The complete and total purpose behind this fic, is to have a vampire!Draco
that makes sense. Because I've read, or started to read, too many goddamn
vampire!Draco fics that have him completely out of character, as well as
the author seeming to have no proper sense as to what a vampire is.
And as far as vampires go, I base mine on the vampires in the shows Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. Therefore meaning forehead bumpies/game face/vamp face, yellow eyes not always present/constant, and fangs not always present/constant. Don't know what I'm talking about? Go educate yourself; go to Google, type in an image search for either "James Marsters," "Angelus," or "Drusilla." You'll know when you hit a pic of the forehead bumpies I'm talking about.
Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and company - Not mine. Not by a long shot. Hell, I don't even own personal copies of any of the movies. I also make no money on any of this. Nada. None. Zilch.
R for bad language, as Draco is quite the pottymouth. Also, as I am a dedicated slasher, there is a high likelihood that this fic will be slash, most likely of the Draco/Harry variety. With some added Remus/Sirius. Who'm I kidding, it will be the slashiest slash to walk the earth. Well, maybe not that bad. But slashy all the same.
For the uneducated; slash is two males having sexual and/or romantic relations. So homophobes, scurry off. I will scoff at flames with my bisexual lovah.
Done now. Fic ho.
*snicker*
__________________
Draco Malfoy was pissed off.
"And I have bloody good reason to be," he snarled to himself, tugging at the collar of his stiff, high-necked formal robe. It had too much starch. Obviously Quinn's doing. Damn elf.
He didn't mind the robe so much. Embroidered with silver thread, it had uncountable twisting Celtic loops around hems and the collar. The tail of the robe dragged on the floor behind him. It was awkward to move around in, but it had a certain regal air to it that he rather fancied. Granted, he didn't really have a right to be wearing it. Because he wasn't an aristocrat anymore.
He was fucking dead.
"Dead!"
It came out as a half-screech, and with a tensing of muscles and a loud rip, he accidentally tore the high collar. He stared at the scrap of cloth in his hand before releasing it and watching it flutter to the ground.
Growling, he wrenched his eyes away, and began pacing. Dead. No longer alive. Can't be the prince of bastards and heir to a fortune now. Well, he could probably still manage the first one. Not the point.
Draco would hunt down that slimy rat bastard that did this to him, yank the damn bugger's spinal cord out through his foot, and hang him with it. He paused in his pacing, head tilted to the side, pondering. He also rather fancied ripping the wanker's ribcage out and wearing it as a hat, but he doubted his good fashion sense would allow him the pleasure. Despite the dramatic impact such a hat would make.
He couldn't believe his father. Or the authorities. Imbeciles, the lot. Yes, he was dead, but isn't there some way to tell the difference between someone who's completely dead and someone that'll come back? His father, for all his bloody fantastic knowledge and Dark magic know-how, was a complete twit.
"I mean, Dark magic. Vampires are Dark creatures. Therefore, there should be some bit of expertise the nonce had on the topic," Draco muttered, still pacing, head tilted down. He crossed and uncrossed his arms across his chest, the robe rustling with each movement. He distractedly brushed his fingers over the puckered scarred punctures in his neck.
"At least my family, being the bloody size queens they were and are, had an entire Malfoy family crypt. No having to claw my way through a coffin and dirt. Thankful for that, in the very least," he murmured, flipping his hand over to peer at his perfectly manicured nails.
"Well, it's been great. You're very hospitable," he said to the walls, straightening his back. "Time to Apparate my tight little arse out of this shithole."
He closed his eyes, and pulled his magic to him by habit, dragging a bit of magic from his internal reservoir. He fully expected a full body tug, before finding himself outside.
Nothing happened.
Scowl already in place, he blinked his eyes open. That didn't make sense; it should've worked. He knew his father had wards around the crypt, making it impossible for anyone to magic their way in. But he also knew that his father had "cleverly instituted a loop-hole" (Lucius's words, not Draco's) for anyone of Malfoy lineage. And he knew it wasn't him; he'd been able to Apparate since he was fifteen. That meant four years of practice, and he had never once in those four years had he splinched himself. There was nothing to go wrong. There should be absolutely no reason that he couldn't Apparate himself outside.
Then he came to a realization.
"Fucker," he whispered weakly, dropping onto his ornate sarcophagus lid. He was dead. And things that are dead . . .don't have innate magic. They can't have innate magic. No wonder he couldn't Apparate. The dead don't have the life source that magic is drawn to, they can't have that reservoir to pool extra magic in, they can't tap into the lines of magic that run through the ground. They can't use a wand to control their magic because they have none.
His years of training, at home, and Hogwarts . . .for nothing. He'd never be able to transfigure a house elf into a fly again (and that had always been good for a few evil chuckles.) He'd never be able to curse anyone again. To witness the squirming and pain that he had caused. Even potion brewing, his best skill, was out of the question. His lack of pulse left his fingertips cold and numb. The dexterity needed for the delicate process of making any kind of concoction properly was gone. Draco bit back a moan of helplessness and held his head in his hands, eyes squeezed shut.
He couldn't even say his life was ruined. His life was gone.
He sat there, a detached corner of his mind allowing the rest its moment of grief. After a few still, cold, minutes, he raised his eyes, blinking his eyes blearily. "Alright old chap," he said wearily, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. "Focus, now. Evaluate your weaknesses. C'mon."
Glancing around the crypt, he made a small noise of recognition when his gaze landed on a large, extravagant cross, across the room from where he stood. The corner of his thin lips quirked, and he strode forward, the tail of the robe sweeping along on the stone floor behind him. He slowed his pace as he neared the marble monstrosity. Circling it slowly, he reached one hand towards it, slim fingers extended. He brushed his cold fingertips over the even colder stone. He frowned, feeling an odd tingle dance down his hand and up his arm. Draco determinedly pressed his whole palm firmly against the cross.
And yelped. He jumped back, stumbling and nearly falling over the goddamned robe. Shaking his hand, he watched his palm with furrowed eyebrows, smoke wafting from it. His fingertips were burnt.
"Okay, note the first; effin' nerves are not dulled in any manner by my dead state. Two; the whole bloody cross thing is true," he muttered to himself.
Curiously, and, he thought to himself, with mild stupidity, he touched his left hand to the cross again. He inhaled sharply, swallowing, as his hand began to smoke again. Yes, it hurt like a motherfucker, but it felt good too. It gave him a rush of pleasure, like a good trip from a drug would. Satisfied, he pulled his now thoroughly burnt hand away. He stared at his blackened palm, noting how the pale, healthy flesh trailed into irritated red, and then the flesh curled and blackened.
Thoughtfully. "Note the third. Vampires find physical pleasure in physical pain."
He dragged his uninjured hand through his hair, turning away from the cross. Striding back towards his own sarcophagus, he stumbled over his robe again. "Bleedin' hell," he scowled, and ripped the damn thing off. He watched the pieces settle on the stone floor, and glanced down at himself. Dark grey cotton trousers, and a black cashmere sweater. He sighed in relief. He had known he had something on under the robe, but he hadn't been able to focus well enough to figure out what.
He thanked Merlin that Quinn, despite his tendency for over starching things, also had a keen fashion sense. A highly unusual aspect for a house elf to have. Draco was glad to have him. To have had him. No way he was about to be let back into the manor. Particularly because, well, he was supposed to be dead.
"Well, time to get my bloody arse out of here, in the less magical manner." Before moving anywhere, though, Draco collected the shredded pieces of what had been his robe, and dumped them unceremoniously into his open sarcophagus. He shoved the lid shut, and stood back, eyeing it critically. Shrugging dismissively to himself, he spun on his heel, and strode towards the heavy granite doors to the crypt, boots thudding against the stone floor. Tripping up a step, he paused in front of the doors.
Murmured, chin in hand. "Now...dramatic swinging of both the doors wide open, or discreet slipping out through a crack?"
Laughter. "Who'm I kidding? Dramatic!"
Ignoring the pain in his burnt hand, he pressed his hands to the doors, shoving hard. Grinding with protest, the doors moved slowly, before swinging open wind, a rush of cool, fresh night air rushing into the crypt, meeting the stale air of death that hovered there. Draco stepped onto the grass, inhaling deeply, his eyes flickering shut. His senses that had been dull and numb in the crypt, surrounded by death, came alive in the night.
He could smell the dew forming in the grass, could smell the honeysuckle flowers that were at least a hundred feet away. He brushed his fingertips against the front of his sweater, and could pick out each individual thread.
His eyes fluttered open. "Dramatic," he sighed happily, a smirk in his words for no one to hear.
And then he heard it. Felt it. The deep throbbing of a human heart. The steady beat pounded through Draco's head, and he inhaled again, and this time he could smell the blood, the thick, wonderful blood, pumping and pumping through the human's veins and arteries, calling to him, beckoning. He swung his head to the left, and the smell grew stronger.
He growled, low, in the back of his throat, and fell forward, slipping into a silent stalk. The bones in his forehead shifted, lowering over his brows, and his silver eyes flickered to a demonic yellow. Already pointed canines sharpened, lengthened, and he bared his incisors in a snarl.
Draco Malfoy fell under the sway of bloodlust.
All he could do was focus all his senses on the blood. He was hungry, he had a deep gnawing ache in his chest, and only the blood could soothe it, dull the pain. The heartbeat grew louder in his ears, his own personal symphony.
He slowed, stopped and crouched behind a headstone. There it was. A young, beautiful, porcelain creature, kneeling at a grave, her head bowed. Paying her respects to a recently departed. Draco distractedly observed how the knees of her jeans were smeared with fresh soil, and how she wrung her hands in her lap, over and over. How her thin top clung to her smooth stomach, and accentuated her breasts. How her curled red hair fell across her bare collarbone, right next to the pale column of her neck, where his gaze latched onto the throbbing artery*, and could not be pulled away. His eyes could pick out the beat of her heart through her nearly translucent skin, and he nearly moaned at the thought of sinking his fangs into that flesh.
But the best part was the grief. He could feel her grief for whoever had died, and it rolled off her in glorious waves. Grief, regret, pain. It added the cellos and violas to his obscure symphony.
"Hey there," he called gently, carefully, even as his yellowed eyes glinted in anticipation. He remained in a crouch, behind the headstone, ready to pounce.
The girl spun her head around, halfway from her kneeling position before Draco caught her, his hand around her throat, her necklace brushing coolly across his fingers. There it was, there it was; his entire brass section. His pleasure increased tenfold as great washes of fear overwhelmed all traces of her grief and pain, and the moonlight caught tracks of tears on her cheeks.
"Please, please, please," she whispered, and it became her mantra, even as Draco tugged her head to the side by that glorious red hair, presenting her luscious neck to his hungry eyes. He lowered his head, kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulder once, before he effortlessly dug his teeth into the thick muscle, sweet delicious blood pouring into his mouth. And then he did moan, even as the girl whimpered a last "please", her body quivering. She fell limp, and as her heart weakened, and the strong flow of blood ebbed, he began to suck, deep long draws, coaxing more of the sweet ambrosia to him. And as even that failed to bring blood to his mouth, he withdrew his fangs from her neck, and brushed his tongue over the marks, cleaning any remains of blood from her skin.
He laid her body across the dirt that was spread in front of the gravestone she had knelt at. Thoughtfully, he crouched over her, and closed her eyelids over her glassy eyes with his now healed fingers. Then he folded her hands across her chest, and placed the bouquet of flowers she had brought in her palm. Plucking a sprig of baby's breath from the bouquet, he tucked it behind her ear. He reared back to his feet, and nodded once in appraisal. Spinning on his heel, he sauntered away, a smile flitting across his thin lips.
Maybe he wouldn't go so far as ripping the rat bastard's spine out through his foot. Maybe he'd just rip it out through his back. Draco was in a good mood, after all.
He twirled the girl's beaded jade necklace around the fingers of his right hand, and began whistling jauntily.
_____________
Well, yes. Hopefully this will be continued. ___ Comments, criticism?
And as far as vampires go, I base mine on the vampires in the shows Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. Therefore meaning forehead bumpies/game face/vamp face, yellow eyes not always present/constant, and fangs not always present/constant. Don't know what I'm talking about? Go educate yourself; go to Google, type in an image search for either "James Marsters," "Angelus," or "Drusilla." You'll know when you hit a pic of the forehead bumpies I'm talking about.
Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and company - Not mine. Not by a long shot. Hell, I don't even own personal copies of any of the movies. I also make no money on any of this. Nada. None. Zilch.
R for bad language, as Draco is quite the pottymouth. Also, as I am a dedicated slasher, there is a high likelihood that this fic will be slash, most likely of the Draco/Harry variety. With some added Remus/Sirius. Who'm I kidding, it will be the slashiest slash to walk the earth. Well, maybe not that bad. But slashy all the same.
For the uneducated; slash is two males having sexual and/or romantic relations. So homophobes, scurry off. I will scoff at flames with my bisexual lovah.
Done now. Fic ho.
*snicker*
__________________
Draco Malfoy was pissed off.
"And I have bloody good reason to be," he snarled to himself, tugging at the collar of his stiff, high-necked formal robe. It had too much starch. Obviously Quinn's doing. Damn elf.
He didn't mind the robe so much. Embroidered with silver thread, it had uncountable twisting Celtic loops around hems and the collar. The tail of the robe dragged on the floor behind him. It was awkward to move around in, but it had a certain regal air to it that he rather fancied. Granted, he didn't really have a right to be wearing it. Because he wasn't an aristocrat anymore.
He was fucking dead.
"Dead!"
It came out as a half-screech, and with a tensing of muscles and a loud rip, he accidentally tore the high collar. He stared at the scrap of cloth in his hand before releasing it and watching it flutter to the ground.
Growling, he wrenched his eyes away, and began pacing. Dead. No longer alive. Can't be the prince of bastards and heir to a fortune now. Well, he could probably still manage the first one. Not the point.
Draco would hunt down that slimy rat bastard that did this to him, yank the damn bugger's spinal cord out through his foot, and hang him with it. He paused in his pacing, head tilted to the side, pondering. He also rather fancied ripping the wanker's ribcage out and wearing it as a hat, but he doubted his good fashion sense would allow him the pleasure. Despite the dramatic impact such a hat would make.
He couldn't believe his father. Or the authorities. Imbeciles, the lot. Yes, he was dead, but isn't there some way to tell the difference between someone who's completely dead and someone that'll come back? His father, for all his bloody fantastic knowledge and Dark magic know-how, was a complete twit.
"I mean, Dark magic. Vampires are Dark creatures. Therefore, there should be some bit of expertise the nonce had on the topic," Draco muttered, still pacing, head tilted down. He crossed and uncrossed his arms across his chest, the robe rustling with each movement. He distractedly brushed his fingers over the puckered scarred punctures in his neck.
"At least my family, being the bloody size queens they were and are, had an entire Malfoy family crypt. No having to claw my way through a coffin and dirt. Thankful for that, in the very least," he murmured, flipping his hand over to peer at his perfectly manicured nails.
"Well, it's been great. You're very hospitable," he said to the walls, straightening his back. "Time to Apparate my tight little arse out of this shithole."
He closed his eyes, and pulled his magic to him by habit, dragging a bit of magic from his internal reservoir. He fully expected a full body tug, before finding himself outside.
Nothing happened.
Scowl already in place, he blinked his eyes open. That didn't make sense; it should've worked. He knew his father had wards around the crypt, making it impossible for anyone to magic their way in. But he also knew that his father had "cleverly instituted a loop-hole" (Lucius's words, not Draco's) for anyone of Malfoy lineage. And he knew it wasn't him; he'd been able to Apparate since he was fifteen. That meant four years of practice, and he had never once in those four years had he splinched himself. There was nothing to go wrong. There should be absolutely no reason that he couldn't Apparate himself outside.
Then he came to a realization.
"Fucker," he whispered weakly, dropping onto his ornate sarcophagus lid. He was dead. And things that are dead . . .don't have innate magic. They can't have innate magic. No wonder he couldn't Apparate. The dead don't have the life source that magic is drawn to, they can't have that reservoir to pool extra magic in, they can't tap into the lines of magic that run through the ground. They can't use a wand to control their magic because they have none.
His years of training, at home, and Hogwarts . . .for nothing. He'd never be able to transfigure a house elf into a fly again (and that had always been good for a few evil chuckles.) He'd never be able to curse anyone again. To witness the squirming and pain that he had caused. Even potion brewing, his best skill, was out of the question. His lack of pulse left his fingertips cold and numb. The dexterity needed for the delicate process of making any kind of concoction properly was gone. Draco bit back a moan of helplessness and held his head in his hands, eyes squeezed shut.
He couldn't even say his life was ruined. His life was gone.
He sat there, a detached corner of his mind allowing the rest its moment of grief. After a few still, cold, minutes, he raised his eyes, blinking his eyes blearily. "Alright old chap," he said wearily, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. "Focus, now. Evaluate your weaknesses. C'mon."
Glancing around the crypt, he made a small noise of recognition when his gaze landed on a large, extravagant cross, across the room from where he stood. The corner of his thin lips quirked, and he strode forward, the tail of the robe sweeping along on the stone floor behind him. He slowed his pace as he neared the marble monstrosity. Circling it slowly, he reached one hand towards it, slim fingers extended. He brushed his cold fingertips over the even colder stone. He frowned, feeling an odd tingle dance down his hand and up his arm. Draco determinedly pressed his whole palm firmly against the cross.
And yelped. He jumped back, stumbling and nearly falling over the goddamned robe. Shaking his hand, he watched his palm with furrowed eyebrows, smoke wafting from it. His fingertips were burnt.
"Okay, note the first; effin' nerves are not dulled in any manner by my dead state. Two; the whole bloody cross thing is true," he muttered to himself.
Curiously, and, he thought to himself, with mild stupidity, he touched his left hand to the cross again. He inhaled sharply, swallowing, as his hand began to smoke again. Yes, it hurt like a motherfucker, but it felt good too. It gave him a rush of pleasure, like a good trip from a drug would. Satisfied, he pulled his now thoroughly burnt hand away. He stared at his blackened palm, noting how the pale, healthy flesh trailed into irritated red, and then the flesh curled and blackened.
Thoughtfully. "Note the third. Vampires find physical pleasure in physical pain."
He dragged his uninjured hand through his hair, turning away from the cross. Striding back towards his own sarcophagus, he stumbled over his robe again. "Bleedin' hell," he scowled, and ripped the damn thing off. He watched the pieces settle on the stone floor, and glanced down at himself. Dark grey cotton trousers, and a black cashmere sweater. He sighed in relief. He had known he had something on under the robe, but he hadn't been able to focus well enough to figure out what.
He thanked Merlin that Quinn, despite his tendency for over starching things, also had a keen fashion sense. A highly unusual aspect for a house elf to have. Draco was glad to have him. To have had him. No way he was about to be let back into the manor. Particularly because, well, he was supposed to be dead.
"Well, time to get my bloody arse out of here, in the less magical manner." Before moving anywhere, though, Draco collected the shredded pieces of what had been his robe, and dumped them unceremoniously into his open sarcophagus. He shoved the lid shut, and stood back, eyeing it critically. Shrugging dismissively to himself, he spun on his heel, and strode towards the heavy granite doors to the crypt, boots thudding against the stone floor. Tripping up a step, he paused in front of the doors.
Murmured, chin in hand. "Now...dramatic swinging of both the doors wide open, or discreet slipping out through a crack?"
Laughter. "Who'm I kidding? Dramatic!"
Ignoring the pain in his burnt hand, he pressed his hands to the doors, shoving hard. Grinding with protest, the doors moved slowly, before swinging open wind, a rush of cool, fresh night air rushing into the crypt, meeting the stale air of death that hovered there. Draco stepped onto the grass, inhaling deeply, his eyes flickering shut. His senses that had been dull and numb in the crypt, surrounded by death, came alive in the night.
He could smell the dew forming in the grass, could smell the honeysuckle flowers that were at least a hundred feet away. He brushed his fingertips against the front of his sweater, and could pick out each individual thread.
His eyes fluttered open. "Dramatic," he sighed happily, a smirk in his words for no one to hear.
And then he heard it. Felt it. The deep throbbing of a human heart. The steady beat pounded through Draco's head, and he inhaled again, and this time he could smell the blood, the thick, wonderful blood, pumping and pumping through the human's veins and arteries, calling to him, beckoning. He swung his head to the left, and the smell grew stronger.
He growled, low, in the back of his throat, and fell forward, slipping into a silent stalk. The bones in his forehead shifted, lowering over his brows, and his silver eyes flickered to a demonic yellow. Already pointed canines sharpened, lengthened, and he bared his incisors in a snarl.
Draco Malfoy fell under the sway of bloodlust.
All he could do was focus all his senses on the blood. He was hungry, he had a deep gnawing ache in his chest, and only the blood could soothe it, dull the pain. The heartbeat grew louder in his ears, his own personal symphony.
He slowed, stopped and crouched behind a headstone. There it was. A young, beautiful, porcelain creature, kneeling at a grave, her head bowed. Paying her respects to a recently departed. Draco distractedly observed how the knees of her jeans were smeared with fresh soil, and how she wrung her hands in her lap, over and over. How her thin top clung to her smooth stomach, and accentuated her breasts. How her curled red hair fell across her bare collarbone, right next to the pale column of her neck, where his gaze latched onto the throbbing artery*, and could not be pulled away. His eyes could pick out the beat of her heart through her nearly translucent skin, and he nearly moaned at the thought of sinking his fangs into that flesh.
But the best part was the grief. He could feel her grief for whoever had died, and it rolled off her in glorious waves. Grief, regret, pain. It added the cellos and violas to his obscure symphony.
"Hey there," he called gently, carefully, even as his yellowed eyes glinted in anticipation. He remained in a crouch, behind the headstone, ready to pounce.
The girl spun her head around, halfway from her kneeling position before Draco caught her, his hand around her throat, her necklace brushing coolly across his fingers. There it was, there it was; his entire brass section. His pleasure increased tenfold as great washes of fear overwhelmed all traces of her grief and pain, and the moonlight caught tracks of tears on her cheeks.
"Please, please, please," she whispered, and it became her mantra, even as Draco tugged her head to the side by that glorious red hair, presenting her luscious neck to his hungry eyes. He lowered his head, kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulder once, before he effortlessly dug his teeth into the thick muscle, sweet delicious blood pouring into his mouth. And then he did moan, even as the girl whimpered a last "please", her body quivering. She fell limp, and as her heart weakened, and the strong flow of blood ebbed, he began to suck, deep long draws, coaxing more of the sweet ambrosia to him. And as even that failed to bring blood to his mouth, he withdrew his fangs from her neck, and brushed his tongue over the marks, cleaning any remains of blood from her skin.
He laid her body across the dirt that was spread in front of the gravestone she had knelt at. Thoughtfully, he crouched over her, and closed her eyelids over her glassy eyes with his now healed fingers. Then he folded her hands across her chest, and placed the bouquet of flowers she had brought in her palm. Plucking a sprig of baby's breath from the bouquet, he tucked it behind her ear. He reared back to his feet, and nodded once in appraisal. Spinning on his heel, he sauntered away, a smile flitting across his thin lips.
Maybe he wouldn't go so far as ripping the rat bastard's spine out through his foot. Maybe he'd just rip it out through his back. Draco was in a good mood, after all.
He twirled the girl's beaded jade necklace around the fingers of his right hand, and began whistling jauntily.
_____________
Well, yes. Hopefully this will be continued. ___ Comments, criticism?