A RUSH OF BLOOD TO THE HEAD; definition: Acting before thinking; losing control; breaking the boundaries... and loving every moment of it. Featuring Death (or the lack thereof), Wizarding Politics, Ancient Legends, and Dark, Evil Plots. Guest Appearances made by Vampires, Veelas, Your Favorite Werewolf, Jaded!Hermione, WiseYetCynical!Tom, and Boy!Blaise. Set in Harry's seventh year. Will be Tom/Harry slash, whether you like it or not.
Author's Note: Well. Here's the first installment to what I hope is a fulfilling and exciting story for all of you, the readers. I have to thank you right now if you're reading this, because I can't say how much I appreciate anyone who will even take a few minutes to skim my story. That sounds a bit cheesy and over the top, but it's the truth. So... yeah. Thanks. And a major thanks for my beta reader, Silver Scale Serpent. And a major, major thanks to everyone who reviewed over at HxT Lightening. Especially to Hijja, for the constructive criticism.
Gods, this installment is short.
Disclaimer: This obviously isn't a work of original fiction. Everything belongs to the JK Rowling. Neither do I own the song "A Rush of Blood to the Head" by the best band in the world that is Coldplay ^_^.
A Rush of Blood to the Head
Prologue
How could anything so beautiful hurt so much? You make Aphrodite look pale in comparison. Your eyes are so hauntingly cold. Your skin glows like the surface of the moon, mocking me subtly. Your lips curve into a sinister smile and I think I've completely forgotten how to breath. I don't need to breath, I rather die than spend one moment without looking at you, touching you, shivering beneath you, listening to your satin whispers of hazy promises trail across my sweat-sheened skin. You unleashed a part of me that I never thought I'd be able to feel again.
Love.
* * *
It had all begun the night Harry Potter returned to Privet Drive, after his sixth year at Hogwarts. The moon was hanging low in the clear sky as everything began to fall to pieces. The Durselys were killed that night. Their house, his prison, burnt down to a satisfying crisp. Not by Death Eaters. Not by Lord Voldemort. Not by a random psychopathic murderer who had happened to be in the neighborhood.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the savior of the Wizarding World, and golden boy of Hogwarts, had murdered his only living relatives. He killed them slowly, losing control in the power he felt at his fingertips. He had the power to kill them, completely destroy a soul, a future, a past, a history. With only one swipe of his wand and two simple words, they would crumple at his feet.
There is no power more corruptive and consuming (besides love, that is) than wielding the judgment of the living and the dead. He had watched the beautiful flames consume his childhood prison. He had watched, his heart pounding in his ears, jaded eyes taking in the glorious sight. The sun rose red that morning, blood ringing through the air.
But he hadn't felt the burning satisfaction that he expected. He had only been consumed by the power for a short time. His soul was empty, and he felt nothing as he watched the flames lick. He was never seen in England again.
All that was left on the property was a letter addressed to Albus Dumbledore. The letter read as follows:
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
I killed them. And now I'm leaving this place for good, so don't even try looking for me, because I won't come back. You took everything I loved away from me. Sirius-Draco-Remus. You killed my entire family, Dumbledore. Everything doesn't trace back to Voldemort- it traces back to you. So you didn't cast the spell, it doesn't matter. If you hadn't kept secrets from me and lied to me my whole life, THEY WOULD STILL BE HERE! You manipulated me with you lies, but now look where it's gotten you? I hope Voldemort kills you. I never thought it was possible for me to hate someone more than Voldemort. But, you, old man, have proven me wrong.
Harry James Potter
In history texts years later, it read that Albus Dumbledore died of grief that night.
* * *
Deep in the forests of Romania, the seventeen year old Harry Potter walked rapidly, wooden stake clutched in his hand, silver cross in the other. He knew someone was following him, and they most likely weren't going to be inviting him for tea.
He reached a clearing, and stopped. He could hear something... Harry stood stock still, watching as the person, creature, whatever it was, came into the clearance. For a brief moment, Harry thought it was a Veela, the way it's skin shone in the moonlight. But it was a male, and Veela men didn't have black hair anyway.
It's a Vampire, he thought. The only logical explanation. Vampires were known for their beauty, and this one was far from ugly. The Vampire had halted fifty feet away from him, leaning against one of the trees in the shadows.
"Show yourself!" Harry shouted.
He heard a quiet laugh that sent chills up his spine. "You always have been the little hero, haven't you?" He walked leisurely up to Harry as he said this, stopping once he was close enough to reach out and touch the boy's cheek with the back of his hand. Harry's eyes nearly fell out in disbelief as he came close enough for their noses to touch.
"You haven't forgotten me, now have you Harry?" he whispered against Harry's lips, indigo eyes dancing in dark amusement.
He dropped his stake and silver cross.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.