Pairings: vamp!Draco/Pansy, vamp!Draco/Harry
Summary: When Draco doesn’t have it in him to pledge himself to the Dark Lord, his allegiance is made against his will.
Warnings: het, slash, dub-con, character death, bloodplay, misuse of a mirror
Genre: Dark flangst
Disclaimer: I don’t own anyone or anything you recognize.
Author’s note: Request was for: “vamp!Draco/Harry, vamp!Harry/Draco, vamp!Draco/Pansy” with “Glass/mirrors, dark/white contrasts, roses, club/gothic scene”. I included everything but vamp!Harry and the club/gothic scene, because it didn’t work with the plot. I hope you enjoy it all the same!
Beta: The lovely kc_stories, who has helped me out so many times I can’t even count, and belladonnagirl. This story also has the Curtain Girl Seal of Approval from friartux_shop.
“Look at me,” Pansy says, and though her voice is light, her words are a command.
She knows that it’s torture for me to look at her, exquisite torture, to see her heartbeat pulsing beneath her skin and be unable to do anything about it. That’s rule number one of my enslavement: do not feed on Death Eaters.
When I open my eyes, she smiles at me and runs one long fingernail along the underside of my cock, laughing as my back arches helplessly.
The first thing people ask Harry when they see us together is if I’m safe. Yes, he tells them, yes, and I suppose that’s true, in a way. If you define “safe” as “under the control of the Boy Who Lived”, as if somehow the scar on Harry’s forehead has defanged me (despite the sharp tips of my teeth that show even when my mouth is closed), then yes, I am safe.
The second question is always “Is he Marked?” In answer, Harry rolls up my sleeve, revealing my pale forearm, unblemished by the tattoo so familiar to this post-war wizarding world. They sigh in relief and smile, and the talk changes to meaningless chatter about family, as if either Harry or I have any left, or the weather, as if we care.
It’s amazing how much power a simple capital letter has over the meaning of a sentence. No, I don’t wear the Dark Mark, but what these people don’t realize is that my entire body is marked, in an entirely different way. The fangs, the pale, cold skin, the blood that runs through my veins, none of these are mine, they are all the Dark Lord’s, and I am his.
Blood is so much more than just a liquid. It’s full of memories and laughter and pain, overflowing with life and also with death. It used to connect me to my family tree, to a great many proud, noble wizards and witches, but now I am worse than disowned. I no longer share a single red or white blood cell with any of them- what wasn’t sucked out of me was quickly obliterated by the blood of my victims.
When I was created, I was meant to be a tool, one able to kill someone in a way that was considered more symbolic than Avada Kedavra. The whole war was about blood, after all, about the contamination of the pure wizarding blood by Muggleborn and their half-blood children. By contaminating my veins, the world was purified.
I was cleansed first, in much the same way that a soldier might be blessed before marching off to fight, only my cleansing involved more than a simple wave of the fingers or a splash of water. I knelt at my Lord’s feet, waiting for judgment while my mother tried to stifle her sobs, expecting a death far more horrible than anything I had witnessed in my short life, but it was not to be.
“If you cannot give yourself to me willingly,” he said, tilting my face up to look at him, “I will take you by force.”
Most people might be disturbed to discover that their savior is just as obsessed with blood as his enemy once was.
He’s not obsessed with its purity, or with its preservation- I think he just likes the color of it, and he likes the way he can feel it leaving his body when I bite him. He brings me roses sometimes, beautiful red ones, with long stems dotted by thorns. He presses them into my hands, and when they prick my skin he lowers his head to taste the blood there, blood that probably came from his jugular just the night before.
There is a certain vulnerability to giving your blood away; to knowing that someone is holding your life force on their tongue. I am beginning to understand how that feeling can be erotic as well as terrifying.
My next victim is writhing on the ground; his screams punctuated by the clouds his breath forms in the cold night air. Pansy stands above him, her body shaking with mirth as she pins him with her wand.
I watch her from the shadows as she plays with him, like a cat toying with a mouse. She is hollow, soulless, filled only with the empty space of cruelty. My father often tells me that I should be more like her. But I am, I tell him, I have lost my blood, and, with it, my soul.
“Dragon!” Pansy calls to me. Then she kneels by her captive and whispers in his ear. “Your blood is slime,” she tells him. “It’s mud. And you are unworthy of it.”
She stands again as I come nearer, watching as the man’s eyes widen with fear. I do not know this man, but then I devour him and he is part of me, part of my blood. That’s rule number two: kill everyone they ask me to.
I wasn’t there when the Dark Lord was defeated. After Pansy’s death, no one seemed to have any use for me anymore, and I was kept locked away in the dungeons of my own home. They probably would have left me there until I starved, had it not been for Harry.
He came to find me. How he knew where I was, or even that I was still alive, I’ll never know. When he unlocked my chains, I leapt on him in my hunger, sinking my teeth into his neck and practically moaning with relief as pure life flowed over my tongue.
Harry was different, he didn’t protest. He even turned his head to the side, allowing the blood to flow more freely. When I had drunk enough to quench my thirst, but not enough to weaken him, he put a hand on my chest and pushed me away.
“Ironic, that I killed the tyrant to capture the dragon,” he murmured. “That’s not how the story’s supposed to go.”
I remember being dragged to my feet, and seeing the blood-red eyes of the vampire that had spawned me, a vampire that had never been enslaved the way I was. Laughter rang in my ears and I shut my eyes.
The feeling of your soul being sucked out along with your blood is not one I’d wish on anybody, and yet I went on to spread it like the plague. I passed out from it, only coming around when I was forced to. My father was kneeling beside me, holding a mirror, but I refused to look.
Then I was bound to my Master, my life tied to his. I wasn’t supposed to survive his death. When I told Harry this, though, he just said simply, “That’s because some of him is still alive…in me.”
Harry changes his sheets on a regular basis. At first I thought he was obsessed with cleanliness, that he thought a clean bed could bring him better rest, or at least nights that weren’t plagued with nightmares.
Then I noticed that he never used the same colors twice.
“I haven’t found the right color yet,” he says when he sees me looking.
“The right color for what?” I ask, curious.
He smiles and touches my cheek. “To match you, of course.”
Pansy’s face is flushed, the muscles of her legs tense as she rides me, throwing her head back. It’s part of my servitude, rule number three: let your keeper do anything she wants to you.
It isn’t that I mind, not really. I’m pretty much beyond caring about what happens to me at this point, and pleasure is a rather nice distraction from the nightmare I’m living in. It isn’t even that I get tired, or that she uses me too much- there is something to be said for being a dark creature with a superhuman stamina, after all. But I don’t want her, not like that. I want her blood.
I break eventually, of course. I don’t have a superhuman willpower when it comes to hunger, quite the contrary. And it was so worth every horrible thing she’d ever made me do, every time she’d teased and tortured me, to hear her scream and feel her flesh stop pulsing around my teeth as her heartbeat slows and then stops.
It starts just like it always does. Harry comes to find me after the sun has set, to offer himself. Sometimes he makes the cut himself, but more often he lets me make it, enjoying the sensation of being latched on to, of being needed.
His fingers go immediately to the buttons of my robes, as they do every time. But this time he stops halfway, admiring the darkness of the cloth against my bare skin.
“That’s it,” he murmurs to himself. The look in his eyes keeps me from speaking, instead waiting for him to elaborate. He pulls my robes off entirely and pushes me over to the window, pressing me against the cool glass.
“Damn,” he says, considering me. “It’s too dark outside- you stand out.”
He looks around the room for inspiration, and I watch as his eyes settle on the long mirror on the far wall. He bought it to help him dress for the formal dinners and other celebrations held in his honor, but he never actually uses it. A fear of mirrors is something we have in common; neither of us wants to see what we have become.
“No, Harry,” I whisper, suddenly afraid.
“Yes,” he replies, and I lead the way, trembling.
I move in front of the mirror and look into it. My knees nearly give way with relief when all I see in it is Harry standing behind me, his face full of wonder.
“Perfect,” he says softly.
When I was imprisoned, I had a lot of time to think. In my hunger, I bit myself, but I found the taste of my own blood bitter and let it spill on the floor instead, spending hours on end tracing pictures in it to help the time pass.
I wonder if anyone has gone through the Manor, if they’ve found the dark stains on the dungeon floor. If they were able to identify whose blood it was, it would tell so many stories- the stories of my victims, who had never even seen those walls, and the stories of my father’s, for whom that stone was their last resting place.
They won’t find my blood down there, though. It’s all gone.
When Harry’s done, I find myself crushed against the glass, its smooth surface sticky from my release. He hasn’t pulled out yet, which is odd, but the warmth of his body contrasts comfortingly with the unforgiving cold of the mirror.
He murmurs something against my back, and though I can feel his lips move against my skin, I can’t make out the words. I feel strange, as if I was separated and have suddenly found myself back in my own body.
I push against the mirror to see if my reflection is still absent, and it is. Then I notice that my lip is bleeding freely, and I raise my hand to touch the cut, examining the blood that covers it before licking at it tentatively.
It tastes sweet, like Harry’s.
Harry kisses my shoulder, startling me. “Did you hear me?” he asks. “I said, tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” I whisper, and maybe it’s the sweet nectar that my blood has become that’s affecting my brain, but I’m beginning to think that it might be true.