The Immortal Burden
by Partita
Chapter Three
The Awakening
Draco heaved a sigh as he settled himself deeper into the green depths of the sofa. With one arm propped on the armrest beneath his head, he stared at the plain white ceiling of the Room of Requirement. He seemed to be doing that a lot nowadays—staring at nothing... feeling lifeless and unmotivated to do anything... 'And McGonagall actually made me Head Boy,' he thought, frowning at the ceiling.
His days no longer held any—if not less—meaning for him. And with each day's start, he couldn't help looking at it as a curse—a burden. 'Really,' he'd always think to himself as he got up each morning from his bed, 'what is the point?' Time was no longer an important factor in his daily activities. As far as he knew, Draco had all the time in the world, and this fact had quickly erased what determination he had had in accomplishing his goals; in striving for what he had set his mind on.
What were his goals, anyway? He scowled as he crossed his arms over his chest. He supposed if none of this had happened to him, he would be aiming to become the person his father was. He would be under the Dark Lord's pressure and constant gaze, performing horrific jobs and doing his dirty work as his servant. He would be striving to become a Death Eater. With an inattentive gesture, the blond brushed his fingers across the white skin over his left arm. He was, admittedly, relieved that he hadn't become part of the Dark Lord's ranks yet, and this feeling of relief frustrated him. He wasn't supposed to be feeling relieved, but rather, even more determined to become one of them.
But was he even ready to become a Death Eater? Was he ready to fully lose control of his own life and face each day with an undying loyalty to the Dark Lord? He turned over on his side on the sofa and glared at the crackling fire. 'No. I'm not,' he thought to himself. He was just a fucking coward—a coward who couldn't even finish the task that he had been ordered to perform because... what, exactly???
Why hadn't he been able to kill him? The old man had been standing right in front of him, in a worn and withered state already, and Draco still hadn't been able to do it. He gritted his teeth as his thoughts flashed back to that night. He had been weak and easy—Dumbledore had even known he was too much of a coward—and was still weak and easy now. He scoffed at the similarity of the two events that had changed his life. If he hadn't been so damn weak and easy fifty-three days ago, he wouldn't be in the position he was in now.
As if on cue, a loud noise issued from the window behind him, causing him to break out of his thoughts. The blond lifted his head slowly and turned towards the window. A black disheveled-looking owl, holding a letter in its beak, was flapping its wings rapidly outside and tapping its beak sharply against the windowpane. Draco rolled his eyes and got up from the sofa to let the owl in. He opened the latch and the bird immediately flew in, dropped the letter from its beak and onto the ground, and flew back out into the cool September air.
"Bloody bird," Draco muttered, before leaning down to pick up the tattered envelope.
He frowned as he recognized the long and slanted cursive written across it. He raised a brow at it, as he studied the yellowed packet in his hand more closely. The envelope was so badly sealed it seemed as if it had been sealed, opened, and then sealed again several times. The edges were also rather frayed, and a burnt red circular mark with the word INSPECTED within it took up the right corner of the envelope. He wondered why this letter had been treated so differently from the ones he had received previously. Deciding to shrug off the thought, he walked back to the sofa and plopped himself down onto its soft cushions.
He stared at the fire in the hearth before him for a moment, contemplating on throwing the letter in without reading it. He knew it was going to contain the same message anyway. His father had always believed that repetition, besides pain, could enforce an idea best. He sighed and decided against it. Tearing open the letter, he read:
Draco,
I expect you are at that useless school now. I can't fathom what your mother had been thinking when she enrolled you in the place yet again. If I were not in this wretched place, I would have taken you out of that godforsaken school already. However, the fact that you are there this year only stresses even more the significance of the point that I will make to you again.
Do not, under any circumstances, let your vampirism be known to anyone around you. You must abide by this, Draco. I refuse to see a Malfoy be treated like a lower individual. Our family prides itself in being one of the highest pureblooded families in the Wizarding world, and you must, for that reason, go through each day as if you were still human.
Once the Dark Lord regains his power, we may decide on how to use your vampirism to its fullest. As of now, remain undercover and control yourself.
—Lucius Malfoy
Gritting his teeth, the blond stood up from where he sat and walked over to the fireplace, before ripping the letter into shreds and throwing the pieces into the crackling fire. So he was a lowly individual now. He chuckled dismally at the irony of the situation as he watched the remains of the letter shrivel up in the blazing fire. He had always been considered below-standard in his father's eyes. He was the imperfect son—a substandard disappointment. And now that he was considered an even lower being, he was ordered to pretend to be normal—to go back to being the huge letdown that he had been before.
"At least you're not in Azkaban," a voice in the back of his mind spoke.
'No,' he thought, fighting his cowardice. 'I'd rather have completed my task and be in Azkaban now.'
Fighting the urge to punch something again, Draco walked over to one of the armchairs in a corner of the room and sat down. Dropping his head into his hands, he stared blankly ahead and wished desperately to be rid of the life he had now... He wished for nothing more than to be able to go back fifty-three days in time and to prevent any of this from happening to him.
Draco had always been one for mysterious trinkets. Ever since he had been old enough for his father to decide to bring him along on his errands, he had always enjoyed viewing the various dark objects on display in the windows of the old, dilapidated shops of Knockturn Alley. Of course, there were cabinets and cupboards full of dark objects at home, but his father had long prohibited him from touching any since he was first handed his own flammacalx necklace on his seventh birthday and dropped it, causing the precious gem to break into pieces. His father had been furious and had immediately set a locking charm on all the cabinets, cupboards, shelves, and anywhere else where the family's heirlooms and dark objects were kept.
Anyway, how was he to know that the stupid necklace enabled the wearer to control fire? No one had ever explained the power of the necklace to him. And why would he want to control fire anyway? He'd much rather be able to turn invisible or be able to move at the speed of light. He scowled at the memory of his father's enraged expression and his mother's disappointed look. The disappointed expression on his mother's face had been the sole reason why that particular memory stayed with him all these years. He'd always hated upsetting or worrying his mother more than anything.
Walking towards the shop he frequented every summer, Draco drew the black cloak that hung on his shoulders closer around him. It was a warm and muggy July afternoon, but he couldn't risk being seen by anyone. Even his mother had no idea he was out; he had been stuck at the Manor for so long since he'd returned with Snape and had decided that he had had enough of being shut up inside.
Quickly pushing the door of the shop open, he entered Borgin and Burkes and was immediately calmed by the familiar moldy smell of the shop. He nodded to the man behind the counter whom he had known since he was a little boy, as the shop door closed behind him with a solid slam and the small bell above it chimed noisily.
"Mr. Malfoy," the man behind the shop counter greeted. The blond approached the counter, the familiar creaks of the floorboards soothing him. The man behind the counter returned to what he had been previously busying himself with.
"Mr. Borgin," he replied. He glanced down at a dark glutinous substance at which the grimy man in front him was peering with a magnifying glass. He raised a brow and pointed at the dark substance that swished around in its glass plate. "May I inquire as to what this is?"
The shop owner looked up and sent the blond a devious look, displaying a toothy grin that clearly had seen better days. "Curious, are you? You've always been a curious lad, ever since you were just this tall," he held up a sooty hand to the height of his abdomen.
Draco rolled his eyes, sighing audibly. Mr. Borgin let out a low chuckle and put down his magnifying glass, before sliding it towards the blond over the counter.
"It is supposed to be the rarest ingredient in the Belluamorph Elixir. A man came in this morning and offered to sell it to me for five thousand Galleons," he said, watching Draco gaze at the substance with knitted brows through the magnifying glass. "Of course, I had to examine it before accepting his offer. Loads of attempted replicas out there."
Before the blond had been able to ask what the rare ingredient was called, the door to the shop had swung open with a loud bang, causing him to almost drop the magnifying glass onto the dark substance. He turned around to see what had interrupted his scrutiny of the sample and noticed, with a guarded look, a tall, ghost-like middle-aged man with long black hair that fell down to his shoulders striding purposefully towards the front counter. When the man reached the counter, Draco noticed that he stood considerably shorter next to him, his five feet, ten inches compared to the man's towering six feet, five inches.
Despite his towering height, the man was considerably thin-looking. If Draco had to guess, he would say the man had been starving for weeks—if that was at all possible. Only the large black suede cloak that the stranger had on could give the illusion that he was a well-built man. He was also breathing heavily as if he had just run a marathon, and seemed to have lost all the colour of his complexion. Every area of him that revealed skin was a ghostly white—even his lips seemed to have lost any tinge of pink. The strange man glanced sideways at the young Slytherin before turning his gaze onto the man behind the counter.
"Mr. Fournier," said the shop owner, glancing warily at the state of his customer. He picked up the glass plate that contained the mysterious dark substance and took the magnifying glass from Draco's hands, before storing them away in a cabinet below. Mr. Borgin looked back up, clearing his throat. "How can I help you today?"
The man named Fournier swallowed hard before responding in a rather low accented voice, "You know what I need."
Mr. Borgin seemed to have understood what his customer meant with those five words, for he immediately nodded and turned to make his way quickly into his storage room. The man stared after the shop owner's retreating back, as his entire posture relaxed slightly, an observation at which Draco, for reasons unknown to himself, relaxed as well. Suddenly, the stranger snapped his head around and stared at Draco with a gaze so intense and chilling that the blond's balance almost staggered. Clearing his throat, Draco stood up straighter and attempted to seem unperturbed.
For a moment, Draco felt the man's gaze linger on his neck, and gulped before pulling his own cloak tighter around him. The towering man beside him sneered and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the shop owner's return. He snapped his head around again and immediately tensed when he realised that Mr. Borgin was not holding what he needed, let alone anything. Mr. Borgin sighed and shook his head at the man.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fournier. I'm afraid we're out of stock. Perhaps you could try the apothecary down—"
But the man had merely grunted and, with a swish of his cloak, turned and left the shop. Mr. Borgin looked after his customer with an embittered expression on his face, sighing and muttering to himself about remembering to restock his items, as he took back out the dark substance at which he was previously examining. He sighed and glanced back up at Draco.
"Well, Mr. Malfoy. Would you like to examine—"
"Er... no," Draco interrupted, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He swallowed, before rubbing the side of his head. "Thank you, but I must leave."
With that, the blond turned from the counter and made his way out of the shop, wondering to himself what had strongly affected him so suddenly. The shop keeper looked after him with a befuddled expression, before returning to his examination. As Draco stepped back out into the warm July air, he felt another wave of nausea overcome him and had to rest his hand on a nearby alley wall to keep himself from toppling over.
'Pull yourself together,' he thought angrily to himself, straightening from his half-bent position. 'Malfoys are not weak.'
"Oh, they're not, are they?" a low voice spoke from behind. He snapped his head around to identify the speaker, only to cause another stomach-churning sensation to wash over him. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He inched closer to the wall and leaned his head against the cold slab, closing his eyes and his breathing slightly strained. Suddenly sensing a shadow hovering over him, he opened his eyes and saw, to his alarm, the same towering man from Borgin and Burkes standing in front of him.
Sneering, the man lowered his intense gaze onto the blond's neck, and then looked back into Draco's eyes. The blond glared at the man and tried to stand up straighter, but his legs wouldn't allow it. The towering figure let out a low chuckle and with a swift and effortless move, lifted Draco by the front of his robes to his height.
"You're weak now," he hissed, almost inaudibly. Draco lifted his hands and attempted to pry the man's fingers off of his cloak, but realised to his frustration that the man was strangely powerful. He grunted as he struggled against the man's powerful grip.
"Who are you?!" he demanded, still struggling. "What do you want from me?"
Fournier's eyes flashed black for a moment, frightening the blond that was struggling under the man's vice-like grip. Then, turning back into the blue shade which they had been previously coloured, the eyes roamed over the pale, smooth, exposed flesh over Draco's neck. Sneering, the man returned his gaze reluctantly to his victim's eyes and replied in a voice that chilled Draco straight to his bones, "I want to drink you dry."
The blond widened his eyes as whatever colour left drained from the complexion of his face. "You're—you're a—"
"Vampire," Fournier answered, nodding at the Slytherin's horrified expression.
Draco had only encountered a vampire once in his lifetime—two summers ago, when his father had had a vampire guest over for a meeting—and the experience had not been a good one. He wasn't ready to live it again. Still hovering a foot above the ground, the blond reached into the side pocket of his cloak discreetly, feeling for his wand. It was there in the pocket, sitting quietly and waiting for its proper task.
The vampire, unaware of Draco's actions, leered at his victim before opening his mouth, revealing two pointed fangs. He lowered his mouth towards the flesh before him, but Draco was too quick for him.
He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the nonhuman before him, shouting, "Impedimenta!"
Fournier was knocked backwards, away from Draco, and landed in a heap on the hard ground.
Scrambling to get back on his feet, Draco held his wand out, making sure to keep it directed at Fournier. The vampire, however, moved too quickly for him to react. In just a blink of an eye, Fournier had Draco pinned against the brick alley wall again. He squeezed the blond's wrist painfully until Draco's grip on his wand loosened, and the wand dropped onto the ground with a quiet clack.
"You cannot escape from me," Fournier growled, his eyes remaining black now. "Your human movements are too slow."
Dipping his head towards Draco's exposed neck again, the vampire opened his mouth and allowed his pointed fangs to puncture the smooth white skin. Letting out a sharp cry, Draco squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the vein in his neck pulse violently and the blood which ran through it rushing out of his body. Fournier was too strong for him, or Draco had immediately been drained of all his remaining strength, for he couldn't lift his arms or struggle out of the vampire's grip.
As the vampire continued to drain his blood rapidly, Draco thought of the pain and worry to which he was and would be subjecting his mother. He imagined her hurt and horrified expression as she saw her son's pale and lifeless body being carried through the doors of the Manor. Her sobs echoed in his ears as he pictured her weeping beside his body, all the while blaming herself for his death—for not keeping him inside where he was safe. He wished he had never left the house... he wished he had been quicker.
Draco was abruptly dropped onto the ground. His breath came in short, quick gasps. Blood was still pouring out of the wound in his neck as he lay still on the ground, too weak to move a muscle. His eyes were shut but he knew that Fournier was gazing down at him. Why had he suddenly stopped? Was Draco supposed to die this way, slowly bleeding to death? Or did he have enough of Draco's blood?
The figure above him crouched down as he wiped away the extra blood that lingered on his lips. He was still thirsty and hungered for the prey before him, but he wouldn't drain this one to death. No, this one didn't deserve to die—not yet. He was weak, but he had a heart. Under the boy's cold exterior lay a heart that knew how to love, but was forbidden to. He lifted his prey's head gently, causing the boy to shiver against the sudden cold contact.
Draco's face was completely white; his lips even possessed a bluish tinge, as he gasped for the warm air surrounding him. But even the weather conditions that day seemed to have drastically changed, as the surrounding temperature felt as if it had dropped by a considerable number of degrees. He shivered under the penetrating gaze of his attacker and wondered how much time he had left before everything stopped.
"Your body is dying," the vampire spoke softly. "I have drained you to the verge of death. I believe, however, that it would have been a pity if I had drained you completely... so I offer you two options."
Draco's breath still came in short, quick gasps, and he nodded ever so slightly.
"I am offering you the choice I never had. I can drain the rest of your blood completely and kill you. Or I can give you a new life," murmured Fournier. "A life of immortality—a life as a vampire. This is your decision to make. Do you fear death, Draco Malfoy? Or do you possess enough courage to become one of us?"
His eyelashes fluttered as he opened his eyes with as much strength as he could muster. He nodded slowly and breathed a barely audible response, "Life."
The vampire nodded and simpered. He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit into the cold flesh. Thick, red blood oozed out of the small puncture, and he watched this with a dark, intense gaze. Fournier lifted his bleeding wrist and held it over the mouth of his victim, allowing the thick, trickling blood to drip into Draco's mouth, as the blond continued to gasp for his last breaths of air.
As the blood made contact with his tongue, Draco felt the need to gag and turn his head away from the source of the putrid and brackish taste, but he found himself too weak to move. He willed himself to swallow the dense liquid that continued to drip onto his lips and into his mouth. After several swallows of Fournier's blood, however, he began to feel a pull—an indescribable need for it. Sitting up slightly with his weight supported by his left elbow, he reached for Fournier's wrist and pulled it down closer towards him until he was practically devouring it, sucking in as much and as quickly as he could.
Fournier winced as he felt Draco's smooth, unpointed teeth graze the puncture in his wrist. Wrenching his fist away, he glared at the blond before him, slightly offended that he had drained more blood than Fournier would have allowed. The blond's eyes flashed black for a moment, creating the illusion of heavily dilated pupils, as he stared hungrily at the bleeding wrist that was now being cradled in Fournier's other hand.
"Enough," Fournier growled, watching and anticipating the transformation.
And to Fournier's wonder, the transformation took only a matter of seconds to start and end. He scowled, feeling slightly jealous and perturbed that his own transformation—his awakening—from a healthy wizard to a bloodthirsty vampire took minutes of excruciating pain. Perhaps it was the extreme purity of Draco's blood that quickened the speed of his awakening. Or perhaps it was his level of courage or cowardice (whichever one preferred) that was able to transform him so abnormally fast.
Whatever the reason for the rapidity of his awakening, Draco's body decayed and transformed itself as fast as Fournier had ever witnessed. Draco felt his heart rate as well as his breathing slow down, as the short, quick gasps for air became no longer necessary. It was an odd sensation—to know that one could function perfectly without breathing. He watched the colour in his already pallid complexion fade away until he was barely the colour of his mother's precious white porcelain.
His mother... What would she say to this? Would she be furious or grateful? Hadn't he rejected the choice of dying because of his mother? Hadn't he become what he was now on the way to becoming because he didn't want his mother to suffer? Draco told himself that that was the reason and that his mother would be grateful, but a small part of him still thought otherwise.
He winced as he felt a sharp pain course through the length of his body. It travelled from his chest and spread outward, reaching his spine, arms, legs, hands, feet, fingers, and finally toes, leaving a burning sensation in each of the parts of his body. But then it all stopped so suddenly. He felt reenergized, yet hungry—desirous and eager—for something to fully complete him. He looked up at his maker, who had a smug expression on his face.
And the only thing that was ever present and reminded him of his new self in his mind now was: blood.
Author's Note: Now you all know what's happened to Draco! A rather intense chapter to write up (and to read, I'm sure), but I managed to finish it. I'm quite proud of myself. Just the content itself consisted of 4,097 words. I've never written so much for one chapter before. I don't expect the next chapter to be quite as long, though. But please, leave me a review and tell me what you think. I apologise for taking so long to complete this chapter. As I told some of my reviewers, I had to take two days away from writing so I could read the last Harry Potter book. I still can't believe it's over (what am I going to do now?!), can you?
