CHAPTER ONE: AWAKENING


Harry's P.O.V

Exogenous. Possessed. Consumed. That was how Harry would describe the first time she awoke to this new life of hers. Unlike popular mythos and folktales, and now pop-culture, there was no beast inside of her, something foreign and salivating, telling her to feed and gorge and she, in her mind, some innocent refusing to. There was no dissociation or separation between old Harry and this new, slightly terrifying version of herself. She was the beast and she was still plain ol' Harry. It was a cruel twist of fate, to be sure, but also, somehow… Liberating.

She wanted to eat. She wanted to feast. It was instinctual, carved into her fucking DNA, and now she knew exactly what she needed to get rid of that hunger, to stave it off. The real problem came when Harry caught a whiff of what it was her body was screaming for coming straight off Sanguini in tongue tingling waves. It was strange, far off inside of herself, Harry knew he was a friend, an ally, but in that moment, if asked, she wouldn't have been able to even tell you her age or name. She only knew she was starving and that, oddly, she didn't have a bloody shadow anymore.

Waking up locked into a frenzy of thirst, fight and survival, dunked into a world where everything seemed equal parts new and tantalizing, versus bewildering and perilous, perhaps Harry could later be forgiven for falling into an instinctual drive of mindless action. After all, you beat and starve a dog long enough… That dog bites back.

Mindless action, as it turned out to be, led to a struggle. A flailing of limbs, the crunch of bone, the click of fangs descending and a humming growl rising from the depths of Harry's sternum. Before she knew it, as half-mad as she was, too consumed with her thirst, something metallic was grinding, there was an almighty lurch and the van they were travelling in barrelled into a tree. From that point until the moment of Harry's newly acquired fangs tearing their way through Sanguini's neck on the edge of a road surrounded by a woods would always be a blur to her, but she had a distinct feeling he had put up a fight and damn… Sickeningly, that made it all the more pleasurable.

The first warm gush of blood that soaked Harry's mouth made her growl, eyes rolling as finally, that thirst turned to a rolling boil rather than an inferno raging inside of her. More. More. More. More. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Drain him dry. Make a husk. Bleed the fucking world. Anything, anything at all to fill that hunger, to slate her thirst, to quieten that urge to hunt. Unfortunately for Harry and her plans of world bloodletting, all too soon, Sanguini's hand had snuck up to the side of her head and she was being launched across the small clearing off to the side of the road.

The crack of a tree meant nothing to her, her answering roar nothing but a subconscious reflex at being denied, the pain flaring up in her back nothing but a distant nuisance. On that first night, everything paled in comparison to the importance, the want, the need for blood. Nothing else mattered. Being driven by something as profound as instinct, it didn't take Harry long to jar herself back up, crouching on her feet, keeping low to the ground, scenting the air, smelling that wonderful smell again, nostrils flaring wide to soak it in, absorb it as she saw Sanguini step closer to her in the moonlight, spotted the blood running down his neck, soaking into his shirt.

It was if she could feel his blood, the thrumming pleasure calling to her, a war drum egging her on, see it pulsing and saturating his oxford shirt, taunting her, begging her with his veins to just… Devour. Right then, right there, everything meant nothing to Harry apart from that blood. She wanted it. She Needed it.

"Harry, calm! This will pass, but you must focus! I know you're thirsty. I know nothing makes sense and I know you're having trouble thinking clearly, but please, you have to try. I'm not your enemy. I'm trying to help you. Don't be scared. This… This is natural. Dhampir's are ravenous for the first few months of their awakening. But I'll help you… You just have to let me."

Harry… Who was Harry again? Her? Yes… Yes. She was Harry. But what did that mean? What did it matter when she was so fucking thirsty? That smell, so fresh, mouth-watering, it was making her feel foggy, disorientated. Focus. She was Harry.

"That's it, focus. Remember Hermione? Remember Ron? What about Gryffindor and Quidditch? There you go, focus… Remember."

Hermione, Ron, jumbled faces for jumbled names. Red and gold. Wind in her hair. It was all too jagged, too sharp, it hurt to think. Why did she have to remember? No. She was Harry. Harriet, yes. Hermione, friend. Ron, friend. Not food. No food.

"Keep it up. I promise, you can hunt later. I know it's hard to ignore that drive, that instinct, but for now, you have to."

Harry violently shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the red haze it had fallen to, but it wouldn't budge. She had to be somewhere. She had to go somewhere. She could feel it, something yanking in her chest, dragging her.

"Blood."

It came out more guttural than an actual word, and for a moment, Harry didn't realize that noise had come from her.

"Yes, I know you want it, need it, but not right now Harry. Fight it. Fight that need with everything you have. A Dhampir's hunting instinct and hunger is stronger than a vampire's, but I know, if anyone at all can fight that instinct back, that thirst, just for a few more hours, it's you Harry. So, fight it."

The wind around them, nothing but a light nightly breeze picked up, swung up and around them, dancing through the trees, rattling twigs, bringing something delicious with it. Harry's head snapped to the side, pupils blowing wide, eradicating her iris's as she huffed in a large breath, chest quaking. Vampires… Seven… A mile away… Blood…

"Shit!"

Sanguini swore as he made a dive for the Dhampir. All effort to taper off that thirst, to try and remember, to try and regain her senses, her self-awareness was blown completely away as Harry's thirst renewed itself tenfold under the onslaught of the smell.

"Harry, no!"

But it was too late. She was already gone with the rustling of the trees.


Pam's P.O.V

Pam Swynford De Beaufort sighed deeply as she flicked the brush of orchid nail polish over her pinky finger. Sitting at the bar of Fangtasia with only Ginger as company, the fangbanger having taken to washing down the tables for the fifth time that night, Pam was more than simply bored. The night had dwindled down to closing time, Fangtasia having to shut its doors to the vampire enthusiasts of Shreveport a few hours early due to her makers Sheriff duties, and Pam couldn't help but feel like everyone, herself included, had fallen into a mundane sort of peaceful routine. It almost made her sick.

Of course, there was still that whiney, dim waitress Sookie Stackhouse her maker, Eric Northman, was interested in. However, a few hours of being in her company had killed any idle interest Pam had originally housed. Furthermore, there was still that vampire, Bill Compton, who was always so fun to rile, in her maker's area, but Pam had not seen hide nor hair of him since she and Eric dropped off his involuntary Childe, Jessica, at his house a week and a half ago when the brat began to annoy them both. So, trying to find any entertainment or enjoyment from antagonizing either Bill, Jessica or Sookie were out of the question.

Now, normally Pam would find a way to find something fun to do with her maker, Eric. However, he had chosen this exact time to start taking his Sheriff duties seriously, almost rigidly so. Pam couldn't blame him really, the vampire queen of Louisiana, Sophie-Anne, was becoming a hassle to deal with, and as a subordinate of hers, Eric had to do what was bid of him. Of course, he didn't really need to do either of those things, as he was older, stronger and quicker witted than that spoiled bitch, but that would mean he would have to take the crown for himself, and that was just something he wasn't willing to do. Not yet at least. Perhaps when Sophie-Anne proved to be more trouble than dealing with her was worth… Until then, however, Pam was left bored.

So, Pam let it be. She ran the bar as Eric dealt with his pointless, medial tasks unworthy of a thousand year old vampires attention, she mingled with the humans, yes, she shuddered at the thought, and she played at being a good Childe, and it seemed that this insufferable peace and tranquillity would last for another two weeks before that glorious knock at their door came.

Well… Knock wasn't quite the right word. It was more of a bang against the door, a quick rattle of the lock and then the door was being flung open as a vampire stepped in. Plopping the brush back into the bottle of nail varnish, Pam gave one last blow to her finger before she gracefully slid from her seat, coming to face the intruder.

"If you couldn't read the sign, it says we are shut."

She drawled. Still, her noncommittal introduction gave her time to suss the newcomer out. With a quick and overlooked sniff, she took in his scent. He definitely was a vampire, and an old one at that, he reeked of age. Pam, having a Grandmaker of ancient age, placed this vampire to be of equal footing to Godric, at least in years. The next thing to catch her attention was the blood. His right side was drowned in it, smothered, originating from a ghastly wound on the right side of his neck. In full honesty, it looked reminiscent of something rabid, long tearing motions leaving flaps of skin to hang and weep and bleed. Now what in the name of holy hell would and, more importantly, could do that to a vampire? Especially one of his years?

"Where is the Sheriff of this area?"

Ah, he hid his accent well, but so did many vampires, and Pam was no new-risen herself. There was a hint of Latin in there, you could tell by the twist he gave his s's. His pale skin still housed some colour, a dusky taupe, coupled with his brown eyes and straight black hair, Pam would pin the vampire from originating from either Italy, Spain, or at least, the Mediterranean. Funny, they didn't get many old-world vampires visiting their American counterparts. Before Pam could question further, there was a quick precession of steps, a ping of the back door to the basement opening and closing. So fast together, a human would only notice the one noise, as her maker, Eric, zoomed his way into the room.

"Right here. And I must say, I do not like being disturbed while I feed. However, seeing the… State you're in, I admit, you've piqued my curiosity."

From the corner of her eye, Pam could see Eric idly wiping away a stray rivulet of blood from the corner of his lip with a handkerchief, coming to an almost protective stance half in front of her. Even after nearly a century and a half, he still treated her with the devotion of a maker to a newly turned vampire. She didn't know whether she found it markedly endearing, the love her maker had for her, or slightly insulting. Often, she landed on the former, as she did that night. This newcomer, however, did not seem to be a conversing type.

"Then I will not hold you long. You have a vampire in your area, a vampire that goes by the name of Bill Compton? I need to know where he is right now."

Eric cut a quick glance to Pam as he crossed his arms and leant on the bar besides her. Of-fucking-course. Bill Compton. It always led back to him, didn't it? Or Sookie… Perhaps both. Still, Eric would not be deterred from the answers he sought. Not so easily.

"Nasty wound you've acquired there. Doesn't look like any wounds I've seen before. Nor does it look like it's healing."

That was what was so brilliant about Eric, his observation skills. Now that he had mentioned it, Pam could still see the fresh blood, shiny, hot, leaking. It should have congealed by now, long before actually, and healing should have begun too. Yet, it looked like it had been freshly made, only seconds ago. Deceptive. Which, Eric having already arrived at long before if he was already questioning it, brought Pam to the same worrying conclusion. Whatever had attacked this vampire, somehow, someway, got around their healing factor, disbanding it. Additionally, through saliva or venom, or some other form of injection, it had an anticoagulant that worked on their kind. How very, very, very disconcerting.

"You wouldn't recognize it, and it will heal… Given time. Now, Bill Compton, where is he?"

What sort of creature would adapt a set of skills to bypass a vampire's healing ability and their coagulation process? Why would it need to? Pam did not now, but by the twinkle in Eric's blue eyes and how he ran a hand through his freshly cut hair to sweep back his dirty blond fringe from his eyes, the shortest it had been since his own making, Eric had some hint of something she could not fathom, and whatever it was, it excited him. Deeply, as he pulled out a chair from a table, sat and leisurely waved a hand to indicate to the other vampire to sit.

"Where is the rush? Perhaps you should sit down, and I will get you a donor-"

"If I do not find Bill Compton soon, many vampires in your area will die tonight."

All sense of politeness, cordiality or respect to the other, older vampire that Eric had shown was washed away as soon as he finished talking. All too easily, Eric's, as Pam came to call it, human face, the one he used on those outside his own bloodline, to the human populace, fell and there he was, her maker. He stood in a flash, imposingly tall at six foot five, his blond hair shining with streaks of white under the harsh bulb of Fangtasia's dance floor, eyes darkening to stormy seas as he held back a snarl and tugged on his leather jacket to straighten it out.

"Is that a threat?"

The vampire sighed and momentarily closed his eyes before levelling Eric with a straight and half dead gaze. Only then did Pam realise, if a vampire could need such a thing, this one looked extremely tired and worn and in good need of a long, undisturbed rest.

"It is simply a fact. One you can help me change if you just tell me where he is."

Now that was strange. Was Bill, Bill of all vampires, planning an attack? Pam scoffed. The most a vampire like Bill could attack would be a patch of daisies, and even then, he would cry over their little petal-less heads. Bill Compton really did shame their entire species. Eric cocked his head and one brow lifted imperiously high, but suddenly, all three vampires were hit with a smell. Blood. Not just any blood. Vampire blood. Strong.

Through the cracked open door of Fangtasia, a hand appeared. The nail polish was chipped, the fingers clawing into the ground as it dragged itself further in and was soon joined by another. By the time the bleached blonde head appeared, streaks of blood splattering the curls into crispy spikes, Pam knew who it was. No one escaped her memory vault. Joanne Lunder, a frequent vampire visitor to their bar, part of a nest, seven strong, all regular patrons to Fangtasia. They lived on the very outskirts of their area. It was only as her legs came into view that the vampires within the building knew exactly why this one had taken to crawling on the floor like a grub.

One of her legs was completely torn off, wounds, deep, much like the one on the male vampire's neck that had come in, were littering her back and stomach. Her other leg was mangled, chunks missing until it looked like a mockery of a surrealist painting. Pam sped over, propping the body up against the wall as Joanne began to cough, blood dribbling down her chin. Fuck. This was a new Chanel top, fresh off the runway, and now it was soiled with vampire blood. Fan-fucking-tastic. Eric was soon besides her, crouching, viewing the wounds with a macabre sort of wonder. What. The. Fuck. Was. In. Their. Area?

"It was too fast… Too fast… It came from the shadows…"

Pam blinked and scowled.

"What came too fast?"

Joanne, however, was delirious. Sobbing, bleeding, just a hunk of meat leaning against their bar's wall and Pam was left with no answers.

"Dead… Their all dead… Mark… Lindsay… Frank… Dylan… Isiah… Veronica… Dead…"

Joanne spluttered and stilled, though she fought on for the little life she had left. No words would ever cross that poor bitches lips again. Seven vampires… Gone. Snap. Just like that. Humans? No. Werewolves? Not fucking likely. Another vampire? The clues fit but something didn't feel right to Pam. They were missing something, or, at least, she was. Unwillingly, Pam's gaze travelled to the stump of a hip joint, distinctly noticing the lack of blood pooling around the grievous amputation… Drained. Joanne had been drained. Not entirely, but enough to leave her wounds just open, dribbling tears. Yes, the wounds were still leaking. It must have taken Joanne time to drag herself here, to their little bar, enough time for her blood to-… It was the same thing, Pam thought as she glanced over her shoulder and eyed up the male vampire watching from a distance. Whatever attacked him had moved on, sort out another seven and did who knows what to them for reasons unknown.

Eric, as always, was ten steps ahead. Pam could only watch as her maker leant towards Joanne and slowly clasped her left hand. Given, at first, it seemed like Eric was offering comfort, a sense of comradeship before this vamp met the true death, there was no way Joanne was coming back from this, but Pam new better. That was a human action, and well, they weren't human. Vampires, in reality, were a lot more like cats. They preferred to die alone and they only liked physical contact when they initiated it.

She was proven right when he pulled something back. A scrap of material. Just a square, a frayed piece of denim. It was dismal, really. This little piece of fabric, it was all Joanne had been able to grab or swipe in her confrontation with whatever that had caused this. Still, this creature was at least humanoid if it was running around wearing a pair of light washed jeans. Eric brought the material to his nose and breathed in deeply and what took up home on his face would forever be imprinted on Pam's mind, not that she forgot much at any rate.

Amazement didn't quite cover it. It was like someone had taken that little spark of wonder Eric had been sporting since he first clapped eyes on the male vamps wounds and poured petrol all over it. His crooked smile didn't quite cover the depths of his emotions toiling inside, Pam knew, he was always brilliant at cloaking them, even from her. However, she knew that look, she knew that gleam, she knew inside his mind, all neurons would be firing simultaneously, working a mile a minute, thoughts coming and going in a flurry, too fast for even her to keep up. Whatever it was that her maker had scented, it made Eric act as if Joanne's mutilated carcass was a Christmas gift and not the foreboding warning Pam felt it to be.

Distractedly, he flicked the cloth to her, which Pam caught without effort, as he cast one last lingering look to the body of Joanne before coming to a stand. Pam, in turn, scented the cloth herself. Instantly, she regretted it. The smell itself was pleasant enough. Sharp. Warm. Smokey fire, something sweet, like vanilla with a hint of spice lurking around the edges. Underneath all that, lurking, was something… Other. Indescribable. And it was that smell which jarred Pam. The hairs on the back of her neck, long thought dormant, spiked up in warning. Something within her told her to run, to escape and her body, for just a split second, became rigid in fear. Danger. If danger could have a smell, it would be that.

She hadn't felt that way since she had first met Eric, back in that street, with that lowly human holding a knife to her throat before Eric swooped in and dispatched him… Back when she was human, and as all humans did, even subconsciously, they recognized a predator and their own prey status. Vampires lost that feeling when they turned, why wouldn't they? They were on top of the fucking food chain, nothing above them, no other predators… So why the fuck did she react in such a way? Finally, the pieces fell together and just as she came to the startling realisation of what exactly had snuck into their area, Eric had turned and addressed the male vampire looking forlornly on.

"I knew it. You've sired a Dhampir. A real, tangible Dhampir, in my area…"

Dhampirs. The way it got around their healing ability, how it stalled their coagulation… All so it could feed on its favourite prey. Vampires. Sure, it could feed on other beings, werewolves, wiccans, but that would only sustain a Dhampir. Vampires were its favourite meal and it would always go for that option if given the chance. Vampires had their true blood and humans, Dhampirs had their other magical beings and Vampires. Given the choice, both would always hunt the latter.

Dhampirs were dangerous, ravenous upon first waking up, almost mad by the need to hunt and kill and their hunger was notoriously high and demanding. Nearly triple that of a newly turned vampire, which arguably, is the most hungriest type of any supernatural being. If the world was an ocean, humans the fish, vampires, undisputedly, were the great white sharks of the deep blues and Dhampirs… Dhampirs where the fucking killer whales. Always hunting. In short, every advantage a Vampire had, a Dhampir would turn that on them three-fold. Speed? Dhampirs were faster. Strength? Equal. Healing? Not if it was a Dhampir that bit or inflicted the wound. Need an invite? Nope, Dhampirs walked to their own drum. Glamouring? Nope, those fucking Dhampirs were immune and worse of all, could switch that little trick right back into your face. Stakes? Useless. Sunlight? Cozy nap-time for a Dhampir. Silver? Pile it on them and they'll just thank you for the jewelery. The only semi known way to kill a Dhampir was to decapitate it, if that Nubian myth was to be at all true, and even then, you had to get near their terrifying mouth and fangs.

Despite all this, everything, the natural way of the world, Dhampirs were held in high, very high, regard by the vampiric community. They were seen as gifts. Rare. Procreation was always a sore spot for any vampire and the knowledge on how to make a Dhampir was long ago lost. Perhaps never fully known. So much so, in fact, some newer vampires believed them to be nothing but fables. Still, Dhampirs were… Infamously coveted. No bloodline who had fathered or taken in a Dhampir had ever fallen. A Dhampirs sire, father and nest, were famously protective of their offspring, and it was odd to hear of one out and about before the turning of their third century. Perhaps it was twisted irony. The same morbid fascination humans showed for vampires, vampires mirrored for Dhampirs. Still, it changed nothing. There was a very real, very recently turned, very hungry Dhampir in their area.

No wonder the male vampire had not been willing to mention anything of the sort. The bastard was trying to get one over on Eric. On all of them. Pam stood and mirrored her maker, turning to face the vampire dead on. Realising the jig was up, the vampire came clean, and once again, flipped the world right on it's head.

"I didn't sire a Dhampir… Bill Compton did."


Traits taken from Folklore in this chapter: From some Bulgarian Folklore, Dhampirs were actually more feared than their normal Vampiric counterparts because they were seen as more 'ravenous' and 'uncontrollable'. In Albanian legend, the only way to distinguish a Dhampir from a human, apart from their untamed dark hair, was that they were shadowless, most likely a mutated form of the myth of vampires not having reflections.

I used the metaphor of killer whales, or Orca's for what Dhampirs (or my version of Dhampirs) are like because it gives a good base line to what I'm trying to build this breed to be, and the metaphor will crop up here and there again, rarely, but it will be present. Orca's get their nickname, killer whales, because they are notoriously aggressive in their dietary needs. They won't think twice about attacking big sea predators like sea lions or whales if they are hungry and spot one. It has also been documented that Orca's have attacked and fed off of great white sharks before. They will also feed and prey on almost any animal they can find, and as an Apex predator, they are technically at the top of their food chain. They are also extreme in their methods of hunting, going as far as sometimes beaching themselves on land to catch seals. To be honest, Orca's are a little bit terrifying lol.

As always, thank you all! Thank you for all the support, the favourites, the follows and the reviews! I really do hope you are enjoying this so far!

Remember to leave a review! They give me inspiration and inspiration keeps this fic going.