Libido Sanguinis: Chapter One

A/N: This started out as a simple thought really: Why does Hogwarts start at 11? Then, my brain being what it is, I spun off in all different directions and landed here. After starting the story, I realized it was probably because that is when kids that age go off to school in the UK. However, I am just a Michigander from the states. Anyway, I am not exactly sure where this story is going, most likely slash when everyone is a bit older. I promise it won't be "SuperDark!Harry hates Manipulative!Dumbledore and other such stuff. I'm hoping this is original, although I'm sure it's probably not, with all the Harry fic running around in the wild word of the interwebz. Also, I apologize for the shortness of this chapter. I'm hoping the rest won't be that way. Blah, anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy!

Harry Potter was starving. His stomach rumbled and twisted as he sat at the Dursley's kitchen table.

"Are you not hungry?"

Harry whipped his head from staring at his plate. His aunt gazed expectantly from across the table.

"I'm sorry Aunt Petunia. My stomach seems to be rebelling against me," said Harry. He looked back down at his plate of Shepard's Pie.

"Well, just try a bite. It is your favorite, after all," replied Petunia.

Harry inwardly sighed as he scooped up a piece of the pie with his fork. Even though he remembered how good it used to taste, anything he ate the last few days tasted like ash. Hoping this dinner would break the pattern, Harry put the food in his mouth. And gagged.

"Excuse me," he managed to gasp out before running up the stairs to the bathroom. After he had flushed the miniscule amount of food that had managed to make it to his stomach, Harry looked at himself in the mirror. His normally tousled black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His vibrant green eyes were circled with rings of exhaustion. Cheekbones extended out from his now gaunt face.

"Come on, Harry. Pull yourself together." He swiped his greasy hair off of his face to expose a lightning bolt shaped scar. It stood out on his pale skin like blood splashed onto otherwise unmarked snow.

"Harry!" Aunt Petunia yelled, followed by a knock on the bathroom door. "You've been doing this for days. If you're not better by tomorrow, we're taking you to the doctor. I don't want you getting us sick, too."

Harry quickly splashed water on his face and rinsed his mouth. He plastered on his best 'I'm Fine' smile and opened the door. "Really there's no need. I'll be just fine. I think it's just a bug," Harry said. He hated going to the doctor; all the poking and prodding just weirded him out.

Aunt Petunia's face twisted into a lip-pinched look of disbelief. "Yes. I'm sure. At any rate, if you don't get any better, you're going to the doctor," and with that she strode down to the kitchen, presumably to clean up dinner.

Harry shook his head as he stumbled into his bedroom. He kicked the door shut and proceeded to collapse on the bed. His attention was caught by the red 'x's hanging on his wall. His homemade calendar read 'July' in boxy letters, surrounded by Harry's sketches of lions draping themselves around the letters. There were 24 marks, meaning only a week until Harry's birthday. Eleven. Even though Harry knew eleven was typically a special birthday, he felt like this one was.

Now, if only he could feel better. His health had been slowly deteriorating since the beginning of the month. It began as just fatigue, and then Harry noticed himself eating less, and eventually being nauseous after eating.

Curled up in the fetal position on the bed, Harry's fevered mind began to think back on his life. He lived with his aunt and uncle in Number Four Privet Drive, a modestly sized house, surrounded by other identical modestly sized homes. He had a cousin, Dudley, who Harry guessed was out terrorizing small children about now. Dudley would be sent away to a special school in the fall, one that was better equipped for his "needs" as the school administrator had said.

Harry had lived with the Dursleys for as long as he could remember. His parents had died in a burglary gone wrong. Petunia, his mother's sister, had willingly taken him in. Her husband, Vernon, had needed some persuading, but there Harry was. Harry knew the Dursleys cared for him as best they could. They were somewhat cold, hard people but Harry had come to accept them as they were.

Harry's stomach gave another deep rumble as she shifted to a more comfortable position. He clutched the stuffed penguin he won at the carnival the year before, and drifted off to sleep.

It was hot, and metallic, and so almost perfect. It slid over his tongue, energizing every taste bud. Something was wrong, though. The ache was not going away. In fact, it grew stronger now that it knew what it was missing. A high whine escaped Harry's throat, and with that noise, Harry's eyes flew open. He looked down at himself and saw with horror that he had bitten through his wrist in his sleep. Blood stained his sheets and mouth. Repulsed, the boy ran to the bathroom and attempted to vomit up the blood, but it would not come. It was almost as if his body knew it had what it was missing, now.

Harry sank to the cold floor of the bathroom and sobbed.

Petunia's resolve only strengthened as she listened to the heart-wrenching sobs of her nephew. As much as she hated it, this was the time. She reread the letter sitting in front of her.

I need your help.

She signed her name, and handed the paper to the owl who had been watching over her home for 10 years, waiting for a moment like this.

Review, please?