Our Autumns in the Moon's Grace
by Elagabalus
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
First Moon – Chapter One
wax² (waks) v.i. waxed, waxed (Poetic wax·en), wax·ing 1. To become larger gradually; increase in size or numbers; grow: said especially of the moon as it approaches fullness: opposed to wane. 2. To become as specified: to wax angry.
wane (wān) v.i. waned, wan·ing 1. To diminish in size and brilliance: opposed to wax. 2. To decline or decrease gradually; draw to an end.
– Standard Collge Dictionary
Night 1
Draco filled his lungs with the brusque autumn air and forced it back out, the warmth of his lungs lingering as a sheer cloud of vapor. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he wished summer would come strolling back; he hated the coldness, the dead things that fall brought within her quietly vicious skirts. Speaking skirts, he wished also that Zabini and Nott would hurry up and get their sorry asses out here so they could go home already. They were probably hitting on some rich little idiots with boobs and hoping to get some. Well, whatever. It wasn't like he hadn't known what they were like when he ran away from home.
Yes, Draco Malfoy II had stormed out of his very palatial home after a particularly nasty fight with his father – risking disownment and having his name blotted out from the family records and (even worse) from his father's will. Well, screw all. Draco hated they way everyone was always going on and on about how much he looked like his grandfather, how very alike they were, how Draco would be sure to be just as savvy a businessman as him, blah, blah, blah. Well, what if he didn't want to take over Malfoy Enterprises? (Which he didn't).
He sucked at that sort of thing – acting patient in four-hour-long meetings or being polite to people he hated just to get your greedy paws on a few million. Jeebus, his sister was a helluva lot better at that sort of thing. So why the hell wouldn't Father just let her take over the business where she'd be happy and just let Draco find some rich chick to marry and would let him keep messing around as he pleased? So they'd had a huge blow-up and Draco went and crashed with Nott which probably hadn't made any impression at all on Father as the man already knew the names and addresses of all his friends.
Draco stamped his feet and huffed, hoping to work some warmth into his body – no such luck. He gazed surlily at the crowded bar where he had slipped out, escaping the smell and noise, to wait moodily out in the cold for Zabini and Nott. Suddenly, he felt a cool, dark gaze on himself. His eyes swiveled to spot a buxom, curvaceous figure in the shadows by a garbage can and a public, red plastic ashtray. From what he could see in the harsh streetlight and murky shadows, the black leather wrapped tightly around those curves, it was just some hooker waiting around for a job. So it was hardly a surprise when she slid toward him with a sly snap of her heels; he was good-looking and also very rich-looking. Even up close, he couldn't see all that much except a vague, dark beauty.
"Hello there," she smiled.
"I don't have any cash," said Draco rudely, "so find somebody else to suck off."
"Hmm?" the woman murmured, not in the least bit perturbed. "Draco Malfoy II broke? I find that a bit hard to believe."
He started, staring at her more closely, even though there was nothing to see in the dark. Did she look familiar?
"How do you know my name?" he demanded. "Did my father send you? If so, tell him he can go fuck himself for all I care –" He abruptly stopped. Something in the sudden gleam of her eye from a door opening, shedding a layer of brightness across her high pitched features and riled-up look, made him uneasy.
She tutted. "Such a potty mouth!" This seemed to be very funny to her. "I think you need to be taught a lesson from Aunt Bella."
And before he could blink, Draco's face slammed against the pavement.
-
In a few months, mere blinks of the eye, it would be exactly forty years since he had died.
It wasn't that he was looking forward to that anniversary, or anything. The thought just left him feeling nostalgic. Forty years was a long time for most people. You could be born in forty years, go to college, get married, have children, and maybe even become a grandparent. All in forty years. So why exactly did it seem like these years had passed by before he had even time to savor their precious moments and thoughts, while the days were terribly long and a little lonely? Maybe it was better that way. For him, at least.
Harry huffed a little, not really feeling the cold. In the reflective surface of store windows, he caught sight of himself. Pausing for a minute, he inspected his smooth skin, utterly devoid of wrinkles, his slightly inadequate nose, reddened mouth and cheeks, and the bright green eyes behind frameless spectacles. The face of a fifteen-year-old boy.
He looked away, a little embarrassed to be checking himself out, and continued his aimless wander. Little pockets of people passed by him, joking, laughing, or maybe even fighting. He brushed shoulders with a group of giggling girls probably too young to be out so late and an older couple probably too old. They passed too quickly, everything they did was too fast! Or maybe that was the point; he no longer had a say in the matter, anyway.
Harry shook himself to dispel such gloomy thoughts. He was passing into the part of town ridden with bars and liquor stores. Maybe he'd go for a drink to ease up his nerves.
But he stopped in his tracks, all motion stilled. That scent in the air – tiny particles of it wafting on the autumn night chills. Cautiously, eyes slitted, he followed the subtle, enticing trace. And now he could hear painful groans and a distorted, delighted muttering. Harry picked up his speed, dashing between buildings encrusted with mildew and water stains. He stopped at the head of an alleyway choked with stinking, rusty garbage cans and slimy, bloated plastic trash bags. Even with those putrid smells, Harry could clearly taste the blood in the air.
A tall, dark woman stood over a slumped body on the ground. Her face was terrible and triumphant. She looked up at him, and smiled a smile meant for a toothpaste commercial.
"Hello, Harry," she purred. "Sorry, but it's a little late to get a taste."
He glared at her before stepping a little close to look at the body. A man, very young and very badly ripped into. The blood-scent was almost overwhelming.
"You killed him?" Harry said incredulously. "How stupid can you be –"
She turned away from the body, her full attention focused on him now. "Ah-ah-aah. Be careful not to make me angry, Harry."
He barely blinked. "I could take you any day of the week."
She laughed low in her throat and slithered past him on clicking heels.
"Hey," he muttered, "at least get rid of the body."
She was already disappearing into the black shadows. "You do it, if you're so concerned." And she was gone.
Harry felt extremely nervous now. Get rid of the body and deter any suspicious police or run like hell? He didn't want to have to help that woman, but maybe he'd left a trace of himself at the scene of the crime. Harry looked down at his shoes and the ground, inspecting for footprints. But wouldn't it be even more suspicious if they found out he had tampered with a body? He glanced at the dead man, feeling panic starting to rise within him. He'd never had to deal with this sort of situation before; he was always careful to take just enough and not to glut. Harry edged closer. The poor guy at least deserved a proper burial rather than rotting shamelessly among filthy trash right out in the sun.
Trying to ignore the smell of blood, he crouched and gingerly rotated the face toward him. Sharp features, blonde hair, a haughtily arching brow – they stirred deep, distant memories within him.
Harry frowned. "...Malfoy?"
And to his great surprise, the man's eyes slid open sluggishly. His unfocused gaze wandered drunkenly. A wordless murmur escaped his lips painfully.
"Shit," Harry cursed. He couldn't call an ambulance; it was a little known fact that a new standard procedure had been set for vampire attacks. Not only did the people actually attacked receive treatment, but those involved in the incident were also checked for an unnoticed bite, and Harry had no intention of submitting himself to that. He'd heard of certian bigotist doctors running more tests than nessecary and some poor idiot ending up being accused of attacking the person they were trying to help. But he couldn't just call for help and leave the guy alone... Bellatrix might come back. She was a tricky witch, so he couldn't risk calling and keeping the body in sight but hiding himself; plus, they would probably find him easily... Making a decision, Harry pulled off his jacket and draped it over the barely conscious man.
"I'll be right back, okay?" Harry whispered. "So stay alive." And he ran out of the alley as fast as his legs would allow. Need to find a payphone.
-
"Stay alive." Why were those words so familiar? His brain kept repeating to him, like an idiot bird, that he was in pain. It didn't seem to matter so much when his memory opened before his consciousness, slipping from the subconscious like a naughty child. It was like the universe was gushing and flowing from his heart into his veins. The stars forming white blood cells and distant glimpses into the past. Glitches in his fleshy gray nuts and bolts revealed the future to him, but the revelations collapsed like soggy bread. The first kiss and the last kiss. Taste of death. Swirling emotions too bright and complex to handle, like the sun is to human eyes. Stay alive, stay alive, stay alive.
-
"Thanks again, Neville," Harry said, positioning himself awkwardly on the floor of the sedan.
"Don't mention it," the driver murmured, pulling out into the main road.
Squatting, Harry nervously eyed the blank face of the third passenger. "Could he have a concussion or something? Should I do something with his head?"
"It looked like the blood was mostly from his nose."
"Right."
They were silent for a while. Neville seemed so calm. Had he always been like that? Or had age had some gradual affect on him? The hands on the steering wheel, gently coaxing the car into a turn, were lined and crevassed, but firm and pliable all the same. There was more gray than brown on what he could see of his head. Just another reminder of Harry's own solitariness.
They parked in front of a very business-like building. As Neville ran to unlock the door, Harry popped open the car door and carefully pulled out the young man. Neville came back and together they pushed into his pediatrics practice, supporting the half-conscious man who made barely any sound. Carefully, they placed him on an examining table, the thin sheet of paper crinkling in protest.
Harry edged out of Neville's way as he set to work, probing the man's vitals. It was a relief to at least have that small distance from the source of the metallic scent now pervading the little room decorated with smiling cartoon giraffes. In the sudden fluorescent light, Harry could clearly see now the webs of lines around Neville's mouth and eyes, the slower, yet still urgent, or 'stately' way in which he moved, and that indefinable quality one had with experience and a full life, a secret whisper of many, many thoughts and treasured moments in time. The innumerable impressions, small or large, the thousands of people you meet in a lifetime left on you, giving you part of themselves so that you could never truthfully claim to be your own. Harry wondered if all his old friends felt as bitter as he did, looking at him, as he felt looking at them.
Neville made a sound of frustration.
"What is it?" Harry asked.
"He's lost too much blood," the man answered. "You probably found him too late."
"Can't you just give him a blood transfusion?" asked Harry, his spirits plummeting further. "He's type O."
Neville shook his head sadly. "This isn't an ER. We're only equipped to handle the sniffles or pneumonia at the worst. I don't think there was anything we could have done even with the best equipment in the world." He inspected his dying patient's face, his thoughts quite evident from his own face. "Too much of his body smashed, probably tons of internal bleeding, and then the bite..."
Harry sidled closer. The man didn't even look like he was breathing any more.
"You know who this is, don't you?" Neville said softly.
Harry nodded. "I didn't think he'd look like that, though. I really didn't want to ever meet him." Cautiously, Harry wiped away the bloody mess under his nose and over his mouth. A cold hand shot up, scaring the living daylights out of him.
A tight, desperate grip on Harry's arm, the nearly dead young man glared up at him balefully. Using his other hand, he clung to Harry's shirt and dragged himself into an awkward sitting position. Harry stood stock-still, afraid to even breath.
Eyes cloudy, the man said slowly, "I... will not... die." He swallowed, swaying. "Don't... dare... let die."
Harry met his eyes nervously, amazed at his strength. "You –"
"Know... what you –" He gasped and gurgled until his lips were dark crimson. "What you... are. Give me... Give me..." The vise on Harry's shirt slackened and the trembling body lay back down, but the icy silver gaze never once wavered from his face. He continued to mutter those words, "Give me."
"Harry..."
He was suddenly made aware again of Neville's presence. Turning to him slightly, Harry whispered, "I think you should go. You aren't going to like this."
The old man looked alarmed. "Harry, think about this."
He sat down beside the blonde. "I don't think it's something you're supposed to think about."
Neville continued to look conflicted for a moment. Then he met Harry's gaze. He seemed to see something there to silence his objections and quietly left.
Harry supported the young man's head so that he could slip his legs, folded indian-style, under and gently laid his cranium in his lap. To no success, he tried to still his fluttering heart and rolled up a sleeve. He eyed the blue vein beneath the skin of his wrist. Holding it to his lips, he felt the little pricks of pain as his own teeth slipped into the translucent skin of his wrist. Blood fell hotly from his canines onto his tongue – a reminder of when he'd last drunk, the memories as vivid as the flavor driving his taste-buds and brain wild. He removed his wrist from his mouth.
Adrenaline making his heart beat in his ears and in his throat, Harry pried open the soft and compliant mouth. One last inhale, a glimpse of his pale flesh releasing dark blood, and Harry laid his tiny wounds over the man's lips.
At first, the tongue merely ventured out languorously for a small taste, surely foreign and strange, but as Harry put a gentle hand to the back of his neck and leaned his head forward towards the tiny flow, there was a tepid grasp of the man's teeth around the under-flesh of his wrist and a gradual suck on the tiny breaks in his skin. And then he felt the other's hunger finally being piqued as cool hands came up to clasp his arm firmly and the circle of teeth bit deeply into his wrist, causing even more blood-flow. Feeling dizzy, Harry leaned back when shooting pains lanced up his arm and his heart felt like it was careening madly out of control. He felt as if his feet were being knocked out from under him, as if he were being drowned, buried alive, and his heart pathetically flailing under a cruel vise, a hand punching through his shirt, skin, ribs, muscles. Deja vu overrode his senses and Harry cried out, struggling wildly.
The sound of quietness and harsh breathing filled his ears. Harry opened his eyes to see the perforated ceiling tiles and the yellow rectangle lights. He seemed to be the patient now, lying on the sadly rumpled sheet of tissue covering the examining table. He lifted his wrist to eye-level. Already healing, new skin forming itself neatly (it itched). Sitting up cautiously, Harry looked down to see the young man blinking owlishly up at him in a crumpled disarray on the floor.
"You kicked me," he said with child-like surprise. His eyes promptly closed and his breathing slowed to a steady pace. He'd gone to sleep.
The door opened and Neville rushed in. "What was that sound?"
Harry stepped down gingerly. Rather dizzy. "I think I kicked him."
Neville bent toward the young man on the floor, wincing and muttering, "Damn arthritis..." Watching for several minutes as the worst of the wounds healed themselves gradually, he said nothing.
Harry stooped toward him, slinging one of his limp arms around his own shoulders. Neville grabbed the other arm and helped him prop him up to an almost vertical position.
"I'll help you back to your apartment," Neville said, pushing the door open and flicking off the lights.
"Thanks."
"I hope you made the right decision."
"Me too," Harry answered earnestly.
But as he looked down at Draco Malfoy II's almost serene face, he couldn't help the awkward lurch of his stomach. Oh God, he thought, what in the world have I done?
A/N: This makes me nostalgic; I used to devour Anne Rice books like actual rice ::has dorky sense of humor::. But my vampires are rather different as you can and will see.
Oh, and this Draco isn't the real Draco, really. If you haven't already figured it out, it'll be explained later...
(I pretty much know nothing about medical-like things, so if there's something fishy in this chapter, sorry.)
I already have three more chapters written; their release dependent on reviews, to be honest. ::is just a bitch like that::