Full Summary: A whirlwind romance between Lily Evans and a dark, brooding stranger on English shores sees the birth of Harriet Uley. Sixteen years later, and Sam managed to track down his sister just as she starts hitting a growth spurt. Between werewolves, witches, wild imprints and wayward fathers, Harriet discovers exactly what being Pack really means. Harriet/Paul. Family feels. Imprint story.

CHAPTER ONE:

The Man In Green.

Emily Young's P.O.V

Sam Uley was wearing a shirt. Given, it was a t-shirt and not a stuffy box pressed oxford, stretched thin in places from age so the evergreen faded to an almost pale mint, but it was a shirt all the same. A shirt he couldn't stop tugging, pulling down hem, wrenching collar, yanking sleeve. Turning this way and that, he snarled at his reflection in the mirror.

Emily Young slunk up to his side in a flurry of fabric, as quick and quiet as a butterfly fluttering through a meadow, pressing a swift kiss to his bicep, the only place she could reach on the towering man preening in the bathroom mirror.

"You look fine."

It was the fifth time she had told him so, and still, he smoothed away the nonexistent wrinkles. Sam hummed deep in his throat, virtually a growl, disparaging, running a stiff hand through his shaggy hair when the t-shirt didn't fall just how he wanted it to. He scoffed sharply and veered from his reflection.

"I look like a man who hasn't even tried. T-shirt and jeans… I look like I've ambled straight out from ol' Black's garage. Are these really my last jeans?"

Emily chuckled lightly.

"Yes, you've shredded the rest. And it doesn't matter. The last thing she's going to be worrying about or judging is the state of the jeans her brother is wearing. She's likely as nervous as you are right now. Just… Take it easy. Think of how long you've searched and the day is finally here. Concentrate on that, and the rest will fall into place."

Sam, uncharacteristically, twittered and dithered on the spot, caught between his worries and nerves. If Emily didn't love the behemoth of a man before her as much as she did, if she didn't know exactly how much this all meant to him, if she didn't know how long he had been waiting for this day, she might have laughed at the image of a school boy on his first day of high school he oozed.

Okay, maybe Emily did laugh a little, but she managed to keep it to a muffled giggle hiding as a cough, at least.

"Yeah… Yeah. You're right."

He sounded calmer now. Deep and calm like a rolling sea, and very much back to himself. Emily smirked up to him, craning her head back.

"Of course I am. When will you learn, Uley? I'm always right."

It worked, the last whiff of tension left his broad shoulders as he smiled, toothy, sharp, bending down swiftly to peck at her scarred cheek.

"Minx."

The doorbell obnoxiously ringing broke their little bubble of domesticity like a pin popped a balloon. Sam frowned, eyes hooded, cagey. Emily didn't blame him. The Pack knew not to visit today, as they typically flooded their home from daybreak to sunset. Sam had told them as much. Nothing less than a full-frontal assault by leeches justified him being perturbed.

They had understood, given the situation.

Even the Elders understood Sam's need to have one, just one, day off duty.

The doorbell rang again.

Sam huffed and marched out the bathroom in long strides, Emily trotting to keep up. In their little home, it didn't take long for Sam to make it to the front door, and fling it open.

Embry Call's taut face greeted them from the steps of their porch, rain burbling on the ground behind him. He too was in a shirt, a nice little button up, ironed and cuffed. Uneasily, he scratched at the back of his neck, hair newly trimmed.

"I was wondering if, you know… I could come along too? I get it if you want to go alone. I just thought… I thought, well…"

Emily's face broke out into a grin from behind Sam's shoulder. Naturally, Embry would wish to come today, and Emily was glad he was standing before them, had taken that step himself. Perhaps more good could come from this, a mending of bridges burnt and secrets hidden. Standing in the dim grey morning light, the similarities between Embry and Sam were hard to ignore. The sloping nose, the high arched brow, the glass cut of a jaw.

When Embry shifted for the first time four months ago, the similarities weren't just hard to ignore anymore.

They were impossible.

Emily knew Sam had tried to broach the subject with Embry already. However, the topic of an absent, invisible father was always going to be a tough issue to raise, without adding the unpredictable temperament of a werewolf to the already foaming blend.

The Quileute Tribe was small in number, and potential partners of Catherine Call were always a slim pool of gossip on the reservation. Billy Black had been the first disregarded, as a blind man could have seen his devotion and love to his late wife. Quil Sr was equally easily snubbed in the running.

That left Connor Lahote and Joshua Uley. Seen as the former had died before Embry's possible conception, may the vile man never find rest… Well, the math made itself. Still, it was a sore spot. Sore and weeping, and Embry had shrugged off Sam's attempts to talk on the matter with startling fury from the generally most placid member of the Pack. Sam had done the only thing he could in the situation.

Wait for Embry to come to him.

And here he was.

Sam grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, jostling the smaller shifter.

"I'd be grateful for your company."

The strain lifted from Embry like steam, leaving behind a bashfully baked half-smile.

Emily shuffled and pointedly glanced down to her wristwatch.

"You guys do know you're already running twenty minutes late, don't you? Her plane is due to dock in an hour ago."

Sam swore thickly in a string of curses as he dipped behind the door to pluck his car keys from the bowl resting on the side table. He groaned as he dashed out, forgetting to duck down, and whacked his forehead on the door-frame. The wood cracked and splintered, though Sam wouldn't even bruise.

"I'll fix it tomorrow!"

He barked as he skidded down the porch steps, Embry hot on his trail, Emily's laughter ghosting on the wind. Before the two could disappear into the pickup truck, Emily shouted at their retreating backs.

"Make sure you're back by five! I'll have dinner done! Ask her if she likes stew! Or, if she doesn't, find out what she likes and text me and I'll get it ready by the time you're home!"

Sam waved as he slid into the car, followed by Embry, the two looking almost comically large in the small truck cab, the doors clattering shut behind them. The rain came down harder, blurring the treeline fencing their yard, and Emily watched the car till it fled around the bend to the main road.

"The rest will fall into place, indeed."

She really, truly, hoped it did.

Harriet Uley's P.O.V

Harriet Uley was wearing a jumper. It was tight, prickly, and unravelling at the sleeves. Perhaps that latter fault was her own, seen as she couldn't stop anxiously picking at the stitches as she sat in the waiting room of a bustling airport.

The jumper was a Yule gift three years ago from Molly Weasley, knitted in a vibrant red and gold, two sizes too big, and Harriet had only worn it once before for Yule dinner. Nevertheless, at least she hoped, the giant H emblazoned on the front might help pick her out the crowd of a rushing Seattle swarm.

Merlin… What was she doing here?

Well, she knew how she got here.

It had begun, as with most crucial things in her short life, with a letter.

A letter from a man looking for his wayward father, something Harriet could profoundly relate to. He had tracked him all the way to Cokeworth, England, from somewhere called La Push in America. Joshua Uley was his name, and this man, this Samuel Uley, swore that this was his father.

And it was funny, really, in a way that was not funny at all, because Harriet's father was called Joshua Uley. That was the name signed on her birth certificate, at least, though she had never personally met the man.

Sirius had once said, the single time she had brought up her vanishing father to him, that he had been like a whirlwind. Fast. Hard. And as quick to blow away again. Lily had fallen in love with him when she had been on summer vacation back in her home city from her Charms Mastery under Professor Flitwick, and he, like a tornado, had wafted into town on the back of a motorbike.

A motorbike he would later give to Sirius, who, in turn, after a few modifications, through his will left for Harriet.

Joshua stayed long enough to knock her mother up, see her birth, sign her birth certificate, and then, one day, he was just… Gone. Just like that. Only an old, battered Zippo, a single photograph of him holding a newborn Harriet, and a motorbike left behind.

Gone.

Her mother had been devastated at first, but James Potter, who she had grown close to during their latter years of Hogwarts, stepped up and helped, moving in. He and Sirius had been her godfathers. Then, well, Tom Riddle rose, and everybody knew how that ended.

One dead on the stairs, another over her crib, and one locked away in Azkaban. The sickly flash of green and a woman's dying scream eternally haunting her, with a death tally too high to count, though Harriet found herself trying to each time she laid her head down to sleep.

She hadn't thought much of it until that letter. In all honesty, she had always thought her father was dead. Dead like everyone else who came tumbling into her life. By the time she was old enough to begin really questioning things, especially the whole 'your father was a good for nothing bastard, and your mother an aberration of nature who both died in a car crash' aunt Petunia had tried to sell her, Harriet had been in Hogwarts, and Voldemort, basilisks, Tournaments, jailbreaks, and fuckin' war snatched her attention.

Trying to survive, to live to see just one more dawn, tended to do that.

But then the war was over.

She had won, despite it not feeling like a win at all, and along came a little letter, right to her bedside in Saint Mungo's she had been admitted to right after the final battle, on Hermione's and Molly's urging of course, to make sure her revival wasn't temporary and she wasn't going to keel over any second.

Samuel Uley was searching for his father, and having tracked him to Lily Evans and Cokeworth, it wasn't too hard to find the leap to Petunia Dursley, who had, in the end and after a very… Terse conversation over the phone, told him if anyone knew where Joshua Uley was, it would be his little monster of a daughter, Harriet Uley.

Hunting for his father, he found a younger sister instead.

Harry, as her friends called her, thought it was a big, severely unamusing, joke in the beginning. A prank gone too far. Perhaps a misbegotten thanks from a first year she had saved in the battle, who, mistakenly, thought by giving Harriet family, even if it was pretend, something she had always wanted, then the imagined debt was paid.

Yet, it wasn't a first year.

There really was a Samuel Uley, who sent letter after letter, and-

Hesitantly, Harriet wrote back. She was mean in the beginning. Mean and rude and still bed-bound from the worst battle her kind had ever seen. A letter containing two words.

Fuck off.

Blunt, but she hoped the sentiment got across to whoever thought this was funny. His next letter was nicer, nicer than she deserved, and contained a little photograph of a man beside a boy. A man remarkably identical to the one in her own photograph, though his long hair was an inch or two shorter, and the boy barely seven and not a newborn swaddled at chest.

They both had Joshua's smile.

Too large, too toothy, and too wild.

In fact, Harriet looked a lot like her father, nearly the spitting image of him really, only softened by femininity and the brightness of her mother's eyes she took instead of the sleek, dark gaze of the man. Her following letter had been kinder, but no less frank. There was so many questions, suddenly. So many unknowns. So… Much of everything that Harry couldn't find her footing, as if the whole world had shifted beneath her feet between one blink and the next.

They took a blood test, just to be sure. A muggle one, as, Harry suspected, Sam was by the tone and diction in his writing. Because he was so far away, in America, and she across the big pond in England and currently hospitalized, though she didn't tell Sam that, they had to use different labs. According to him, his would only work in La Push, as he had some obscure iron deficiency that only the reservation could detect, and so, the results from cross referencing from two different places took two months.

Still, he wrote in the meantime, and soon, writing turned to texts from a phone Harry had to hastily buy.

Harriet texted back, even when she was given the okay to head home. It didn't feel like coming home. It never did. Home to Grimmauld Place. Dark. Dreary. Alone. The letter came, a little white envelope, plain and simple, as if the information inside wasn't something that could change a sixteen-year-old orphan's entire life and-

Match.

It was a match.

Brother and sister, to a whopping ninety-eight percent probability.

Harriet Uley had a brother.

A real, breathing, walking, talking, brother.

She laughed first. Then she sobbed, those ugly cries that stole your breath and ached deep in a quivering chest. She drank a shit ton of firewhisky after that had subsided, and passed out in Sirius's old bathroom, slumped in the tub. By morning, hungover and a bit damp, she found another text.

Sam wanted to meet.

It took her three days to reply. She, cowardly, and so much unlike herself, blamed loosing her phone, an excuse she didn't think Sam bought, but was polite enough not to call her on her bullshit.

By a month after the results, she was sitting on a plane, flying to America. So, yes, Harry knew how she got here very well, but, as the digital clock above Terminal H ticked a whole hour after she was supposed to meet Sam, she began to question why.

Maybe he had changed his mind.

Maybe this had been a big, horrible mistake, because when did Harry get to ever have anything nice?

Maybe he saw her through the crowd, saw her scarred forehead and tatty clothing and scuffed up boots, and the pathetic scratched duffel bag at her feet, and ran for it.

She wouldn't blame him.

She'd run from herself too, if she was given the option.

Merlin, this was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake. Of course he wouldn't really want to meet her. Who would? As much as Harry had always wanted family, they never wanted her back. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had taught her that. Perhaps she could exchange her return ticket for a different flight? Preferably one for tonight? Maybe they would-

"Harriet Uley?"

The voice came from somewhere behind her, close, gruff and grave. Her heart pounded in her ears, something, a lump, hot like a lit coal, lodged deep in her throat. Sluggishly, a bit dazed, she stood from her metal chair, and turned.

He was tall, towering, big in every sense of the word, and Harriet was no short girl, hitting six foot one herself at last check, having, since she left Saint Mungo's and found herself ravenous out from under the stress of probable death and war, hit a growth spurt. Dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and workmen boots, he appeared welcoming, if it weren't for the stern, serious face.

A face so much like her own.

She could see it.

There, in the stretch of a jaw. The cock of a brow. The sweep of a razor-sharp cheekbone. The warm glow of russet skin and onyx hair. And there was two of them. Another, achingly analogous, in a pressed shirt, cropped hair and… Beaten tennis shoes, was standing beside the man in the green t-shirt.

Perhaps her fashion sense was hereditary.

Both looked deathly severe.

When she spoke, her voice was strangely wispy, brusque from the lump in her throat.

"Sam Uley?"

The man in green grinned, splitting his face asunder with delight, and with three long strides, Harriet was being swept up in a searing, tight hug. After a moment of shock, she found herself hugging back just as strongly.

This, she thought, felt like coming home.

Thoughts?