Vitamin D
Harry unhappily finds himself back at Forks High School on Thursday morning after two blurry days off. Kreacher had been in a right strop all morning in rebellion to Harry’s two days of indulgence, so he’d left the house early to keep the elf happy. Somewhere along the line, Kreacher has become a stickler for The Timeline, and Harry’s positive Kreacher even requested his own copy from Hermione just to keep them on track. Suffice it to say, Kreacher is unhappy with the two days off. Harry doesn’t even understand why—its not like the timeline is dependent on his attendance.
Harry personally feels the two days off are a win. Even with the doom and gloom of the last two days, he hasn’t offed himself. Really, his mental health is shining after a short dark patch. It’s possible he’s just feeling the effects of vitamin D—Merlin knows he’s likely deficient by ten years' worth after all that closet time when he was younger. Hogwarts isn’t the sunniest place either. It’s really not surprising that one glimmer of sun through the perpetually overcast Forks makes Harry feel like a new person.
He hasn’t even had a cigarette yet and he’s sat through two god-awful classes, one on Muggle history and the other trigonometry. No substances and he’s almost made it to lunch? Really, Harry is just doing amazing. The only thing that could bring this day down would be Alice, and she doesn’t seem to be at school today. He feels a bit horrible thinking that she might send him into a spiral, but she just reminds him too much of Luna. Sure, he had already been on thin ice mentally after a big move internationally and the actual reasons for said move, but honestly Forks had been a breath of fresh air to him and he’d been relishing in the anonymity before meeting her. It really did all go downhill after the welcome wagon.
“James! Come sit with us!” An arm latches around his own, one Harry jerks out of instinctually.
“Oh, sorry,” he says softly, wincing at the pouting face on Jessica. “I don’t like being grabbed.”
She’s a loud person, someone sociable and popular with their classmates. It had been an obvious change to the class dynamic when she sat next to Harry and began chatting to him loud enough for everyone else to eavesdrop. Harry’s depressed, not stupid, and he’s spent long enough being the most famous—and infamous, at times—wizard to realise she’s a chaser of the lowest form of clout: high school popularity. Harry can’t help but think a person like Jessica would be ecstatic to realise she’s rubbing shoulders with someone at his level of celebrity.
“Come sit! We have another new student too!” Jessica gushes, clapping her hands together.
“Uh, yeah, but she’s sitting with me,” another student says, someone Harry recalls being in the same class earlier, a blurry figure in the background of his memories. The letters on the front of his red jacket spell out SPARTAN in a bold yellow.
Harry doesn’t want to sit with them, or anyone. He would much prefer to find his own spot or, better yet, find somewhere not near the cafeteria to eat the lunch Kreacher shoved in his bag this morning. He just hopes there’s something edible in there. He prays it’s not a can of beans again.
“Sure,” Harry agrees belatedly, realising he has no good excuse to use. It wouldn’t hurt to have a group of people to sit with either. It will give him an excuse for Alice if she ever asks to sit together again.
Jessica squeals in happiness, seriously making Harry reconsider, and the red-jacket male leads the way to the table. Harry’s left dragging along behind the pair, sluggishly moving to what seems to be the packed center table. He should have known Jessica would be in the biggest group in prime position of school leadership. God forbid she sit on a table at the edge of the cafeteria.
“You must be the other new kid,” he says, looking over at the quiet brunette trailing along beside him.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me.” She laughs awkwardly. “I guess I’m the one sitting next to Mike.” She jerks her backpack higher on her shoulder. Mike. Yellow letters, he assumes.
“Well, I seem to be Jessica’s plus one.” He pushes his glasses up slightly. “I’m James, by the way. It’s nice to meet another new student.”
“Bella,” she replies with a smile. “You started earlier this week, right? I heard you’ve been away for a few days. Were you sick?”
Harry frowns as they walk, Jessica and Mike both calling for them to hurry up and gesturing at the empty seats.
“Something like that.” He shrugs. “Would have been nice if we started on the same day. Could have gone through that horrible welcome committee ordeal together.”
They both stop at the edge of the table, waving to the group and taking their assigned seats. The table is packed with people who Harry forgets instantly—too many names and classes dumped on him at once.
They’re so obviously teenagers that Harry suddenly feels old, withered beyond belief and unable to maintain the youthful energy they have. They’re so keen to learn about each other and the world. He feels decidedly out-of-place, an old man in a teenage body. He’s tired just sitting here listening to their barrage of questions. He’s just lucky that there’s another new student with him—all the questions are directed to Bella first, then him. It gives him time to think about his answers carefully. To remember to blend truths and lies the way Hermione taught him. Sometimes, they even forget to ask him, too caught up in digging for more information from Bella.
“Yeah, I really am from Arizona,” Bella says, moving the limp salad around on her plate and avoiding eye contact.
“Really? Wow.” There’s an awkward silence before Jessica continues, “aren’t people from Arizona supposed to be, like, really tan?”
Harry tries not to snort as he takes a bite of his sandwich. Kreacher really did a good job today. Roast chicken and salad with some pickles in a crunchy roll.
“What about you, Harry? You’re from England, right?” Bella asks innocently, but Harry can hear the deception in her tone. He narrows his eyes at her attempt to change the subject back to him.
“Yep,” he says half-heartedly, not expanding. Bella scowls at him, stabbing her salad a little harder. “I thought Arizona people were tanned too,” he admits, even though he has no idea where Arizona is. A little white lie to keep them asking Bella questions rather than him.
“Whereabouts in England?” Mike asks around a mouthful of the nutritionally questionable lunch food on his tray, ruining Harry’s diversion attempt. “I have family in London.” He smirks towards Bella.
Harry’s not sure why family in London is considered a social boon. Perhaps it’s a new muggle culture, one they didn’t have when he was younger. Or perhaps it is simply related to Americans.
“All around, I suppose. I have a house in London but I went to school elsewhere.” Harry should have said ‘we’ but he blames it on the fact this is the first time he’s actually using his backstory for real and that he was distracted by the odd idea that family in another country is considered somehow cool or interesting. Maybe this is a Forks thing, actually. Something small town people discuss as ways to make their own lives seem less dull.
“You have a house in London?” Mike asks, sounding impressed. “Like your family does?”
Harry’s a no-good idiot who forgets that most muggle families can’t afford to own houses in London. He pauses, one millisecond too long before answering, “yeah, my family.” He can tell the table doesn’t believe him by the way Jessica looks even more chuffed with her choice of sitting next to Harry.
“So, where’d you go to school?” Jessica asks, turning her whole body to face him, leaning into his side slightly. “Everyone has been dying to know why you moved here!”
“I went to a boarding school in Scotland.” Harry finishes his sandwich and wonders if that means he can escape with some excuse on starting homework or getting to class early.
“A boarding school! How British!” One of the other students says as she fiddles with a camera. He can vaguely remember her name as something with an A and that she is in his trigonometry class. “And? Why did you move, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Harry does mind her asking, actually. But he can’t very well say that aloud.
“Uh, I wanted to move and a family friend recommended here.” Family friend. Gringotts Goblins. Same thing, really.
“Someone recommended Forks?” Mike laughs loudly, slapping another nameless male next to him on the shoulder. “Probably shouldn’t have listened to them.”
“Who was it? They live here?” Jessica asks at the same time the camera-girl-from-trigonometry snaps a photo, the flash bursting in front of Harry. He’s used to the blindingly bright flash of photos after the number of times the paparazzi have caught him out and about over the years, so he barely blinks at the occurrence. Bella is not so lucky. She jolts at the light and pauses, like a deer in headlights.
“Sorry, it’s for the school newspaper! New kids edition!” The girl looks down at the camera screen with a smile. “We never get anyone new here.”
Bella obviously detests the idea of a newspaper article and, honestly, so does Harry. It blatantly goes against Hermione’s rule number twenty-three and thirty: avoid photographs at all costs and do not be mentioned in any media. Even a small glimpse of Harry in the background of a photo, or an off-handed mention of his name in an article could leave a trail, which may, eventually, lead to someone finding out about his scenario. They might stumble upon it accidentally and then begin to investigate in earnest, following a trail of digital and physical clues to realise Harry is someone immortal living under monikers.
Hermione is positive this is a risk for Harry and one that curves exponentially the longer he exists—that wixen in decades who think of Harry as legend will begin to research his disappearance, his lineage. She is not worried about him being found now, but about him being tracked centuries later.
So, as much as Harry’s spiteful side would like to leave Bella in the uncomfortable position of having their photo printed as payback for her turning the spotlight on him, he cannot. Instead, he has to take charge and ensure he sticks to his rules of survival as according to Hermione.
Harry’s not daft enough to think he can escape all photos forever—and it’s more than likely he’ll be snapped in the background of someone’s selfie before the year is up, but if it’s within his ability to try and erase any photos of him, well, he’ll do so.
“Er, sorry,” He says with a falsely apologetic furrow to his brows. “Can you delete that? I’m not allowed to have any photos taken.” He says it ambiguously, avoiding the eyes of those at he table.
Something good definitely came from his time as an Auror—and that’s his ability to act. He’s always been decent at it, though. He’d learnt to fake his true thoughts and feelings from a young age at the Dudley’s. Learning to truly manipulate is quite thrilling. To lay the scene carefully and allow someone to walk into a trap of preconceived notions. The goal is to lead them into filling the gaps in the story presented with the hidden information you subtly mention. It’s only with time and age that Harry realises the Sorting Hat may have been onto something all those years ago.
Just as he expects, the table silences and the teens consider his sentence. They think about what all the reasons might be and, hopefully, decide that he’s here under witness protection. Hermione will be pleased to know their plan is likely working out. If they believe he’s in witness protection, they’ll naturally start asking less questions in an attempt to be understanding, and they’ll accept weird, off-handed explanations for times he does answer. It’s a trap just for muggles who all know of the elusive witness protection system.
“Oh, right. Sure.” The girl clicks a few buttons on the camera. “All deleted.”
“And don’t print my name in the newsletter, please,” he tacks on for good measure. “Maybe just focus on Bella?” He can’t help the small smirk at her outraged gasp.
“No, no. Let’s just skip the article if James can’t be in it too!” She rattles off hurriedly, glancing to Mike pleadingly, who is too busy narrowing his eyes at Harry to notice.
“Yeah, it’s not worth it if it’s just Bella,” Jessica agrees in such a backhanded manner Harry almost wants Bella to decide to go ahead with the article.
The conversation stilts for a moment, awkwardness filling the table that Harry decidedly ignores as he packs up his lunch container and stands just as the bell rings.
“I’ll see you guys later,” he says, leaving the table in a rush.
He doesn’t get more than a few steps before he can hear them beginning to whisper about him, about how photos aren’t allowed and the cancellation of the article. He almost wants to laugh at how predictable it all is.
“You could look a little less happy about it all,” someone calls out, a few paces behind him in the hallway. Harry turns and gives Bella an innocent look. “Yeah, that’s not believable,” she mutters, brushing past him and stepping into the classroom.
He follows her in and they sit at a table for four, glaring minutely at the other.
“You kept directing their questions to me,” he says as way of explanation for the accusations in her eyes.
“You sold me out to the newspaper,” she hisses back.
“Quite right, and I’d do it again too.”
“Ugh,” Bella grunts and pulls her books out of her bag, dumping them on the table. “You’re actually sort of funny.” She giggles under hear breath, shaking her head almost in disappointment.
Harry spends that class smiling.