BISECTED BLOODLINES.

Summary: It was on July 31st, her seventeenth birthday, a whole year after an unknown illness had first struck her down, that Harriet Potter's heart stopped beating. It was on the 3rd of August on which Harriet opened her eyes once more to a whole new world filled with blood, instincts and survival. The life of a Dhampir is never an easy one. Fem!Harry/Godric/Eric.

Prologue:

Hunger.

The first sign that something wasn't quite right with Harriet Lillian Potter was the insatiable hunger. That gnawing monster in the very pit of her stomach, screaming at her to eat, and eat, and eat, and eat. Like most predators, it snuck up on her slowly, irrevocably. Step by step, it took over, consumed her, devoured her every thought. It had been so simple, so innocent in the early days. Just an extra helping of bacon one morning, a second breakfast the next, an added meal here or there. It had been nothing to worry about, like most things in her sixteen years of life, in the beginning. What harm could eating three cheeseburgers in one sitting cause?

But it had not stayed so. Oh, no. Nothing was ever so pure or uncomplicated in Harriet's life. The hunger turned ravenous and no matter how much she ate, her stomach growled and twisted and knotted itself into tangled balls of aching pain. No matter how much she drank, what she drank, it never stopped the burning in her throat, the scorch that trailed a torturous path down her sternum to the inferno and incessant aching of her gut. But, then again, that came later, didn't it? No. In the beginning, she was simply… Hungry. Harriet had grown up hungry. Vernon had made sure of that, and so, what could hunger do to scare her? Nothing. Nothing at all. But it should have.

Fresh from the war that had stripped her of nearly all her friends, her family, her loved ones, Harry had, perhaps ignorantly, pushed away the slight twinge of worry that filled her when those hunger pains first struck. It had been easy, too easy, to formulate excuses that she would later tell herself when she went through three boxes of cereal and five bottles of orange juice. She was just a growing girl, she told herself each meal. Without the stress of war baring down upon her shoulders, perhaps her body was just trying to catch up from years upon years of Petunia's and Vernon's abuse and neglect. She was growing. She was healing. She was becoming who she was supposed to be. She was transforming. That was all… If only she knew how right she had been in the beginning… Yet again, she was jumping ahead of herself.

The hunger and thirst came first, but, as all good misery did, it brought company. She felt… Itchy. It was the only way she could describe it. Her skin felt… Tight, constricting, her clothes chaffed and rubbed her red, or at least, they felt like they did though her skin never flushed. Everything became obnoxiously bright, painfully so in the afternoon when the sun was high. Noises were too loud. Cars from two streets away became deafening. Things, even her beloved tea leaves, smelled foul. Rotten. And by Merlin would she swear she could smell the sweat and stink of the very city itself when the wind blew.

As always, Harry wrote it all off. Nothing was amiss. Not now. Not right after she had defeated Voldemort and finally earned her freedom, her life, to do with as she wished for the very first time. Food poisoning. Infection. Delirium. You name it, Harry blamed it. She just needed time, rest, and most of all… Food and she would be as right as rain by the weeks end. And so, she locked herself away in Grimmauld place, telling anyone who asked the tedious excuse of I'm feeling a bit under the weather, I'll see you soon.

But then the food stopped working. She would eat, she would scoff, she would pilfer Grimmauld places pantry until not a single crumb was left on a shelf or cupboard and even then, her stomach twisted and churned, burning, aching for something, anything to fill it. Some nights, especially towards the end, she stayed up all night, angry, livid, starving. Some nights, she would trash the place, tip tables, throw paintings and vases, rip the very curtains away from the walls. Some nights she simply rolled herself up into a ball, begging any god, deity, anything to make the pain stop. Most of the time, she just ate, hoping the next meal would fill something, anything.

It was hard to describe, that sort of hunger… Starvation. It was a focal point, all Harry could think, breathe, or act upon. Soon enough, why she was hungry didn't even matter. Only that she was hungry. It nearly stripped her of everything she was, what she was, who she was. All she could focus on was that pain, that hunger. Perhaps it drove her a little mad. Harry could not lie about that. The worst, the very hammer that was beating the nails into her finger nails, was that… Incessant knowledge, that instinct that took root, that Harry knew, just knew, there was something she was missing. Something that would make the hunger and thirst and pain stop. She just couldn't find it.

Of course, within the second month of her self-imposed exile, her friends took notice something was remiss. When Ron and Hermione, against Harry's wishes, dropped by for a surprise visit, they did not miss the trashed rooms, the blacked out windows, the heavy silencing charms, the piles and piles of plates littering the kitchen sink from the beginning, when Harry could be bothered with such a thing as plates and cutlery, nor the overflowing empty food boxes and packages in the over spilling bin Harry had crammed them into. In truth, that had only been a days' worth, she was eating more than she could throw away, and too focused on the gnawing hunger to vanish the rubbish with a flick of her wrist. By that point, she was more beast than witch. One thought swirling around her mind. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat.

Nonetheless, true worry, real, inexcusable concern was only given when they caught sight of Harry herself. Her skin had turned ashen, cracked in places, eye sockets blackened and sunken, pupils blown. What greeted Hermione and Ron that day was not their best friend, it wasn't Harry, it was an animal.

Sitting in the middle of Grimmauld's kitchen, surrounded by empty packages, sobbing, half dead already, guzzling down a litre bottle of apple juice as she ranted and raved about how hungry she was… Well, Harry really couldn't blame them for the emergency call they made to Saint Mungo's, nor the 'involuntary commitment' she was put under when she had tried to fight them off to reach more food. Ron, Merlin bless him, had even said she had tried to bite him at one point, and, despite her weakened state, had been faster than expected, only held into place by a well-aimed stupefy by Hermione. Harry couldn't remember any of that though, she only remembered waking up later, strapped to a hospital cot, spelled into subjugation, nurses running around her, lights too bright, sounds too loud, and that damned hunger still clawing at her mind.

She didn't know how long they kept her on that cot, nor under the binding spells and shields, but she knew the pain in her joints, knew the ache in her gums, felt the urge to rip and throw and tear into something, anything. She was cold, so cold, alone, nothing made sense. Soon, she grew too weak even for the binds to be important enough to keep her down, and even if she wanted to, and by all that she stood for, she wanted to, she couldn't even slink herself off the hospital bed. It was then she knew, really knew. It was like a far-off voice, dreamy, peaceful, lulling her to sleep. She was dying. If she had the strength, she would have laughed. Third times the charm, they always said.

Still, Saint Mungo's proved to be more in the dark than even she had been. All known wizarding and muggle diseases had been wiped from the equation. Fungal infection had been eradicated. Parasitic contamination had been swept off the board of possibilities within two weeks and everyone, including the specialists they brought in, were left blind. No doubt, they tried to help. But nothing worked. Soon the food they forced down her turned to ash on her tongue. She vomited anything and everything they gave her and no spell, potion or hex could fix it. In fact, it only got worse.

Her sleep, the little she got, began to fluctuate, and like the hunger, it began slowly. She overslept and hour, she woke up in the middle of the night, restless, starving, angry and hurting. She couldn't focus when it was bright, she became drowsy come morn and alive when twilight hit. All too soon, she was passing out without any warning when the sun kissed the horizon and snapping to aching consciousness when the sun said goodnight. If it weren't for the fact that the sun did not burn her, silver did no harm, and all the tests given came back negative for vampiracy, the healers, her friends, and herself included, would have believed she had become one of the undead. However, she had never been bitten, the tests proved that, and neither had she ever been given vampire blood, another in which a spell had confirmed.

Hermione, however, could not let the theory go. There were too many similarities. However, after force feeding Harry some donated blood taken from the local muggle hospital, Saint Mungo's having none in stock for they preferred magic over that strange thing called science, and watching Harry throw it up like a scene from the exorcist, even she was left stumped. It didn't matter at any rate. Harry, by that point, was too far gone.

It was odd, Harry would admit. Dying this way. Slowly withering away. Chipped. All the other times she had died, it had been fast, a flash, quick and easy. Now it took its time. Like death was creeping through her, flicking off certain parts of her, turning the lights out until, surely, at the end, she felt like an empty abandoned house. In those final days, she felt like a infant once more. Nothing external made any sense, words seemed garbled and broken, and all she could focus on was the stuttering of her heart, the missed beats and that frightful hunger.

"Sanguini, what are you doing here? These are quarantined rooms!"

Was that Hermione or a nurse? Harry couldn't rightfully tell anymore, nor could she see. Her eyes refused to open any longer. A sharp twist of hope took up home in her chest, but, yet again, she didn't know why. Perhaps she simply didn't want to die alone. Not again. Not surrounded by strangers or enemies. Or without food. She needed food. Merlin, she was hungry… Wait, what was she thinking about again?

"Do you wish to save your friend or not?"

That's right, the noises. There was too much now, a shuffle that sounded like concrete grinding, a rush of footsteps that sounded like a stampede. Once again, she tried blink but her eyes stayed stubbornly shut. The sun was rising. It was close. She could feel it. Somehow, someway, she knew it was there, minutes, perhaps half an hour from cresting into the sky. Irrationally, Harry knew she would be dead as soon as the sun graced the sky.

"What are you doing?!"

The blistering noise of what sounded like two frozen beef stakes being torn apart rattled through Harry. Something niggled the back of Harry's mind, a tingle and then her nostrils were flaring. Merlin… It smelled divine… Honeysuckle, treacle, cinnamon and something lagging at the edges that smelled like fresh spring rain. Food. There was food, she could smell it. Good, filling food… And she was too weak to do anything, to get to it, to feed. She wanted to sob, to yell and lunge, to eat, but her body couldn't move. Life just had to get one more jab in at its favourite fucking punching bag before she dipped and left the game, didn't it? Mother-fucking piece of shitty cunt-

"Harry… Harry, listen to me… Drink… You have to drink before your heart stops or you won't wake up again… Drink Harry… Drink…"

Drink? No, no, no! She was hungry! It smelled like food! She didn't want to drink, she wanted to eat! She wanted to feast! Just one last bite that didn't taste like gritty mud or cold ashes. Just one last joy, just one, before she died. Was she really asking for too much? A cold hand slithered around her neck, cradling before it pulled her up, propping her against something solid, thin… A chest. Her eyes flickered open, but she couldn't hold it.

"Stop! We've tried that!"

The body holding her jerked viciously, as if it was tugging her away from something, or someone.

"She's a Dhampir! She feeds off Vampires, magical beings, not muggles!"

That marvelous smell grew stronger. Harry felt her skin tighten, her brow… Shifting, her eyes, though shut, searing and finally, there was a throbbing in her mouth before a resounding clack rang out.

"If she's a Dhampir… Dangerous… Killer… Ministry orders… Execute… Let her die in peace!"

Something was wrong… No, not wrong, it felt right, but there was something… Different with her mouth. Her teeth felt odd, sensitive, her lip skimmed against something pointed and sharp and it sent a jolt of pain… No, not pain, pleasure through her. Her whole face felt knew, fresh… Real.

"I'd prefer it if she didn't die at all! I know her father would prefer it that way too! Now Harry, drink! We don't have much time left… Drink… Drink… Drink!"

James? Her father was here? How… No… Open… Open… Steadily, her eyes fluttered open. The bright light, white and scorching, made her hiss and swear in Parseltongue as she weakly tried to shake her head. Still, she tried to focus, to see, and slowly the white light receded just a fraction. The man, she was sure it was a man that was holding her, never came into focus, and neither did she see the inhabitants of the room. Nonetheless, there was someone standing over her, bearing down, smiling… But it wasn't James Potter.

It was a man she had never seen before, and yet, deep down, Harry knew he wasn't really here either. But he looked real, he felt real, standing there, serenely smiling down at her, haloed by hot, white light. He had a thin face, stern some would say, but the smile softened him exponentially. He had dimples, just like Harry, the left more prominent than the right and his hair, a dark auburn, practically black, just like her own, danced down his forehead, skimming into his blue eyes. There was something familiar there, something visceral and deep and bottomless. He reached down and brushed the very tips of his fingers against her cheekbone, gliding down into her sweaty hair. The trail sparked something inside Harry, like lightning hitting a dim forge, roaring the fire back to life.

Go on. Drink. For me.

He had a strange accent, deep, twangy, vowels drawn out and elonganted. But it had something in it, in the grace of the tone, a pit in the words that felt achingly familiar, like a lullaby she had long forgotten. Any further thought on the matter was cut off as a strange, disembodied wrist drifted across the tender flesh of her lips. The smell hit her full forced and what came next was entirely instinctual.

Harry's teeth… Fangs ripped into the soft skin savagely, her hands leaping out to grasp onto the arm like vipers striking as she yanked it closer, gulping at the liquid that began to slip into her mouth. Morganna, it tasted like heaven. A noise, thundering, burst from her chest like a triumphant roar. For how long she laid there, tearing into the arm, drinking all she could with a sudden burst of energy she had not felt in months, Harry would not be able to tell you.

Nevertheless, that energy, that wonderous moment of life undulated seeped from her as sleep began to cloak her in a void so barren, so cold, that a moment of fear, poignant terror, seized Harry as she felt herself slipping into it. She fell, head lolling and breathing became something to fight for. Each one ragged, faltering. Then, like a candle being blown out, her heat stopped beating and Harry plummeted into that void.

On July 31st, at only seventeen years old, Harriet Lillian Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, was pronounced dead. Emergency cremation was declared necessary for her remains, and Sanguini was lead from the room, albeit, he went missing from custody before the hour passed. Dragon Pox was announced as the culprit, and Harry was mourned by those who held her dear. However, her body disappeared from the morgue an hour before cremation could take place, and no one was none the wiser that they were mourning over a jar of goat ashes. It was only idly noted by the daily prophet that both Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were missing from the funeral, although they had spun it as the two being deeply hurt by the loss of their friend, and when the two appeared together four days later, chatter about the whole incident died down.

By the 3rd of August, stashed away in the back of a moving van speeding down a highway, far away from the only world Harry had ever known, distanced from any friends, memories or familiarity, with Sanguini hovering over her prone form, Harriet's eyes snapped open to a whole knew, terrifying, exhilarating life.

"Easy, Harry. You're safe. I'm taking you to your father."

A.N: I have no idea what this is or if I should continue or not, but it really was fun writing this little prologue up. Originally, I was breezing through some Albanian mythology and folk tales and came across one about Dhampirs, where they could be spotted by their unruly, dark or black hair, along with being shadowless, and the thought just popped into my head, what if Harry was a Dhampir? And well… Whatever this is sprang out from that little idea XD.

To fit this in with the True-bloodverse, I had to juggle Potterverse's timing. So, everything happened exactly the same as the books/movies, only a few years later. So, instead of Harry being born in 1980, He/she was born in 1991. That makes the year she turns seventeen 2008, (if my maths is correct XD). I hope this doesn't bother too many people, but hey, it's fanfiction, I'm having a bit of fun with it lol.

Hopefully you enjoyed this! If you can, drop a review, they really are appreciated!