BLOOD DONOR

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix. Parts of this chapter are very dark.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: Zak's-blood13, who said "I sense Draco pinning Harry to a wall and doing something other than drinking his blood," which totally made me laugh. All my love to everyone else who reviewed as well!

A/N: I am so, so, so very sorry about how long it took me to get this chapter updated. I have absolutely no idea what happened…one week passed, then four…I lost all track of time. Again, sorry, and I hope this chapter makes up for it (with lots of Harry and Draco interaction time!).

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Draco dipped the quill back into the inkwell, a glass crystal positioned on the far right of his desk, and regarded the contents of the letter in front of him with a careful eye. The ebony black ink still glistened wetly on the creamy smooth parchment as he read, sequestered in his room with three conjured light globes floating gently above him.

Dear Father,

Forgive me for speaking bluntly. I trust you have heard mention of Scrimgeour's new edicts. Whatever eventuality should occur, there is safety arranged for the students of Slytherin House, though ensuring such protection might necessitate a mass leave of absence. All temporary, of course.

Inform me if you feel other arrangements are required. All my regards.

Your son,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Draco toyed with his quill, the black feathers momentarily lighting with an exotic blue and green sheen as it twirled slowly between his fingers. There was nothing else he could say without revealing too much, should the letter's protection spells be broken.

Finally, Draco nodded, slightly, and dipped his quill back into the inkwell. The brief letter would suffice for now, he supposed, until a less cumbersome means of communication presented itself. If Scrimgeour was going through the trouble of personally warning Hogwarts about dark magic, then rest assured, all correspondence was being searched. It was what Draco himself would do, anyway, when faced with a large population filled with potential enemies.

He spoke a word which rippled deliberately through the air, flowing like gentle waves into every crevice of the room. Impatiently, he waited for the magic to fade, understanding the necessity of caution but despising nevertheless the wait such vigilance necessitated. The fingers of his right hand drummed once, twice, upon the polished wood surface in front of him, before Draco abruptly realized the movement, and forced himself to stop.

Finally, the magic ceased its slow inspection of the room, and faded into the air with a wistful sigh, having successfully determined that nothing, physical or magical, was forcing Draco's current actions. With the disappearance of the magic, without which the room felt inexplicably empty, as though it was missing something of great importance, a ring materialized on Draco's wand hand.

He pulled the ring off, pausing only briefly, as he always did, to appreciate the beauty of the thing. It was silver, with the Malfoy crest resplendent in its center. A snake, forged of glowing silver, with emeralds for eyes, formed the band of the ring. Its mouth opened wide, displaying gleaming fangs – Draco tried very hard not to think of the irony of that – and in its mouth was embossed the Malfoy crest.

The crest was a work of beauty, refined elegance coupled with an antiquity of design which harkened back to the days when feudal lords ruled the earth, and the Malfoys were more powerful than gods…

Draco slid the ring off his finger.

Carefully, he used the point of one of the snake's fangs to prick the tip of his thumb. A single drop of blood welled up onto his skin, and Draco was abruptly mesmerized, transfixed by the crimson liquid which gleamed like a jewel in the conjured light. He could smell the sharp tang of blood in the air, a mixture of salt and iron which wracked his body with stabs of pain.

He stilled, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand, but still the smell lingered in the air, more painful than even the sight of the blood itself.

For Draco could shutter his eyes, but he not cease his breathing, and his lungs continued to rise and fall in the steady beat of a funeral march.

It winked coyly up at him, the blood droplet, still trembling on his thumb. Draco's only solace was that it was Sunday, once again. He only had to finish his current task before seeking out Potter.

Still, though, the thirst ate at him, and no feeble promises of forthcoming relief tempered its wrath.

And a Malfoy did not beg for mercy.

Malfoys manipulated mercy and compassion to further their own ends.

Draco pressed the ring's crest into the drop of blood on his thumb. Quickly, before the blood could dry, he carefully pressed the ring into the center of his letter, simultaneously Vanishing the contents. The black ink disappeared. Only the Malfoy crest, colored a bloody red, remained in the center of the parchment. The vermillion mark sent out crimson tendrils across the parchment, a bloody spider web which spun its influence from the Malfoy crest. Then, that too faded, and he was left once again facing a blank sheet of parchment.

The nib of the quill pressed against the parchment as Draco began to write another, far more innocuous letter.

Dear Mother, the heading read, and the black ink continued downward, listing with leisurely and deliberate tedium his various classes and activities, until Draco signed his name at the bottom with a flourish.

Draco surveyed the contents of his newest letter with satisfaction. The point, after all, was not to sound interesting…quite the opposite, in fact. Scrimgeour would have assigned Aurors to search the Hogwart's post by now. It was the exact tactical maneuver Draco himself would enact if faced with a large building containing an unknown number of innocents and enemies. By prattling on about the most mind-numbing topics he could think of, Draco hoped to protect his correspondence from further scrutiny. The Malfoy name alone would already ensure his letter received more than the usual amount of attention from the Aurors.

The protections on Draco's letter, though, would not be breached. The letter was spelled with a lesser form of blood magic, one tied more to family than to blood. By stamping the Malfoy crest with Malfoy blood on a letter to another Malfoy, a type of protection had been formed. The defense was fairly crude, in fact, but effective, combining blood and family thrice to create a powerful defense.

As such, only one with Malfoy blood and an exact replica of the Malfoy crest on Draco's ring could reveal the hidden letter. Not even his mother, a Malfoy by marriage but a Black by blood, would be able to remove the defenses. Draco's lips curved slowly upward. Of course, that meant the Ministry would be unable to detect, much less reveal, the message either.

With a slight smirk at the thought, he wondered what they would think, the Aurors so desperate to imprison him, when faced with what appeared an innocent letter from the Malfoy heir. That was the greatest challenge, right now, maintaining appearances. They could suspect him to hell and back, but without evidence they were better off teaching magic to muggles. Futile and extremely idiotic though the action may be.

"Tempus." The glowing numbers revealed the time to be eleven at night, much to Draco's intense relief. Far fewer people would be awake and roaming the dormitory now, especially with classes tomorrow.

He grabbed his coat, the thick wool one with heating charms spelled into the folds. The cloak flowed fluidly about him as he draped it on, followed by a warm scarf, moving without pause to the second wardrobe in the opposite corner of his room. He spoke the password quietly, and the doors swung open to reveal an expensive assortment of Potions supplies, Quidditch gear, and other personal effects Draco in no way wanted anyone else to have access to.

His Nimbus Two-Thousand and One rested on its custom-made shelf, its gleaming appearance the product of meticulous care. Even here, below ground in the dungeons, the connection he had with Potter informed Draco, with a subtle sensation which pricked at his skin, that the other boy was once again on top of Hogwart's roof.

The sheer inconvenience of it all made Draco want to hex Potter already, and he hadn't even seen the insufferable Gryffindor yet. To say nothing of the thirst burning his throat, and the back of his lungs like the most powerful of poisons…and only Potter's blood acted as the antidote.

Draco was cautious when he left his room, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps ahead or behind him. He heard nothing, though, nothing but a deadened silence, and continued forward, broomstick over his left shoulder, letter placed in the pocket of his coat.

He emerged on the frost-covered grounds fifteen minutes later, having been forced by patrolling teachers to take every shortcut and hidden corridor he knew of to avoid detection.

A sharp wind gusted over the grounds, lifting and tussling Draco's hair in a rush of cold air. He mounted his broom and flew upwards with the wind, leaving the frozen grass far below him. This high, his dark cloak blended with the nighttime sky, and his pale hair appeared to be just another silver star, shooting across the vast expanses of the night. Draco bared his teeth in a predatory grin. There was something about flying at night, something elegantly untamed about riding upon a cold wind that didn't chill so much as it stung, needles on his exposed skin. His breath, a ghost misting in the air, flew as well, whipping away behind him before he ever had the opportunity to see it.

The Owlery loomed up at him out of the darkness, a weather-battered dome, which once upon a time had been a rich stone which reflected the moon. Now, the rough surface absorbed the dark, its shape blotting out the stars instead of worshipping their light. The slits in the dome's curve, through which owls flitted in and out, reminded Draco of the defense windows in Malfoy Manor, long and narrow. Perfect for casting curses at approaching enemies in event of a siege, and he knew from his childhood explorations that they had been used, because fiery singe marks still marred portions of the stone.

Everyone who dared oppose the Malfoys met with a painful and prolonged death.

He alighted on the very top of the dome, the roof curving away into a black abyss on all sides. His robes swirled around him as he dismounted his broom. Draco knelt down, a knee resting on the battered rooftop, and touched the tip of his wand to the surface. A brief spell, and an invisible pulse throbbed once through the Owlery below his feet. A loud cacophony of disgruntled hoots pierced the air as Draco straightened and waited for his summons to be answered.

Seconds later, a familiar shape soared out of the Owlery, through the nighttime sky, winging its way in a graceful arc towards Draco's still form. He held out his left arm in a classic falconer's pose, a command explicit in the profoundly aristocratic motion. Dangerously sharp talons wrenched at his sleeve as the eagle-owl landed. If not for the protection spells imbued in every fiber, his cloak would have been ripped jagged.

"Hello, Nocens," Draco said softly. The eagle-owl's head twisted around to stare at him with yellow, unblinking eyes. Draco took his letter out of his pocket and tied it securely onto Nocens' outstretched leg. A rush of cold air breezed across Draco's face as the eagle-owl took flight, wings beating powerfully.

The metal bands constricting his lungs with their suffocating and unmerciful grasp loosened slightly; he could already breathe freer, watching as some of his burden vanished into the monochromatic palette of the night sky.

Now, though, Draco was thirstier than ever, and the painful tingling informed him that Potter was close indeed…

Very close.

"Who's that letter for?" A flat voice demanded from behind Draco, startling him.

How the hell had Potter found him?

"Do you have a habit of prying into other people's correspondence, Potter, or do you just have no understanding of privacy?" Draco asked, his sarcasm shattering the night's bitter cold. He turned slowly, fully conscious of the deadly drop on all sides of him. True, he still held his broom, but Draco subscribed to the mindset of not taking miserably stupid risks that had a high possibility of death, and the long drop promised pain.

Potter hovered in front of him on his broom, his breath frosting the chill air a frigid white, before it was ripped away by the wind's spectral claws.

Draco felt his thirst erupt upon seeing Potter, a Fiendfyre which burned his lungs, devouring his sanity in its desperate quest for fuel.

"Come here," Draco commanded, the vampire in full control of his larynx, sure as the fangs which suddenly pricked the top of his lower lip. Draco would have hated the sensation if he hadn't been so pleased with the results – a compliant Potter drifting towards him ever so steadily.

The sacrificial lamb about to be forfeited on the alter of Draco's thirst.

Draco couldn't wait to taste Potter's blood, flowing hot down his throat.

His whole body tensed with anticipation, every particle straining towards the dark-haired boy floating ever closer, and Draco focused all his attention on continuing the dark attraction which lured Potter.

The grindylow dragging an unsuspecting swimmer into the depths to devour him.

Suddenly, Potter's eyes, half-hidden behind the lens of his glasses, lost their blank-eyed stare. He glared at Draco, emerald eyes flashing Avada Kedavra green. Fury flitted across Potter's face, down to his clenched fists, one of which pointed a wand straight at Draco's face.

Potter laughed darkly, wildly, and the sound scraped across Draco's nerves. "I'm immune to the Imperius, why the hell do you think you can do any better?"

He was so close, Potter, less than half a meter away from Draco.

Draco was tempted to Stun Potter and be done with it.

Abruptly, Potter paled, his face draining of color. That was all the warning Draco received before Potter's eyes shuttered close, and the Gryffindor slipped off his broom, into the abyss of the night.

--

Harry was trapped again, what felt like a Full Body Bind wrapped tightly around his consciousness. He couldn't move, and he flexed his mind violently, trying to shatter his bonds.

Something pulled him through the dark of his mind, a relentless, painful tugging which transported Harry, thrashing and struggling, towards an unfamiliar consciousness he did not want.

Then, though, he emerged, into the same strange realm his dreams had embodied for more than a week now.

A silky voice, thrumming with power, whispered softly in his ear. The darkness wrapped around Harry, promising him his heart's desire. He stood on top the highest mountain with the devil at his side, looking out over the world, and the tempter promised him power beyond anyone's imagining. It urged him to repent, to change, to embrace the darkness coiling within him, just waiting to be unleashed.

And Harry said no.

The dream changed, tinted a bloody red. Now, pure, unadulterated agony pulled Harry apart, ripping jagged furrows in his skin, and he couldn't pull away. He could feel the blood running in rivulets down his skin, stinging his eyes, pooling under his feet. Something grabbed his jaw, and made an incision in his right cheek, across his jawbone, then pulled the exposed skin, peeling away the flesh across his face.

And Harry screamed, a dreadful piercing sound.

His tormentor laughed cruelly, and promised healing if Harry only acquiesced with his wishes.

And Harry, though he could taste the metallic tang his own blood pooling in his mouth, spat at the monster's feet and said no once again.

Again, the dream tilted, and this time, Harry could see more than an all-encompassing blackness or the crimson color of blood. He was in a room now, his wounds still in place, removed skin flapping loosely against his cheek, exposing the white gleam of bone through the unending flow of blood. A myriad of other cuts, some shallow and stinging, others so deep Harry's mind cringed violently away from the pain they caused, covered his body in a bloody criss-cross pattern.

He blinked away the blood from his eyes, gasping in pain, and saw another body chained across from him, a little boy, young enough to be a First Year. Harry shifted slowly in his chains, still desperate to escape, but no matter how loudly the chains rattled, the boy still stared unseeing through Harry.

This time, Harry saw Voldemort stride in front of him, wand in one hand, a gore-stained knife with glittering, serrated edges in the other.

It's only a vision, Harry told himself. It's not real.

Voldemort smile at Harry, his eyes glinting red. "You're wrong, Harry Potter. This is so much more than a dream world now." The voice, silky-smooth darkness, resounded in his ears and in his mind, unavoidable.

"You can't do anything to me," Harry said boldly. His green eyes flashed especially bright in a face stained almost entirely with blood.

Visibly, Voldemort dropped all pretenses, holding the knife tight to Harry's throat. Harry could feel the knife's edges nicking at his throat, hooked edges which pulled tiny bits of his skin away as Harry breathed heavily. "True," Voldemort said softly. "I can't do any physical damage to you, but to him…" Voldemort pointed his wand at the small boy, who was crying softly now, tears streaming down his face. Harry's eyes opened wide.

"Don't touch him!" Harry demanded. "He hasn't done anything."

"I'm not planning to touch him," Voldemort said, and the bottom dropped from Harry's stomach at the double-edged words. "Suctumsempra!"

The spell hit the boy in the left arm, slicing deep, blood spurting all over the rest of the body, until a white mass of bone was exposed. The boy screamed, a wordless cry which begged for mercy or the nothingness of death.

"Stop!" Harry cried out, wrenching against his bonds, trying wandless magic, anything, everything, to stop the torture in front of him.

"You're his only salvation now," Voldemort told Harry, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Vow allegiance to me, and I will spare the Mudblood boy's life."

And Harry looked into the brown eyes of the boy suffering in his staid, and said no.

"Avada Kedavra!"

--

It was Draco's vampire-enhanced strength which spared Potter the long fall to the ground. He had seen Potter slip, and had somehow managed to grab the Gryffindor before he fell fully off his broomstick.

Draco pulled Potter to him, the other boy lolling in arms. There was barely enough room for Draco atop the Owlery roof, let alone Potter, who Draco had to clutch close to his chest in a one-armed hug to stop from falling once again.

"Potter!" Draco yelled, half his voice snatched away by the wind. Potter did not respond. Slowly, Draco shifted Potter in his grasp, until he managed to grab his broom. There was a flat roof only twenty or so meters away that Draco could set Potter onto, if only he could manage to fly the two of them there. Just as Draco prepared to mount his broom, Potter screamed, arching violently in his arms.

Nails dug into the side of Draco's face as Potter clawed at him. Draco dropped his broom, using both of his hands to pin Potter's arms to his sides. Potter was still yelling, though, an endless, ugly scream.

The dark hair lying over Potter's forehead swung aside, and revealed that Potter's scar was inflamed an awful red, almost fluorescently bright.

Finally, Potter stilled, though his eyes still did not open.

And Potter did not wake.

Suddenly, Potter was screaming again, salty tears gleaming wetly on his cheek, but this time his eyes were open, staring unseeing at Draco. Potter lashed out at Draco and almost managed to unbalance him – for a brief instant, Draco felt a heady wave of vertigo and thought for certain that both he and Potter were doomed to fall. Then, though, Draco regained his footing, and hit Potter, once, twice, hard across the face, the sound disappearing into Potter's scream.

"Potter!" Draco yelled again, and this time, finally, Potter stilled and looked around at his surroundings, breathing harshly in Draco's grasp.

"Let go of me, Malfoy," Potter said, his voice dangerously soft, his eyes wet and furious.

"In case you haven't noticed, Potter, that's rather impossible at the moment, unless you'd like to fall," Draco sneered, his grey eyes angling toward the drop all around them. "Especially seeing as both your broom and mine have drifted away."

They stood chest to chest, and Draco could feel Potter waver unsteadily. A brief gleam of red flashed in Potter's eyes, the only color in a face full of shadow, and Draco recoiled backwards, almost over the edge, in his shock.

Potter merely raised his hand though, scraping against Draco's side as he did so, and said "Accio brooms."

A few seconds passed, and nothing happened. Draco managed to relax slightly, partly because the red gleam had faded from Potter's eyes, come and gone in an instant.

More importantly, though, Draco had managed to reach his wand, and a curse waited on his lips if Potter attempted to attack him.

A faint whistle filled the air, and Draco saw two specks zooming towards them, outracing the wind which still buffeted dangerously against Draco and Potter on their small perch.

With a Seeker's precision, both Draco and Potter reached out their hands at the same time, both of them still holding onto the other for balance, and deftly snatched their brooms out of the air at the same instant. "Right then," Potter said, his voice rough through chapped lips, "I'm going back to Gryffindor."

Draco's thirst flared back to life at the words, and he grabbed Potter's forearm with inhuman strength, not caring when Potter cried out in pain. "You are not," he declared furiously, "Not until I get my blood."

Something shattered in Potter's already broken expression, something which went beyond the exhaustion and whatever the hell had just happened to Potter when he had collapsed. And Draco almost, almost let him leave.

Except he didn't.

He flew over to the flat rooftop he had spotted earlier, still grasping Potter's arm with a grip like iron, forcing Potter to fly close behind him. They landed on the frost-slick tiles, and without any more ceremony, Draco turned and bit into Potter's neck, relishing the taste of blood. Potter did not even try to fight him this time, just stood there, still as if Draco had Petrified him, as Draco drank down his lifeblood.

But the blood flowed rich and hot and delicious down Draco's throat, and the burning in his throat was being quenched, so Draco paid little attention as Potter began to shake, his teeth chattering audibly together. Potter's skin turned cold as Draco's warmed, and still Draco did not care, because he felt complete, with Potter's blood coursing into his mouth and down his throat.

And then Potter collapsed again.

Draco stopped almost instantly, pulling his fangs out of the two bloody holes in Potter's throat. He brushed the hair away from Potter's scar, but saw no signs of inflammation of any sort. Then, though, he focused on his other senses, realized the chill sinking through his fingers where he touched Potter's skin.

Potter's lips were blue from cold and blood loss.

"Fuck," Draco said, feeling for Potter's pulse and finding only a sluggish thing, barely beating. "Fuck!" He whispered again, reaching into his wool coat until his fingers located the smooth polished wood of his wand.

He pointed the wand at Potter with a grim smile, fully aware of how many people would love an opportunity like this; Harry Potter unconscious and defenseless before them.

"Enervate."

Potter's eyes fluttered open, revealing a bright emerald green, shining in the moonlight. He stood stiffly, arms wrapped tight around his body, lips almost blue with cold, teeth chattering violently. A cold wind blew around them, messing Potter's hair into even more extreme disarray. Potter stepped away from Draco without a word, reaching for his broom with purple fingertips that curled stiffly around the wood.

He looked like the walking dead.

"For fuck's sake, Potter, take my scarf before you freeze," Draco said roughly. He unwound the green and silver scarf draped around his throat, exposing the gleam of his pale throat.

He stepped closer to Harry, closing the space between them, as Potter eyed him warily, distrust obvious in his expression. Draco wound the scarf once, twice, around Potter's neck. This close, he could only feel the slightest hint of warmth emitting from Potter's skin, the cold overshadowing everything else.

"Thanks," Potter finally replied, almost no emotion in his voice. "I'm going to leave now." That last bit stung, a challenge Potter threw wearily at Draco through partially lowered eyelids.

Potter mounted his broom and flew off, the ends of Draco's scarf fluttering behind him like a ribbon. Draco watched the Gryffindor leave, a speck disappearing into the distance, and felt an inexplicable guilt curling like lead in the pit of his stomach.

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A/N: Please review. It only takes a minute of your time but it means the world to me!