Disclaimer;- Sadly I do not own Harry Potter. This is a Fanfic and I make no mony out of it. It is for pleasure that I write.

This is my first posted Fic. I'd be happy to get any Reviews, good or bad.

Chapter 1

Blood Lust

Dumbledore sighed inwardly. Installing a new minister was a tiring business, and he was tempted to believe that was one of the reasons people had been so against getting rid of Fudge. Sitting on the Wizangamot was usually an enjoyable way to pass the time. The room was light and airy, and he could hear some amusing gossip. People tended to ignore political climates in the Wizengamot, unless it was placed in front of them.

Before them now Fudge was whining, petulantly proclaiming his innocence of corruption. He would go to Azkaban, Dumbledore knew, and remain there either until his sentence was carried out or the Dementor's bought back under ministry control.

He focused back on the goings on in the room. Many around him looked bored, clearly knowing what was coming. One young scribe seemed to have nodded off, and Dumbledore watched in amusement, but understanding, as his head began to bob back and forward as he fought for unconsciousness in his uncomfortable position.

Fudge had finished speaking and Dumbledore stood to reply. He was glad he had been taking a semi interest in his speech, and took a breath to ask Fudge another question, when the door to the room opened. A harassed sectary, holding his hands over his head to ward off the white owl attacking him, ran into the room and to Dumbledore, brandishing a letter in his hand as the snowy owl bombarded him.

"LetterjustcameforyouProfessorDumbledore! I'm sorry to interrupt but- buttheowlwouldn'tleavemealoneuntilyougotit ALRIGHT HE'S GOT IT NOW! GO BUG HIM!" the youth clapped his hand to his mouth at his rudeness and began to stammer an apology, before Dumbledore waved him away, smiling. The owl was screeching loudly, flying around above Dumbledore, and he thought he recognized it, before looking down at the envelope in his hand.

It was a Muggle envelope, addressed to him in a ball point pen. Wondering who would use Muggle stationary to write to him he slit the envelope open, taking out the note inside and reading through it. As he read people around him realized something was wrong, and started to give him worried looks as he read the letter through quickly a second time.

"If you will all excuse me, something important has come up that needs my immediate attention," Dumbledore said as he made his way to the door, the white owl following after. Those who knew Dumbledore well immediately suspected why he had to go and exchanged worried glances, each telling the other that they needed to finish this quickly in case Dumbledore required any of them.

Dumbledore knew who the owl was now. He also knew it wouldn't be going so frantic if the situation wasn't grave. The neat but shaky handwriting in the letter spurred him on until he came to a place he could Apparate from. He did so immediately, not even nodding to the attendant on guard, who looked taken aback by the expression on Dumbledore's face, which was one of fury, worry, and concern.

:

Petunia Dursley twitched the curtain aside as she had often done before when spying on her neighbors. This time however, she was not looking at her unworthy neighbors, but looking desperately for something else. Fearfully she let the curtain drop and continued to pace the room. Her husband was at work, and for that she was thankful, because he would surly have gone mad at her for what she was doing. Dudley had been sent round one of his friends houses, complaining all the way, saying he didn't want to leave his mother alone with the freak. She had silenced him with a look, and he had gone, fearful of his mother in that moment. And she had written a letter and got her nephews owl to deliver it. She had worried that the owl wouldn't do it for her, but it had gladly gone, flying faster than she would have thought possible.

She looked at the sofa nervously, at the boy laying there in silence. He was silent only because he had screamed his throat raw; blood was seeping from long gashes to his face and his clothes were red, where only a few hours ago they had been grey. She got a clean cloth and tried to get rid of the fresh blood, trying to ignore the expression of fear and pain that covered the youths face, his mouth working furiously and small, whistling noises coming from him as he breathed. His hair was matted with blood too, and was held off his face by the sticky liquid, showing her clearly the boys forehead, the only place that was not bleeding. There was however a scar, a decade and a half old, of a lightning bolt. It was the only uncut place on the whole body.

Someone was knocking at the door. She put a bloody hand to her face in fear and put the cloth in the bowl of red water beside the sofa, hurrying to the door and looking though the letterbox to see who it was. Then she thankfully pulled the door open, admitting the old man who stood there in blue robes and long grey beard tucked into the belt. His blue eyes met hers for a moment before they swept to the door to the front room, followed soon after by the rest of him.

:

Harry was laying on the sofa. His shirt, which was usually grey, was now a dark red, held together mostly by the blood as it began to dry, only to be replaced by fresh seconds later. The jeans were now black, from the bottom of the leg to the waist, and were also ripped, and undone, the button and zip ruined. His bare arms were covered in cuts, pouring blood onto the towels Petunia had put on them and turning them red too. His green eyes were gazing at nothing, wide open and unblinking. The only sign of life was the blood still pouring from him and the mouth that was trying to scream still.

"How long?" Dumbledore asked, kneeling beside him and trying to lift his shirt, causing Harry to pull away, gasping silently.

"Since about ten," Petunia whispered, collapsing in an armchair. "Vernon had just left for work, and Dudley had just got up. It started with him just moaning, I thought he was having one of his dreams so I left him. But he started to scream, so I went up. He was just sitting there, as though he was seeing something terrible, screaming his head off. He tried to push me away, and that's when I noticed the blood and cuts, because it was dark, you know? I got Dudley to help me down with him and when I couldn't stop the bleeding or the screaming I sent the owl. That must have been about half past ten."

Dumbledore looked at the clock. It was gone midday. Over two hours like this, he realized, looking back at Harry. He placed a hand over Harry's pale brow and concentrated

:

He had woken at seven. The dream had been different for once, it hadn't been the one with Sirius, it had been with him. He had fallen through the Veil instead, and the moment he had made contact he had woken. Laying gasping on his bed for a while calmed his racing heart, and his legs finally felt like they could support him.

He went to the bathroom and threw up, as he had each day during the holidays, then returned to his bed. He had felt that something was wrong but shrugged it off when nothing happened. He heard his aunt and uncle get up, have breakfast, and heard the front door shut as his uncle went out.

The feeling of unease intensified, then something had grabbed him by his hair, and a hand had covered his mouth. He had tried to scream but the hand refused to release him. Then the cuts had happened. The knife had appeared in Harry's vision and he tried to struggle, but he was tied now. He didn't remember being tied, or what too, but he was unable to move, feeling the ropes cutting into his flesh. The hand had been removed and he had taken a breath to yell when he realized two things.

One, if his aunt and cousin had barged in with this person here, knife in hand, they might get killed.

Two, opening your mouth when your assailant has just released you is not a good idea.

The gag had been put into place and tied before he could decide anymore, and a chilly finger stroked down his face, across his jaw line and to his neck. He shivered with revulsion. The knife lowered to just below his temple, and he yelped when it sank into his skin, following the trail of the finger. He whimpered with the pain, trying to edge away from the figure, visible now as an outline against the overcast sky. He felt sick. He shut his eyes, gritting his teeth on the leather gag in his mouth. Blood begin to drip off him onto the bed below him and then the figure was sitting on him, its mouth to the cut, licking the blood off his face and neck.

It was sitting on his stomach, making it hard to breath. It did the same to his other cheek, this time not giving the blood time to collect enough to drip off him before it was drinking it down. The knife began to flit across his face, small cuts and large, and he was screaming into the gag, writhing under the figure frantically, which only seemed to make it more excited.

:

Dumbledore drew out. He didn't want to relive anymore of that. He suspected he knew what had happened anyway, and kept his hand on the forehead. Harry had ceased all movement now. Dumbledore had to look hard to see any breath. He closed his eyes again.

:

He had become numb to the pain, the disgust, the self loathing. His mind was hidden, numb, somewhere in his head, blocking out everything. The figure put his clothes back on, kindly, gently, as though he actually cared. He put a delicate white hand over Harry's uncut lips and removed the gag, cutting through it with one if his sharp, long nails, leaving a gash over Harry's lips. This new pain, so long after the others, bought him out of his sanctuary, and he gasped. The man gently brushed his lips over the blood on Harry's lips, finishing with a kiss, delicate, chaste. Harry opened his eyes, looking up into another pair of green ones, feverish with lust, set in a perfect white face. The pale lips moved, but Harry could not understand what they were saying. Then the bonds on his body were gone, as was the person atop him. For a moment he lay there, unable to move, until he sat up, looking round the room now covered in blood. He lifted a hand, watching as the blood began to pump out of him, and began to scream.

:

Dumbledore stood. He knew what he had to do now. The law in such matters was firm, and failure to follow it bought dire repercussions. He went upstairs slowly, not looking at the boys' aunt. It seemed she also knew what was about to happen, and she was trying to catch his eye.

He followed the trail of blood to the small room. It was covered in blood, and he knew that before he left he would have to deal with it. He saw what he was looking for immediately. A knife, black in handle, sheaf and blade, lay on the table beside Harry's sodden bed. He reached a hand out, picking up the hated thing gingerly. Then he was back in the doorway to the front room, and the woman was standing in his way.

"Move. I have no choice, it must be done." He said simply, his eyes almost black with grief and steely with determination. The woman shook her head, holding her apron in her hands and twisting it tightly in them. He reached the empty hand to her and she stepped back, her face agonized as he forced her to do his bidding. She tried to reach out to him as he went past, tried to stop him. This was her sisters' child, and even if she had not been fond of the child, she remembered a time when she had loved her sister, and out of duty to that memory she tried to stop this from happening.

He raised the knife. The boy on the sofa was barely breathing, still bleeding profusely onto the clean white carpet, turning it scarlet.

:

Harry turned his head slightly to see his headmaster. Something twisted in his gut, at the emotionless look on the mans face, and the black knife in his hand. He knew that knife, he could feel it still in his flesh, burning through what blood he had left.

He could feel something changing in him, a coldness seeping through his veins in place of blood. It had nearly filled him by the time Dumbledore had come down, and the fear at seeing the knife again finished the change, the coldness entering his brain. He arched on the sofa, cold turning to white hot flames, charging through him. He could feel himself begin to heal, the flesh closing together as the last of his blood was expelled from him. He sensed a change in the air and lifted a hand, halting the downward stab from the knife, ignoring the pain as it went through his hand. In fact there was no pain. His eyes opened and they were pure white, with a black pin prick for an iris. It regarded the now fearful man in front of him as he backed up, sheltering a thin, black haired woman behind him.

The thing that was Harry swung a leg of the red sofa. He was hungry, and in front of him were two meals ready for the taking. Something twisted in his gut though and he groaned, clutching at it. The knife was in his hand still, and he pulled it out whilst still crouched over, looking at it as though it was a lifeline.

My name is Harry Potter, I am Harry Potter, this is my aunt and Dumbledore and they are my friends and I shall not kill them I shall not harm them I shall not-

He straightened, colour fading from his eyes again as he smiled, showing extended incisors to the petrified woman and man who was now regretting that he had not been faster to get the knife. The thing grinned and raised the black blade.

Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry, he bent over groaning again, his eyes going nearly totally green this time. I am Harry I am I am I I I I-

He growled with frustration and leapt for the old man, pushing him out of the way to bring the knife to the woman's neck. Let him watch while he killed her.

"I'm going to enjoy you woman," his voice was icy, guttural, as though he had not spoken in years. It was not Harry's.

Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry! His eyes blazed green and he dropped the knife, howling and bringing his hands to his eyes, backing away from his terrified aunt and into the kitchen. Dumbledore had pounced on the knife and was advancing on him again, holding the knife in front of him like a shield.

"Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry I am Harry I am I I am I Harry am I Harry I am I Harry I am I I am I I Harry Harry Harry Harry I am Harry I- Dumbledore!" he looked up, his eyes green again and his whole body protesting, knowing what it wanted, while his mind refused to give in to the blood lust, refusing to kill the people in the room. But the smell of blood was driving him mad, it seemed to surround him and-

He leapt on the thought and past Dumbledore, to where the towel that had been on his arms was, bringing it to his face and beginning to suck, feeling the scant liquid slide into his mouth and down his throat. He growled as he felt the madness trying to take over again, demanding fresh blood, demanding him to take that which was his, tempting him with power, glory, mastery. He forced it away, forced himself to be content with what he was getting.

But it was nearly dry now, and he was looking for more, and his face fell to the sofa where there was a small pool of blood that had not soaked through the new leather. He drank it desperately, hating himself for what he was doing, knowing why and hating himself for it. He wanted to rip his skin off, pull out the teeth and bow down to Dumbledore that he might kill him yet. But he knew Dumbledore wouldn't now. He shouldn't have been able to hold out against the blood lust this long, he should have killed and drank from both Dumbledore and Petunia within seconds of waking, yet five minutes on he was drinking his own blood rather than kill them for theirs. Dumbledore would hope there was a way to save him, so that the only one who could kill Voldemort would be alive to do it.

The pool was gone and he thrust himself away from the floor and swayed, ignoring the two people in the room and running to the door. As he reached it the front door opened. His heart nearly stopped beating. Yes, he felt responsible for his aunt because they were family, and for Dumbledore because he had been kind to him all the time he had known him. But for the person in front of him he held no such compassion.

He leapt for his cousin before anyone knew what was happening. His mouth went to the jugular and he bit, almost orgasming at the taste and bliss. He managed to suck twice before Dudley screamed and tried to pull away, punching Harry on the head and sending him flying backwards, shaking him out of the spell at the same time. He growled and pushed past Dudley, holding his hand out and curling his fingers around the knife that he had summoned as he ran into his blood stained room, slamming the door behind him and blocking it up with magic before attacking the furniture for the slightest trace of blood.

:

Ten minutes passed. Dumbledore made his way cautiously up the stairs. Silence came from the room that had sounded like it had a werewolf in it moments ago. He turned the handle, his wand in hand, and pushed. It didn't move. He pointed his wand at the door and muttered something.

:

Harry leant against the wall under the window and wept, his chest still, not a breath passing his lips. In silence tears fell down his blood stained face as he took in what had happened. What shouldn't have happened. It was supposed to be impossible. Wizards weren't supposed to be vampires too. No vampire would attack a wizard and 'initiate' them. The result was rumored to be too powerful. He would have to agree with that. He could feel his magic pulsing through his veins, centered in his gut. He suspected this was what had stopped him from giving into the spell of vampires, the blind blood lust. And it was at least ten times more powerful than it had ever been. Never had he been able to think something and have it happen, as he had when blocking the door, or summoning the knife.

Someone was coming up the stairs. He was balanced on his feet and crouched low before he realized it, knife at the ready. He didn't recognize the tread. Not his uncle, aunt or cousin then. He watched the door like a hawk as the handle turned, then turned back.

The door exploded into the room and Harry flew out, pieces of wood cutting and lodging in his flesh, all ignored as he leapt for the attacker outlined in the dust. They flew backwards along the corridor, coming to rest at the top of the stairs, the mans head over thin air. Harry gasped with exertion.

Vampires get everything from the blood, Harry remembered in that moment. They get food, drink and air from it. Ron had asked whether they could get that any other way and Lupin had said only air and drink. It was still needed for food. That was why he hadn't breathed since drinking his own blood. Now he was needing air again, the oxygen in his own running out.

He knelt above Dumbledore, resting his hands on the floor behind him and throwing his head back, his mouth wide open and drawing air in desperately. He crawled backwards off Dumbledore until he hit a wall, resting his spinning head on it as he forced his body to accept air via his lungs rather than his stomach. He sensed Dumbledore sitting up but would have been unable to do anything but drink his blood at the moment, even if he had attacked.

"Please," he begged when his lungs began to work properly, though protesting. His voice hurt to use. "Please, Dumbledore, please," he barely knew what he was pleading for, longing only to be killed. He knew Dumbledore wouldn't do it though. He didn't know anyone who would once they knew. No one, not even if they knew how painfully he was suffering.

Dumbledore was shaking his head as he stood, looming over Harry darkly. Harry took the knife in his hand and held it up to him, his green eyes begging.

"Please," his voice was barely a whisper, baring his throat to Dumbledore.

Only this knife, now that Harry had accepted it, could kill him. It was his knife, made of the blood he had drank whilst holding it, changed into a metal and sharpened to a thin blade. He begged Dumbledore to take it and thrust it into his neck, to stop the pain that now and forever would be his life. The knife was taken from his hand and he closed his eyes, relief flooding through him as Dumbledore held it above him.

He heard it slice against flesh, his hearing enhanced in his new being. His eyes flew open when he realized the flesh was not his own, seeing Dumbledore crouched in front of him, a wrist held out to him, blood dripping off it, the knife held in Dumbledore's other hand. Harry looked fearfully into Dumbledore's eyes, pushing the smell of blood from his mind as he begged Dumbledore not to do it. The wrist came closer to his face and he pushed it away, blood dripping tortuously onto his hand. He scrubbed at it before he could loose control on himself and attack Dumbledore.

The wrist was back however and the other hand was behind his head as he leaned away from the blood that he longed for, stopping him from moving as the old man offered his wrist to the young boy. Harry shook his head again and tried to crawl away, but Dumbledore had him by the hair now and he yelped at the sudden pain. In that instant Dumbledore forced his wrist into Harry's mouth, blood covering his tongue in seconds.

He fought against the urge to drink deeply, his eyes widening as he looked into Dumbledore's kind and knowing face, as the man nodded gently and held his wrist in place. Harry felt his eyes roll into the back of his head in bliss as he took the mans arm gently into his hands, drawing the blood out of the cut gently, savoring the sweetest meal he could ever taste. He controlled his movement though, refusing to bite to get more blood, refusing to drink until he was full, refusing to drain the man before him who was offering more than he knew. Harry could feel the blood enter his system at the same time as the magic did too. Dumbledore tasted of honey and sunshine, of old books and new faces. Memories flooded his mind and he drank it all. Nutrients, magic and memories were the three things he could take from blood. Harry knew that in the instant even though he had never leant it in any class. Experience that could never be written down taught him many lessons that could never be read and understood.

Why had Dumbledore not killed him? He wanted to die, he didn't want to have to live like this, drinking other people's memories and magic into him, where they stuck, the magic making him stronger in his own, the memories haunting him in the dark of nights. Let him die now, whilst drinking this magic honey of life. That was a good way to die.

But Dumbledore didn't take the knife up again and Harry finished, pushing the hand away with his forearm, drugged into a stupor of hate and bliss. He sat there for a while, not knowing what was happening around him, his arms resting on his knees and his head drooping on his chest, shutting the world out.

:

A papery hand reached under his chin and lifted it up, forcing Harry to look again into someone's face. It was one he didn't know at that time, but he was sure the nose, with chunks missing, and the blue glass eye should have reminded him of someone. A finger was placed in his bloody mouth and tested his new fangs, drawing more blood. He moaned and spat, trying to get rid of the loathsome yet glorious taste as a memory of a young boy getting on a train entered his mind, and a spurt of magic entered his veins. The finger was removed and a conversation was happening above him. He tried to listen, or at least listen for words that might pertain to his fate.

"You know better than over it..... remarkable....thing like it..."

"...your duty to...law...death."

"Yes," Harry muttered, his voice breathy, drugged and slurred.

"What?" Moody snapped. That was it, Moody. That was the name of the man.

"Death..." Harry muttered, his head spinning and his stomach churning as it tried to reject what had been absorbed. "Let it end...the pain," his face screwed up as it increased at his admittance of it.

"See?" Moody hissed, "See what you are sentencing the boy to?!"

"He is the only chance, Alastor, no one else can..."

Harry knew then that his fate was decided, and as he sank into the blackness, his heart fell into despair, and all thoughts for a normal life, and a quick end, were destroyed.