A Harry Potter and Twilight Crossover Fanfiction

By Systatic

Blanket Disclaimer

I do not own Harry Potter or Twilight and I am not affiliated with them in any way. This story is purely for entertainment value.

As a warning: This story contains slash, otherwise known as homosexual pairings, i.e. romantic liaisons between two men.

This is a Harry Potter/Jasper Hale story.


The prophecy had a consequence—one that none foresaw. After Voldemort's gruesome defeat, Ron and Hermione ship Harry off to a quiet reprieve to heal and figure out just what is happening to their best friend.


Harry's lips quivered as he stared at his blood stained hands. The rich, dark red of his vitality mocked him. He shivered. What am I?

"He can't stay." The voice was firm, demanding. Harry knew, even from his spot on the infirmary bed, that Hermione would not budge on her decision. He'd have smiled at the thought if he hadn't forgotten how to.

"Why not?" This one was Ron; he'd know that indignant squawk anywhere.

"Because of the memories, Ronald!" she yelled. Harry could imagine her flailing arms and bright eyes. "He won't heal! Don't you see? He's hurting! We can't let him stay!"

There was a pause. Then, "What do you think we should do, Hermione? Just leave? What about everyone else?" Rhythmic tapping on the floor caught his attention; Ron was pacing.

Hermione let out a sigh. Harry shifted in his bed at the sound; he didn't like it. The last time she had sighed like that was when she had decided not to return her parent's memories. It was the sound of defeat, concession. Hermione shouldn't make sounds like that—she was the rock in their clumsy, unstable relationship. "Ron," she whispered, "Harry won't recover here. You saw him, what he looked like. There's something going on; something that's affecting him. We need to find out what it is and we can't do it here."

There was shuffling, fabric against fabric—a hug?—and when the youngest male Weasley spoke again, his voice was muffled. "I know, 'Mione. It's just… my family; Percy, Fred, and Dad... Mum is heartbroken. Leaving would hurt her so much more."

"She'll understand, Ron. Your family loves Harry, too. They can see he's falling apart. This is the best thing we can do for him, and it's not like we're leaving forever. We'll write, and floo, and when everything is fixed, we can come back."

Harry knew Ron was reluctant. He knew that Ron loved him; just like he loved his family and he was torn between the two. But, Harry had to agree with Hermione—staying in England was painful. It hurt.

His eyes drifted closed again, trying to stem the flow of burning tears. He'd been the strong one for so long and now, now that it was all over (because it had to be; he couldn't take more adventure, he was done, broken—a shell), now that he had no purpose, he felt so lost. Harry sucked in a ragged breath. Running went against his every instinct—he had never run from his problems before.

The prophecy… he had expected to die fulfilling it—wanted to die fulfilling it. He would have been happy to die for it; it was a good death—noble, very Gryffindor; but, he didn't, in the end. He lived.

Harry had torn out Voldemort's black, slimy, still-beating heart with his bare hands and crushed his cold, scaled neck with his foot. He had sent the killing curse at the prone body, just to be sure, just as Voldemort had done to him mere minutes before.

He had watched as the body had bubbled, burned, collapsed in on itself as the magic that held it together collapsed under the acidic green of the Avada Kedavra, had watched as each and every one of his marked followers had screamed, collapsed, writhed, pleaded, and, eventually, followed their master in death, their left arms crumbling into ash.

He felt a brief flash of thankfulness that Snape and Malfoy Junior were already dead—they didn't have to share the agony of their former Death Eater comrades.

He nearly whimpered, remembering the tantalizing feel of death; so peaceful, so effortless. It would have been so easy to simply run from Voldemort's wrath—to take the easy way out.

But he hadn't.

And now, it was impossible.

Because now, he wouldn't—couldn't—die. Ever.

Harry wanted to scream.

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