Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything even remotely associated with him. All of this happy wonderfulness belongs solely to JK Rowling until she is hit on the head and decides to will it all to me so I can write the seventh book. I'm praying for that day and am taking requests now for plot twists in the event that it actually does happen. Keep your fingers crossed. And I was informed that this is rather like the Vampire Chronicles? I've never seen/read/heard of such a marvelous thing, but I'm trying to be at least marginally original, so hopefully it'll go a different way. If not, then I'm probably channeling the creator somehow and should be exorcised.
Warning: this will be slash of the HPDM variety. If you don't like it, please take yourself elsewhere so I don't offend you in any way. There will also be language and, as they put in movie ratings, "vampire violence." Whatever that means. And just imagine that when the people are talking amongst themselves, that it's in French. I would put the dialogue in French, but I don't think anyone would want to read it. So everyone with the exception of Harry, for the most part, is not in English. And if my French it totally wrong, please correct me! I'm only in my second year, so I'm sure I'm butchering it.
A/N: Ok, to anyone who was confused by the original first chapter: yes, it was supposed to be like that. I didn't randomly hit my head whilst writing it I think so have no worries there. Basically, I was trying to convey a sense of elapsed time. If you'll notice, the sequence is very important. It goes from before he was turned into a vampire (the times when he was with his father and in the church) which are un-italicized, to the times after he was a vampire (at the school and living on his own) which are italicized. The two time periods just switch back and forth. I guess I was being too ambitious by trying to do that, but I shall try to make amends. Or if anyone wants me to give warning before I do that, please just let me know. I've gone back and tried to fix chapter one a bit to make it more understandable. If it's still all over the place, let me know and I'll try to rework the whole thing somehow. My deepest condolences.
Social Vampire
Chapter One
For him it wasn't a matter of life and death. There was no life about it. There was no life about him. There was only night. Cold, dark, unfeeling night. And he thrived on it.
---
His father had branded him at a very young age.
The two of them had been walking down Rue d'Oublier and he had amusedly wondered aloud at the street's name. To forget a street seemed to him impossible; they couldn't be forgotten, or even lost for that matter, when everyone knew they were there. Hundreds of people traversed the busy street every day, there was no logic to the name in his young mind. No logic, no reason, thus no sense was made of the situation. If there was one thing his aristocratic upbringing had instilled in him it was that with a rational and clear thinking mind, one could understand anything placed before them, no matter how complex or difficult to grasp. His father had immediately clapped a hand over his mouth and ordered him to keep walking. Not understanding why, but too afraid and well trained to question his father in view of the public, he didn't open his mouth again until they had reached home.
The Malfoy mansion was located on the outer limits of Paris, well hidden away from the prying and inquisitive eyes of the media and the cities inhabitants. Everyone knew it was there, it was like Versailles in that respect, but none were brave enough to risk the wrath of the Malfoy name upon their own head by dropping by for tea. The occasional tourist would stop in unknowingly, looking for snatches of history and the story of the house, but other than those misguided few and the business associates of Malfoy the elder, there were never any visitors to the estate.
Rue d'Oublier, his father had explained, was not forgotten itself, but whom it belonged to, for many poor and ignorant souls had gone astray there. Vampires, Draco, his father had said, control that street. If ever he was unfortunate enough to be alone in Montemartre at night and felt anything strange he was to not stop running until he was inside Le Sacre Coeur. There he would be safe.
Though, his father had mused, some added protection wouldn't be wholly unnecessary.
The family crest that had been proudly emblazoned on the point of a fire-poker, a cross flanked by dragons, had henceforth been deeply scarred into Draco's left palm. It had taken every speck of willpower that the boy contained not to scream at the pain and the sight of his branded hand. Instead, he had remained straight faced in the presence of adversity and not let his father see through his collected visage. His father would be proud of him for this little endeavor if nothing else. He wore gloves from that day forward so as not to show of his abnormality, it was unbefitting for the heir of a wealthy lord to be marred in any way. Even when the wound was inflicted by that very lord himself. If only it had actually helped.
---
Le Quartier Latin was the perfect place to live. The perfect place to make friends out of brief acquaintances and then possibly eat them. It was easy to blend in. One thin young man with bloodshot eyes sipping coffee and living off the espresso rush wasn't any different from the rest of them. He was just another starving artist to most passer-bys, easily lost in the throng that traversed the city every day. Draco's only problem was his hair, but the blonde locks among the more Parisian heads were easily covered. Once upon a time he had truly liked to stand out in such a way, but now it was getting to be more and more dangerous as time passed. There were those out in the world who would love to be rid of him, but he couldn't have that happening any time soon. There was far too much to be dead for.
---
The night he had decided to take his father's advice and find refuge in Le Sacre Coeur had been both the biggest mistake he'd ever made and the most defining moment of his young life. The nineteen year old had been out walking for the majority of the day, simply enjoying Paris and its many quaint shops and people, when he began to notice the sun beginning its descent for the night. He was in the very center of Montmartre, his home was on the opposite side of town. He would never make it there in time. The white marble cross of the church had barely been in view, so he cast off his Malfoy dignity and began to run.
It was dusk by the time he'd reached the bottom of the stairs and his cloak had gotten heavier with each step. Though he wasn't the most out of shape boy, the Malfoy's did pride themselves on their physical appearance, he was prone to illness and many fights with his health left him more easily winded than most. Moments before his shadow had been dutifully following him, getting longer as he went, but by then it had disappeared completely, leaving him alone to face the ever spreading darkness. The shadows around him began to shift and take on new forms, new faces, and he felt the very beginnings of nervousness start to worm its way through his chest, trying to paralyze his final steps.
Chest heaving and hair plastered to his forehead, Draco had reached the top. He flung open the doors in triumph, but quickly realized his folly and dragged them closed for fear of admitting the night.
---
Since the very public and mysterious death of his father, Draco made it a point to slip quietly into the woodwork. He'd kept his first name, but had adopted the surname of Espere out of the sheer irony of it all. Hope was a commodity that was not usually allotted to his kind.
He'd enrolled at l'Ecole de Paris in the field of visual arts and was slowly becoming recognized for his new found skill. It was one that he'd never been given the chance to fully realize before as his relations hadn't exactly been the type that was open to creativity. Being a terribly wealthy family they'd naturally appreciated all of the arts, funding local painters and sculptors as well as stocking their home with original prints and pieces. But when such a thing bloomed within the bloodline itself, it was more acceptable to stamp it out and go into something more productive like business or politics.
It was doubtless to say that since he'd killed his father, things had been looking up.
---
He had bid the priest a shaky bon soir and curled up in front of the altar, counting on the Virgin to protect him while he slept. Though it soon became apparent over the course of the night that she didn't care for him very much at all. Over the course of his life, faith in something more than himself had kept Draco going. It was what kept him striving to be a better person, what kept him from not following in his fathers every footstep. He didn't know yet what it was that he believed in, but at least he had something. Yet not even that could save him.
Draco woke with a start far into the night to see a face peering down at him through the darkness. He had gasped in delight at the magnificence above him, thinking solely of angels and praising his wondrous good luck. The man smiled beatifically in return, turning Draco's wonder into terror at the simple action, all pointed teeth and crimson lips. A disturbingly cold hand had been placed on his forehead and all the world had faded.
---
There was only one problem with Draco's new found freedom. He had found none like himself. Paris had one of the largest vampiric populations in the world and he still felt alone. It wasn't a new emotion, for his family had never been the sort to dote love and attention on their only son. Yes, they would support his decisions and spend time with him to sculpt him into the best heir he could possibly be, but when tutoring sessions were over and etiquette training done for the day, he would be left alone to his own devices. His childhood had been lonely more often than not, but this new found sense of the devoid was all the same unsettling.
Though he supposed that it came with his new occupation, his sort didn't usually travel together. Or at least, he thought they didn't. There were so many questions that he had that none but one of his own could answer. He had grudgingly admitted to himself that he needed someone. A mentor, someone to counsel him, a teacher, if you will. This he had found in Severus Snape.
---
When he had awoken, his hands were bound behind his back and he had been moved to a coarse wooden pew. Surrounding him were creatures of impeccable beauty. Almost all of them were the perfect Parisians, dark haired and eyed with unmarked ivory skin. All of them save for two. They were different. Yet their lofty features did nothing to quell his fears.
The Virgin had been blindfolded.
---
Draco's first day at l'Ecole had been rather ground breaking. The class where he first found himself even slightly at ease was simply called Art 101.
His first three classes of the day had been as pleasant as they could have been. History, music, and some ungraspable philosophy course weren't at all as terrible as he thought they would be. The history was captivating, the music theory interesting, and the philosophy could have been much worse. All of these things he had studied previously under his father, so they were sure not to give him any difficulty. The only problem was that all of the teachers seemed to have some horribly blatant love affair with summer and were prone to throwing open every last one the windows to let in the brilliant sunlight raining down on the city. Though the light wasn't death inducing as Draco had heard rumored, it was probably the least comfortable experience imaginable to sit through two hour classes in direct light. He'd managed to find seats in the dark corners of the room in history and music, but he'd arrived late to philosophy and was forced to sit directly in the glare from one of the highly arched windows.
After about twenty minutes the skin on his face had started to turn a bit pink. At the end of the first hour he smelled his hair beginning to sizzle and felt the beginnings of blisters on the back of his bare right hand. He had removed that particular glove so he would have less trouble taking notes, but apparently it took its toll. Quickly excusing himself, he ran out into the hall, the darkness of the stone corridor welcoming him. He pressed his hand against the wall, the coolness of it seeping into his burned hand, but not doing anything to stop the pain. If anything, that made it worse. Hissing out a breath, Draco pressed his lips to the aggravated skin. The blisters immediately disappeared, leaving his skin its fragile looking white once again. At this, the young man grinned. There was much to be learned about his new state of affairs.
---
How they were able to step foot inside the church soon became apparent to the boy they were holding hostage.
The woman in charge, if a true woman is what you could call her, was a very vision of loveliness. She never revealed her name to her young captive, but all the others referred to her as 'mother.' Her hair could be likened to spun gold in the way that it caught the candle light that danced around her surprisingly pleasant face and around her neck, nestled in the curve of her throat, hung what appeared to be a large, prismatic diamond, hollowed out and filled with blood.
They explained that it was in the church's name, the sentiment that allowed them to come inside, to take refuge from those against them. Le Sacre Coeur, the Sacred Heart. Who would hold a heart more sacred than those who depended upon them to live? Not only do humans require the heart, but vampires do as well. The heart pumps the blood on which they feed, so this particular church was one of the highest reverence for they understood the logic behind it perfectly.
At first he had struggled against his bonds, but quickly came to the conclusion that it was useless. He would only waste what strength he had left. With his head bowed over the rope around his wrists, Draco knew exactly what was to become of him. Fervently he prayed for help. But no one came.