Author's Note:

Main Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy

Side-Pairings: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnegan (Decreased); More shall be displayed as the fic continues.

Brief Summary: Draco Malfoy is a vampire slayer. His sole purpose in life is to kill as many vampires as he can. Since wizard's blood is poisonous to vampires; he has been rather successful. His most recent hunt has eliminated several of the foul creatures; including their leader... or so he thinks. The vampire house leader, Harry Potter, was somehow able to survive and is now stronger than ever. Harry is now out for revenge. He will stop at nothing to kill the grey eyed wizard that almost destroyed him.

Warnings: M/M sex, mild violence and Wizard bashing.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to David Heyman. The original characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story. Any similarity with any person/people is simply coincidental.

CHAPTER 2: Revenge is the sweetest fruit ever

Present Day:

The wizard's name was Draco Malfoy. He rode a big black street chopper with the word Slytherin curved across the gas tank and wore more black leather than Harry did. Lithe but imposing in his costume, which also included visible weaponry that could annihilate a vampire in less than a minute, the wizard walked as if he owned the earth.

He was the only slayer in the region that Harry was aware of. Not for long. Harry thought vindictively as he sat motionless on his bed.

Harry had located the wizard's hideout. He lived at the edge of Scotland, about three miles at the top of a castle recently rehabbed for luxury flats. Nice but not half so spendy as his clothes. Every time Harry had seen him, Draco Malfoy had been wearing clothes that practically cascaded over him like a waterfall of a million dollars. For a while, Harry had wondered how could the wizard slay vampire in such a glossy uncomfortable attire.

But as it was, he did not give a fig for the wizard, his flashy clothes or his nasty soul. Let his burn. And then Harry would proudly present the ashes to his men.

He had also been observing, at a distance, the demonic slayer's comings and goings for the past ten days, the first days since his pseudo-death that he'd felt able to leave his home. The vampire killer went out three nights a week on the hunt—Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Harry had not witnessed him execute a kill yet, though.

His own house numbered eleven members, and had claimed Scotland's inner city of Hogwarts as territory against the two rival houses. There were a few independent vampires, not aligned to any house but they were stealthy and kept to the shadows.

Scotland was not a vampire hot spot. This surprised Harry.

The state offered a healthy six months of winter, which meant little sunlight and plenty of dark basements in which to hibernate. And a vampire could regulate his body temperature so the below-freezing weather affected him little.

Scotland was a bloodsucker's haven, if you asked him.

House Gryffindor was small but not stupid. Harry had purposefully kept their location away from New York, Miami or New Orleans; major vampire breeding grounds. The average metropolitan area hosted perhaps a hundred vampire or more.

He had prided himself on leading the most civilized house in the States. While others, such as House Ravenclaw and House Hufflepuff stalked the night, wreaking havoc and creating blood children indiscriminately; House Gryffindor strove to keep their bloodlines peaceful.

No accidental transformations, no witnesses, no mistakes. That had become Harry's personal mantra.

There were a few incidents to be overlooked, though. Hell, they were vampires, not tamed lions. The blood hunger was a powerful thing and could not be ignored or put aside as if it were a habit one could easily break. They, all vampires, were called the Dark. But none in House Gryffindor murdered for anything other than the sake of taking blood to sustain life.

Over the weeks since the wizard's attack, Harry had slowly healed.

Initially, Ronald Weasley, his closest ally and oldest friend, had brought him donors daily. The infusion of warm, mortal blood to his system had been supplemented with a weekly draw from Ron. Vampire blood proved more powerful in the healing process as opposed to mere mortal blood. Flesh had grown over Harry's exposed ribs within three weeks and slowly the charred skin on his arms and torso began to heal.

Now only the skin on his left arm, up along his neck and down his left side to his hip was puckered with pink scarred flesh. It looked abysmal but Harry wasn't concerned with appearance. In fact, he reveled in these scars. They gave him a renewed sense of reprisal each time.

At the sound of the front door sealing shut, Harry sighed and strode out to the living room which looked subdued in the evening light that snuck through the one window Ron had commandeered for an assortment of huge, leafy plants.

After the wizard's attack, Ron had returned to the House with word that their leader was still alive; not only alive but more powerful than ever and that he required time to heal.

A month ago, Ron had moved in with Harry in order to take care of the injured vampire. In spite of Harry's assurances that his mate and Harry's other best friend, Hermione Granger, needed him; Ron had remained adamant. It didn't help that Hermione supported his decision fully.

Ronald Weasley was a good friend and it was with his help that Harry had gained back his strength and planned his revenge on the one who was the reason behind his wounded state.

Even though Harry didn't require twenty-four hour care now, he appreciated the company and was in no hurry to rush Ron out the door.

"Tonight the night?" Ron asked as he tossed the day's paper onto the coffee table and flicked the sunshades open. The electrochromic blackout glass seamlessly changed to clear. "I still think it's too soon for you to be going out on the hunt. You sure about this?"

"Never been more sure of a thing in my life," Harry growled. He punched a fist into his opposite palm, closing his eyes for a moment. A flash of blonde hair and grey eyes materialized in his mind.

Maintaining the anger was part of the plan.

Not that it was difficult but his red-headed freckled friend always played angel-on-the-shoulder to Harry's feral need to get things done; be it by force and fury or by talking through a vexing issue.

A man learned patience in the medical profession and Harry had spent a good number of years doing so but along with his mortality, his patience and empathy had been sluiced away with the blood that fateful night of his transformation.

"It'll close a chapter in your life." Ron agreed though his voice still had an edge of doubt.

"It'll feel damn good." Rubbing a palm up his torso, Harry strode across the room. The scar tissue on his side always drew his attention. It sent out the message "not whole but incapable" to any who might see it.

As he strolled into the kitchen, he punctuated his mood with a slam of his fist to the gray marble counter. He needed the wizard's limp body sprawled before him. That was the only ointment that would completely heal his wounds, both physical and emotional.

In the fridge, he eyed the bottles of wine Ron kept for his evening sacrament.

He sniffed. The corks gave up the rich aroma of eighteenth-century soil steeped with raspberries and limestone and the poignant cry of tiny black grapes plumped to bursting from the sun.

"You pick up the fish oil?"

"In the bag on the counter." Much as blood served his only means for regeneration, Harry believed some natural remedies certainly couldn't hurt.

Flexing his left arm, he eased his palm over the rippled flesh and picked up the wine bottle.

"You know." Ron commented. "You've got an opportunity to steal some of the wizard's magic if you don't do the deed too quickly."

Right.

Harry was immune to his poisonous blood now. Or should be. A risk he was straining at the leash to take.

And should a vampire manage to drink wizard's blood without harm, the wizard's magic would flow into him. "Bewitched" is what they called the ancient vampires who were once able to enslave a wizard and consume his blood in order to increase their own strength.

Harry had never met any of the ancients, though tales told of half a dozen that yet lived. Some even claimed that their House's mentor Albus Dumbledore was an ancient. Something which had never been proven as the old vampire barely spoke to anyone.

"Any blood magic I gain will simply be a bonus." Harry finally answered as he took a huge dunk of the wine. It tasted awful.

He was a phoenix. And though he'd yet to test his strength, he wondered about the legend that a phoenix was indestructible. He didn't feel it but then again, he was still recovering.

Harry glanced back to his red-haired friend. "The kill is what I'm after and nothing but that."

"Do you know how odd it is to hear such a declaration from you?" Ron asked, completely serious for once.

Harry shrugged. "Yes." For he preached avoidance of any unnecessary fights. "You know this is necessary, Ron. I am doing this for the entire House. One less wizard in this world is one less nuisance for the vampire nation. I'm out of here."

Harry quickly decided, pushing back his hair. He couldn't stand to hear his arguments frizzle out in front of Ron. At least, it wasn't Hermione confronting him. Harry was definitely grateful for that.

"Have a nice evening!" Ron called behind his back.

Harry smirked as he strode for the front door. Nice? He hadn't known so sublime an emotion since before he was turned. The world was not nice. The world demanded… presence.

And tonight Harry Potter intended to return with a vengeance.

Additional Author's Note:

Thank you for those Followed/Favorited the story. Reviews would be appreciated and even answered, if I get the time.

Oooo… The drama begins…