighty Hippogriff was ever transformed into a house cat, he would 100% be a scruffy stray raiding the bins behind dirty night clubs.

Harry gave a deep sigh of long suffering blended with pure fondness and turned back to Fawkes, who was now looking at Harry with a look that was far too smug for a bird; even a magical one.