I was born in the village of Godric's Hollow, to James and Lily Potter. By my first birthday they had fallen to a madman who stylized himself 'Lord Voldemort' - a maniac quite similar to Hitler, and perhaps he had been heavily influenced by that man, for he would have been alive during the man's rise to power. But I digress.

A prophesy had been called, and it was because of this that Riddle - Voldemort - had attacked. They died because of me, because of a power that I would one day wield - the only power that could possibly stop his rise to power.

Flash forward ten years and you would have found me living with the sister of my mother, under conditions that would have caused many questions - and legal problems - had they been brought to the attention of the proper authorities. But they never would be, for who would tell them? Certainly not I, so accustomed to the status quo.

Flash forward again to my eleventh birthday, and my acceptance in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For several years I was a rather unconventional curriculum which included annual threats on my life, through no fault of my own or those around me. They tried their best to protect me, and I cannot fault them for that.

But there best was rarely enough.

Events happened to me like clockwork, in those days; always on my birthday, on halloween - the anniversary of my parents' death - I would find one catasrophe or another befalling myself and those I loved. At the time I came to believe more and more that it was their association with me that put them in such danger.

Then came my third year, and the entire debacle with the Tri-Wizard tournament. My name placed there by another, under the name of a school that did not exist, I was forced to participate in an event closed to all but the eldest students. And I, not even half way through my schooling, barely even coming in to puberty.

Another student died that night. And, perhaps ... perhaps I could have come to terms with that. He begged me to return his body to his parents, and I had every intention of doing so.

If only I had lived long enough to keep that promise.

It had been a cup that had deposited us in that cursed graveyard in the first place, and it was as I reached for that cup - a golden chalice that should have been the prize of the winner - that I felt the sharp pain in my neck, and then ... nothing.

The pain faded, replaced by a shock of pleasure before I lost all consciousness. That was to be my first sexual experience ... and what an experience it was.

When I finally awoke, it was to the darkness of a bed, heavy curtains pulled closed. I lay still for several seconds, trying to get my bearings. I had not yet been turned, not yet, and if I had known what was to come, perhaps I would have been a bit more frantic. As it was, I simply lay there for several seconds.

Human still, it took my eyes some time to adjust to the dim lighting, and even then, not much could be seen. I felt my way, fingers dancing along the quilt until the encountered the headboard of the bed. Bare feet dropped down to the floot, a shiver racing up my spine at the cold wooden floors. Cold still affected me, then.

"You should go back to sleep." The tired voice jolted me in to movement, sending me shotting back onto the bed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognized the voice, but being practically blind was not beneficial to any kind of trust.

The shuffling of footsteps made me aware of movement, and I my eyes darted frantically around, trying to find the source ... but it was just too dark.

"Harry ..." Fingers brushed along my arm, the bed dipping beneath the weight of another person, and once again I tried to draw away ... only to be stopped by a firm grip on my arm. "Harry, stop it."

A softly whispered Lumos later, and I was staring into the familiar features of Charlie Weasley. His hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, blue eyes serious as he stared down at me. "You need to sleep. Not to mention I'd like to get some, too." The last was said with some humor, and I could already feel myself relaxing.

"Where ..." I stared to say, only to be silenced as Charlie shook his head.

"In the morning, Harry."

A recap; Charles Weasley, second oldest of the Weasley children. Ronald Weasley, the youngest of the boys and second-youngest of them all - his younger sister Ginny being the youngest - had been my childhood friend since I first began attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. Though I had only met Charlie a handful of times, I had no reason to distrust him.

So I complied. Why? Because I had no reason not to believe I was safe. Perhaps I thought we were at Grimauld Place, the home of my Godfather, the headquarters of the Order of the Pheonix, an underground resistance group against Lord Voldemort. Remember him? Maniac who tried to kill me as a kid? Yeah, they fought him.

And Charlie had always been trustworthy, besides. So I settled myself back into the bed, aware of Charlie retreating, of a door opening and closing softly behind him.

Besides, I was tired.

When next I awoke, I was alone and sunlight was only now beginning to stream through the now opened curtains of the room. Charlie was nowhere to be seen, and as I eased myself out of the bed, I took stock of the room around me.

Definately not Grimmauld Place.

Allow me to explain. Grimmauld Place - the home of my Godfather, Headquarters of the Order? It was a gloomy place, filled with dust and mold, barely livable, even with the ministrations of the Weasley matriarch. But this room? It was meticulously clean, spacious. I had grown accustomed to sharing a room with Ron over the years, yet he was nowhere to be seen. And now, in the light of day, the previous evening's activities did seem strange. Since when did Charlie Weasley berate me for my night time wanderings? Though I knew him, had even had the occassional conversation with the older man, he was certainly not the type of do his mother's work for her. Where had Ron been?

For the first time, the oddities of that night became blaringly clear, and it was with more than a bit of trepidition than I eased the bedroom door open.

Of course, my mind was already coming up with excuses. Perhaps Dumbledore had saved me, perhaps he had known something was wrong and had followed where the Cup had deposited me. Perhaps ... The excuses continued, until I felt safe in my own explanations. After all, everything would be explained to me eventually.

Dumbledore always had a way of telling me just enough to allay my fears, while holding back just enough to make me dig all the harder. I realise now that this was intentional. He did it to protect me, in his own way. He knew what was coming, what I would have to face. Perhaps the details were off, but the rather unconventional 'training' I recieved from those same dangerous situations served me well ... later.

The hall that awaited me beyond the bedroom door was dark, what little light there was coming from electric lights on the wall, set at even intervals. And, of course, the sunlight streaming from my door.

Isn't it odd, that the first thing that caught my attention were those electric lights? I didn't find them odd when living with my relatives, for they lived their lives surrounded by the marvels of modern science. But I had seen Charlie Weasley the night before, and so my mind instantly associated him with a place of magic, of candles and darkened corners and mystery. Certainly not anything modern.

So my attention was caught, just long enough for the voice that spoke to my left to startle me. "Awake, I see."

Before I knew what was happening the man was beside me, long fingers sifting through my hair, and I caught my first glimpse of Lestat de Lioncourt. His blond hair fell in gently curling waves down to his shoulders, blue eyes watching me with a slight smile curling his lips. He was a handsome man - make no mistake about it. But there was an elegance to him that was rare in the world - I was to learn later this was the elegance of a French aristocrat.

But at the moment, I cared little for elegance or finery, or even manners. I jerked away from the touch of his fingers, but that onlyc aused his smile to grow, a flash of fang making me recoil even more.

He enjoyed that, I could tell - enjoyed making me squirm. Even then I could see it, before I came to know the man who would take everything from me - and give me a new world.

Do I hate him for it? Perhaps. But I cannot help but love him, all in the same breath.