Title: Golden Gazed.
Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter nor Twilight belong to me.
AN (as of 25.4.2017): So, as I said on chapter four - now three- I edited and then combined chapters one and two, as short as they were. I hope you all don't mind!
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Golden Gazed
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Part One
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Bitten
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His eyes are a deep brilliant burgundy. His hair a perfect halo of blonde. His face, from what can be seen in the artificial light, is superficially faultless. He looks to be an angel in appearance, in movement and in grace, but Harry knows differently. It is not hard to, after all; he is neither stupid nor illiterate, and has opened many a defence book in his time at Hogwarts.
This man - this being - before him, who glides like walking death and appears so quickly that he blurs, is clearly a vampire.
A creature that is rumoured to bring naught but death to those like he - a creature who, in less than a single fascinated second, brings nothing but fire to him. A fire that burns bright and fierce, like a blazing fiend fire, in the side of his neck and does not begin to fade.
"Incendio." Is the only thing he can think of to say. The only help four years of literary texts and professors can give him in that moment - though, in all honesty, he has to admit that in of itself is an absolute miracle. The majority of his defence teachers, after all, have been pitiful. Not that their collective improvement would have altered much; vampires, in vast detail, aren't studied until sixth year. Something about ministry policies and scaring children, needlessly.
He finds himself, again, for the third time that night, being annoyed at the minister and his apparent incompitence.
He does not know, really, how long he is there in the beings clutches. How long, exactly, the man spends drinking his blood or if he even gets any at all - but it does not matter. It is only a small fraction of a second between Harry's intent being thought, his spell being whispered and his magic reacting and responding, fueled by his fear and his panic.
His would-be-killer flinches back, seemingly wide-eyed and horrified, with a painful hiss echoing out from behind the suddenly appearing orange and blue flickers of bright immense flame.
He feels, more than anything, absolute relief at the sight, though he does have to purposely ignore the tight squirm that starts in his chest at the pained emotion that is crossing the vampires face. Has to ignore the guilt that rises up on his own features - imagine going to the fridge, he thinks dazedly, and getting attacked by a burger - but the majority of him only cares that he is still alive.
In absolute agony now, yes, and with a hole in his neck. But still, he is alive to feel it.
The vampire is stepping away now, his brain supplies, as he tries to push away his own pain, with less and less success as the seconds pass. He notes as he does, with a new blurry state of mind, that the man is still alight and is burning far faster than even Harry's neck is.
Burning so fast, in fact, that he is rapidly becoming ash where he stands.
A part of Harry, the part that is still relatively coherent, is slightly amazed and horrified at that. Is that really what he is capable of under threat of death? Is that truly how strong his magic is in the heat of the moment? That he can reduce a near impenetrable being to a pile of darkened grey ash, in less than a minute?
He slumps in a complicated mixture of pain, relief, guilt and sadness, as he witnesses the last of his fire disappear along with the threat, and sinks, almost accidentally, to the dirty floor of the side street he is in.
Suddenly, the dementor attack and getting kicked out of his Aunt and Uncle's house earlier that evening, seems like the very least of his problems.
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To say this is pain, he reckons, through gritted teeth, clenched fists and sweaty skin, a minute or an hour later, as he drags himself back up and holds out a hand for the Knight Bus, is now the greatest understatement.
He feels as if he has basalisk venom running through his veins again, only this time two minutes of agony before death is not enough. This - this is torture, ongoing and un-ending. It is painful, agonising, enough for him to hope for oblivion to claim him, but it is too much, too consuming, to be able to succumb to it.
Thankfully though, in a way, as Harry has no intentions of passing out just yet. Even if it is a crucio to him, yet so much worse, for it is far longer and there is no one there to grant him a reprieve from it. Even Voldemort, he feels, would have happily given him that, if only to gloat over his needing it.
It is what makes him realise that he honestly does need someones immediate help - that he is in so much pain, consumed by so much fire and flame, that even Voldemort abruptly seems like a good idea to him.
He has no experience with any of this; he has no idea on how to deal with a vampire bite, has no idea of what it even does to a person.
Is it poison? He enquires of himself, brain sluggishly trying to think. Is it something that causes immense pain to hold the victims still?
He doesn't know, never really thought to learn, and so he needs someone who does know.
He wonders - with that impressively deteriorating level of coherency - while he waits, shaking but aloft, if anyone is even looking for him yet. If anyone is watching for him and worrying for him. He realises though, quite dejectedly, that they probably wouldn't even know that they had need to, would they?
Professor Dumbledore will still be expecting him - rather niavely concidering the Dursley's, Harry decides grimly - to be at Privet Drive, still tucked safely away behind the blood wards, in his room and in his bed.
It is just too bad, he adds, flitting teasingly along the lines of consciousness, only to be wrenched back from it, that no one ever thinks to ask Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon what they think about that - or me.
Not that he wanted to stay anyway - as if he ever wanted to return, in the first place.
He hears a sudden, loud and echoing bang, and his thoughts get immediately disrupted by Stan, the conductor, who is jumping off the bus with quick words of how "'Orrible" he looks, and Harry's own randomly appearing fears of how Death Eaters and Voldemort could attack them all, because of him.
He has no other choice, though, he thinks, but to board it and to risk it.
He can not fly by broom, as he did in his attempt to find The Burrow, and he can not go by foot, or by taxi, or by any other means, magical or otherwise.
He shoves the galleons that have been in his moneybag all year long into Stan's hands, not bothering to check the large amount, and ignores whatever the man says in return, choosing to use the last of his effort to pull at his trunk and broom, and haul it up the step instead.
He knows that Stan is still talking to him, or about him, that Ernie is replying, and that other people on board are staring at him, whispering, with mixtures of surprise, worry, incredulousness and apprehension. He can only guess at what the emotions mean as they flitter passed, but he does not care to do so.
"Hogwarts." He gets out, collapsing in a chair, or in a bed, or on the floor. He does not bother to look, and does not think he could even if he tried to. He is in too much agony and is far too exhausted.
He tries to concentrate, anyway.
"You 'eard 'im, Ern. 'E needs to go 'Ogwarts." The blur where Stan is says, an odd amount of concern colouring his voice. "We'll take you there first, won't we, Ern? Don't fink no one'll mind, what wif the blood, an all. Though, I gotta say, you sure you don't want ter go St Mungo's, instead? You don't look good, 'Arry."
"No." Harry mouths, or says. He isn't quite sure which. "Not Mungo's. Death Eaters."
He is sure that he is speaking it aloud then, when people gasp and one blob in particular tries to say something to him. Only, the sentence doesn't get out, the voice fading before it really begins.
But then again, everything else seems to fade with it, so maybe it is just me that is finally fading?
"Oi! 'Arry! We gotcha 'ere, 'Arry." He hears from far away, though he barely registers it. "We've even shouted for a staff member to 'elp you along. It's the strict one, though. Fink you'll be alright wif her?"
... Hogwarts?
"Dumbledore?" He half-whispers questioningly. His throat is seeming far drier than it even feels - an impossability, surely?
"Dumbledore's up there too, I fink. But you got McGonagal for now. Kicked me from 'er class in fifth year. 'Ere, 'Arry? Tell us if you die wontchu, 'Arry?"
"Yeah." Harry manages to croak, the colours of the world blurring blessedly to black.
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He stirs occasionally within his cocooned darkness and hears things as he travels through it. His nerves flare with anger, his heart pounds and his skin gets hotter and colder at the same time.
He listens to the sound of a familiar professor finding him, of other people panicking and others mournfully wishing him well. He hears the sound of the lilting trill of Pheonix song, and drowns in the feelings of hope that comes with it. He even feels the number of potions that are quickly poured down his neck, to no obvious effect. He burns alive, regardless - regardless of anything they do, anything they try.
He is borderline conscious of being moved too, when he is taken to the worried murmurs of the people he knows, of angry godfathers and heartbroken loved ones - and, at some point, conscious enough to hear the entrence of people with unfamiliar voices, which sound beautiful and worrying to his ears. They sound like sweetness incarnate yet they carry worrying words, and hold no thrummings within the cavities of their chests.
No heartbeats, he reckons confused, after hours or years of his burnings. The hours or years it has taken him to slowly regain some semblance of any kind of competent clarity. Some capablity of understanding.
And isn't that a strange thought to have? He ponders dazedly, eyes flickering behind closed eyes, but never opening them. Strange, as he has not been able to hear anyone's heartbeats before. Hasn't been able to note the beating, the pounding, never mind witnessing anyone speaking without one.
But then, he notes, decades or centuries later, that it is nowhere nearly as strange to him as the new type of fire, a differnt one, that flicks menacingly at his throat, with fire and fury, whenever he does hear one.
It is a similiar pain to the burnings, he can tell, only it is concentrated directly in his throat, all at once. And really, unlike before - unlike that other flame that strips even his bones bare - this one offers a reprieve; all he has to do, he thinks, is crack open the skin which hides the beats, and take what is inside to get it.
He gasps for breath at the mere idea, aching and hurting twice as hard, and automatically sees imagined crimson tides flowing directly into his mouth. It causes his throat, already fueled terribly, to roar even more with painful agonising life. It happens to the point, so fully and so painfully, that his hands naturally want to clutch at the closest beat and tear and bite and-
- he finds he can't do any of it: rush, clutch, tear or bite.
He is not sure why, exactly, but he realises, suddenly panicked, that he physically can not move. Not his hands, his arms or even his eyelids. Nothing moves when he tells it to - there is no hope to ease his throat, there is no movements to be had.
He dimly recalls, as the majority of him fumes and panics, that it has nothing to do with the flames either; after all, it hadn't halted his steps before, had it?
Unless it is because the fire is in his heart now? He questions himself, almost hopefully.
The one that is causing it to stutter and sprint like an athlete in the Olympics, another part of his mind adds.
And isn't that odd too, he contemplates, wanting to tilt his head. That he can suddenly - apparently - catergorise his brain into layers of thought and into different section.
That is not normal for him, is it? It is not normal how he is still able to listen in, partially fascinated and partially wary, to those other unknown voices, while he flares and thinks, both - and has been listening, somehow, ever since he first somewhat stirred into reality.
How he listens to their conversations with the familiar voices - the ones where he is always the main part of the discussion. Where words flow and questions are asked, and they wonder how he is, if he is still in pain and how long is left to his change.
All of their voices, he knows, are not at all close by. They are so vivid, so clear and so loud to him though, that they may as well be.
He admits no where near as loud, or as obvious, or as insistent, as the wings that he hears shuffling, moving and hovering, practically on top of him though. It fascinates him even more, that sound, with its rapid flutter of a heartbeat and its soft firm comforting lyrical songs. It somehow even manages to sooth him slightly, as it informs him that it could not ever be - is not ever meant to be - considered food.
It is blood, the creature seems to agree with him, but it is also a greater fire and flame and could destroy him easily enough given cause - and therefore, he should not give it one.
It is a warning not to eat it, he thinks, almost amused by the fact, even as his throat burns with such an intensity that he debates whether he should try to do so anyway, once he can move. Anything to stop the flames licking at the skin beneath his neck.
Although, why he is under the impression that any live bird, winged creature or person can help it - can stop the burn, can be sustenance for him - abruptly makes him uneasy. And obviously not because it is disgusting to him, but because it simply isn't.
That isn't normal for him either, is it?
Blood, blood, blood, a part of him suddenly thinks, hopeful and tense, and those images of glorious red and warmth flicker through his mind more clearly.
It is not even a millisecond later, feeling almost thoroughly distraught, that it clicks. Because it makes sense, doesn't it? After everything, every change, every feeling, every thought he is having.
All of his thoughts zone in on the single realisation; his throat is blazing, his mouth is watering, his hearing is brilliant, and his heart is failing. He needs blood...
I guess an undrained bitten human creates another vampire...
It is thoroughly horrifying to him, but he finds it is no less true for stating it.
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He tries to control his urge to drink, after he understands it. He hardly manges any success at it, though. That is, until he no longer has to outwardly try.
It is sudden, really, but one second he is there, thoughts of gulping down fountains of blood claiming his mind utterly, and the next he no longer hears anything outside of his space. There is no heartbeats sounding, no words, no flutter of wings, and no one sounds or smells like blood.
He assumes - and correctly so - that one of the other voices, one of the familiar adults wandering about this place, must have put up silencing charms and scent blockers. He is both immediately thankful for it and absolutely annoyed.
It is wrong, a part of him insist furiously. It is wrong, it is uncomfortable, and it is outrageous to have his senses cut off.
His throat, however, doesn't seem to burn half as much as it did, and for that he is thankful.
He still wants to drink - will drink, everything in him insists, and he agrees - but he is fairly confident now that he will no longer try to immediately harm those he knows he cares for. He can at least pretend they are not giant blood bags, after all, for they have neither human sounds or scents anymore.
He debates whether he should try and take another deep breath in, if only to famiarise himself with this lesser burn. He easily decides on how bad - how great - an idea that is though. He seems to remember that vampires can smell far further than humans can, and who knows how far the scents are blocked off? Breathing in miles upon miles of scents from outside of this space would be a bad - a so very good - idea.
He barely keeps his breath held, thanks to his old views warring within him.
Not that it currently matters; he is frozen regardless of wants or needs anyway.
He can't even fully focus on other things any more - on conversations, on things that don't instantly cause siliva to pool in his mouth and fantises to enter his mind. He only manages to distract himself slightly, when he listens to his own rapid heart beat stuttering on dangerously.
Especially as it finally, literally, causes his back to arch up off the bed he is on, like a helicopter rising in flight. Especially as the fire that is pulsating there, turns red hot and far greater than before. Now that it creates its own grande crecendo of supernovas and wild fire, comparing easily to his fiery throat.
His heart goes on though, sounding fast, tired and harsh. It sounds much jumpier, slower and broken with each new pump.
He somehow knows that this is it. That this is going to be the end of any human DNA he has left. That this is the end of his always-been-there heartbeat and afterwards, he is going to be a vampire in all ways.
He waits hopelessly for his next beat of life, clinging to it's sound - only he does not need to.
His arched back simply falls back onto the bed, and there is only silence.
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