Warnings: Blood, EWE, A bit of AU with Parseltongue usage
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own, nor do I make any money from the creation of this story.
Original Bunny: Draco is incredibly ignorant about vampire knowledge, Harry fancies Draco, but is unsure about the vampire part. From jeannie81.
Wordcount: Approximately 4,000
Summary: Draco is a vampire. A very clueless, yet daring, vampire.
Author’s Note Thanks so much to my betas ????, ????, ???? and KF. Section titles are stolen and borrowed and modified from various inspirations.
Slay them all. You know you want to; and it doesn't matter in the end.
A strong gust whistled through the tops of the skyscrapers of New York City. It carried with it the words of those below on the streets and those encased behind walls of steel and glass.
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna…"
"Damn it, Richard. I'm not quitting my job just because you don't get a hot meal every night at six! I can't…"
"Oh Samantha. Yes, baby. Yes. God, yes! Sam…"
"Tonight on Eyewitness News. You've heard of the Hero on…"
"Stop! No! Leave me alone."
The Hero balanced on the edge of the GE Building, his glowing red eyes scanning the people tiny as ants as they scuttled around on the ground 60 floors below, busy and absorbed in their own New York City lives.
Like an auditory telescope, he focused his hearing on the cry, zooming in to determine if it was a true cry for help or something from one of those damned contraptions telling lies and displaying fake worlds. Breathing, heavy and frantic, accompanied the racing staccato of a panicked heartbeat.
"No! Oh, God. Please, don't hurt me."
He launched himself off the edge, into the night.
"Did you hear?" a woman asked her friend as they chattered amiably at a table next to his. Harry tried to tune out the constantly chattering Yanks, always talking, always making noise.
"What now, Margie?" the other drawled as she took a bite of her cake. Harry wished his sandwich would just come so could go to Central Park or something, eat alone in silence.
"The Hero on the Rooftops… He saved another woman last night. Right up on 6th Ave. She was going to be raped, but he flew down—flew!—and grabbed the guy and flew away with him." She chatted so quickly, Harry wasn't sure he heard right.
"What was he wearing, a jet pack or something?" the other asked in a conspiratorial tone.
Harry sipped his Coke through the red and white striped straw. It squeaked loudly through the plastic top when he put too much pressure against it with his lips.
"Don't think so… At least the woman said he wasn't wearing anything like that… but he was wearing a cape!" She laughed, apparently delighted by this new fact.
"You don't say! A cape! Like a super hero or something? Aren't those supposed to be out of style?'" She chuckled, her mouth around her fork. "He must be Superman."
Harry was openly staring at them now. Even if he misheard something through their thick accents, he swore he hadn't misheard 'flew.'
"Oh yeah. He must be. Vigilante Hero. That's New York for you."
The two women laughed and Harry's sandwich arrived. He stared at the thick slices of wheat bread stuffed with lettuce, cheese, tomatoes… even a pickle sticking out of the edge. Someone flying.
Harry wanted to ask if the person had had a broom. He looked up into the cloudy sky and wondered if he'd ever find Malfoy in this huge, crazy city.
You want to call in sick today because the sky is vomiting.
"Harry, this is bloody ridiculous. Come home, mate. You don't need to find the blighter, really. Nobody misses him."
Harry stared at Ron's flushed face through the hostel's Floo. He knew he probably shouldn't have slipped off to America without telling Ron and Hermione his plans, but better to have them argue with him here where they couldn't tie him down and keep him in his work room, than arguing with him at home and potentially convincing him to stay.
"Ron, quit being such a prat; someone has to look for him and he was last seen in New York…"
"But it's been weeks and nobody's heard a thing," Hermione poked her head in and interrupted. "Harry, come on. What do you plan on doing, wandering around the city without any strategy?"
"Well, sure. I mean… He must be somewhere." Honestly, he had no a clue on how to find Malfoy, but he had to make sure he was okay. A little less than a month ago he'd gone to New York for the Wizarding Cooperative Council's annual meeting and hadn't been heard from since.
"I can't believe George just let you go. Don't you have that huge order of Weasley DraPro Charms to finish?" Ron argued.
"Well, you see…"
"You did tell him!?"
"He knew I was going," Harry said in a small voice. Maybe this wasn't easier through the Floo.
"You told George, but you didn't tell us?" Ron really could get loud, even through the static of long distance Floo communication.
"Well, I knew you would try to stop me… and he is my employer. I had to tell him." Harry's knees were beginning to ache from pressing against the hard floor.
"So, you got the charm worked out?" Hermione asked curiously.
"Hermione! That is not the reason we are paying five galleons a minute to talk to Harry right now. We are trying to remind him how stupid it is that he chased Draco bloody Malfoy to the States. What is it with you two anyway? You hate each other all through school and now you're what… best friends?"
"Ron," Hermione warned, but gave Harry that inquisitive look: a slight tilt to her head and a narrowing of her eyes.
He'd dreaded this conversation.
"No… It's just… Nobody else is looking for him. The man is missing and who knows what might have happened." He threw his arms up in frustration. "Plus, he isn't all that bad, Ron."
"Oh sure, the pointy little ferret is just a paragon of politeness and warmth. A true master of the friendly overture. I can see exactly why you'd want to dig his arse out from the trash of New York. Maybe he wants to hide, disappear, d'you ever think of that? Not like anyone around here wants him back."
"Ron!" Hermione finally interjected. "Stop badmouthing Malfoy, please. Grow up."
Ron looked hurt. "Hermione!"
"Listen guys, I need to go." Harry turned, pretending to talk to someone over his shoulder. "Someone else needs the Floo."
"Oh Harry, please be careful and come back soon…"
"Come back now! You can't leave George like that!"
"George is fine, the charm is fine. I'll tell you more when I return. I'll talk to you later."
He closed the Floo as Ron tried, with the sheer weight of his stubbornness, to bicker Harry into coming home.
He stood and then slumped into a blue velvet chair next to the Floo. The green flames had faded and now they crackled a merry orange. Merlin, did they drain the will to live right out of him.
It'd been almost two weeks and Harry'd seen no signs of Malfoy. He'd explored the wizarding section in Manhattan and visited the University of Magical Studies in Brooklyn. He'd hung out at the art museum, the libraries, the Stock Exchange. He'd even gone to the zoo and talked to the snakes. There was no sign of him; he'd literally disappeared. Which, if Harry were to be honest with himself, wasn't all that hard for a wizard in such a huge mass of people to do.
It wasn't hard for him to imagine the how, really; Muggles lost themselves in the city all the time, on purpose and on accident. What really nagged Harry was why. He and Malfoy had become… friends of a sort. And they'd talked about things, future things, like catching a match or touring the Romanian Dragon Reserve. Then he went off on this conference and vanished. The conference organizers had lost him and he'd never contacted Harry or his other friends. Harry knew, he'd checked, even though Pansy had wondered why in Salazar's name Harry was looking for him.
He stood at one of those magazine stands that presented more publications than Harry even knew existed, waiting for his plain black coffee when a headline of The National Enquirer drew his attention. In blurry black and white was a still photo of a man wearing a dark cloak with blond hair. He was flying through the air. Literally. No jet pack, no broom. His arms were held out and he was flying. Harry'd thought that spell had died with Voldemort and Snape… he'd never imagined that Malfoy knew it.
And there was no question: this was Draco Malfoy.
The Hero on the Rooftops Saves the Day
Yesterday Honey Felor was nearly killed when three men mugged her at Sheridan Square. However, a guardian angel came down and saved her.
"The Hero swooped down like Superman and started tearing them up. I mean he had claws and fangs and glowing eyes and he just started ripping them apart! But he didn't hurt me. I don't think he's human. I think he's alien, from outer space, maybe Alpha Centauri, and their people are fed up with the degenerates of the human race!" Miss Felor said.
Could it be true? Is our Hero a Supernatural being? An alien from a distant planet? To find out more about our Hero of New York and other theories, turn to page 6.
Harry ran for the nearest subway station and journeyed in the dismally lit subway car until he arrived at Sheridan Square. With his wand up his shirt sleeve and a quick glance at his surroundings, he cast a few charms to determine if Malfoy was still here. Humans, so many humans, and dogs and rats and cars. Pigeons. There was so much traffic passing through the Square, Harry couldn’t get a definitive answer. There was no magical residue.
Though he felt defeated, Harry spent the better part of the afternoon and into the night walking around the neighborhood.
Nothing, nothing but pushy Americans, litter, piles of dog shit and an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Today was just not his day.
At Night you are Drakor, Burninator of the Wicked!
The Hero was perched on a gothic building, hunched over like his gargoyle neighbor, motionless, silent, ever vigilant as he surveyed the people below. His ears and eyes zoomed in and out, scanning, searching for someone deserving of his vengeance.
One gormless man had been wandering the area for an hour, up and down alleys, along side streets, and he began to wonder if the man was a prostitute, looking for a pull. The neighborhood did not seem to supply the expected clientele because he'd already been approached by three men and he'd turned them away.
Perhaps the man didn't see the small gang following him. Perhaps he didn't realize the threat.
"Hey pretty boy." The words rose up with the steam from the sewer vents.
"I don't want any trouble."
Wind whipped through the high buildings, battering his cloak against the side of his stone friend and muffled his hearing. He watched as the men clustered, bits of paper swirling around them as a dust devil made its entertainment.
Then the man was trapped, surrounded by the gang, and he pulled something out to point at his assailants. It didn't look like a gun. It was too thin and even to the Hero it was barely visible. It looked like a stick.
And something about that stick picked at a scabbed-over memory.
Watching the altercation, he saw that the man with the stick was too slow. "Hey! Let me go!" he cried as one thug's arms encased him and he began to struggle.
It was time.
With ease he launched himself from his perch and sailed like a diving falcon towards the first rabble-rouser. He landed hard and his prey crumpled under the force. With claws and fangs he tore into the weak flesh. Mindlessly, he fought one opponent after another, mindlessly he rent, and in a moment of purely blind bliss, he sank in his incisors to drink.
Then his world was scorched by a bright flash of pain originating from the tender spot at the back of his head.
Step One: Do the Dumb Things You Have to Do.
With the heel of his palm pressed to a deep gash on his forehead, Harry stared at the carnage surrounding him. He'd wanted to scare the guys off, but they were so fast, and Harry'd long ago given up dueling for quieter pursuits. Then out of nowhere came this flying man who landed on one guy, tore him a-part, then went to the next and in a blur began destroying the gang.
Harry'd stood there like a gormless idiot. That is until one man had cracked the attacker on the back of his head with a crowbar and in the process apparently shocked Harry out of his daze.
With his wand and a few Stunners, Harry'd taken care of the rest of them, with only one punch to his head by a fist full of brass knuckles. A battlefield of fallen men surrounded him, with one blond man in the center. Very bloody, very feral, and very much Draco Malfoy.
He'd had to drag Malfoy into a nearby abandoned building that had only been abandoned by sane people and was amply populated by rats and the hopeless. Searching level by level, he finally found an intact room on the third floor. With false authority, he'd chased out a wino and two teenagers on meth and warded it against entrance.
With magic he'd Transfigured a mattress out of a coat and two clothes hangers and he'd Scourgified away the dust. The floors were covered in faded linoleum and a constant clanking echoed through the pipes.
He covered Draco with his robe and waited by the far wall.
Your bloody fangs masterfully disguise the good-natured man below.
He woke up hungry. Terribly hungry. And he had a headache that could only be caused by lesser gods hammering away inside his skull.
Something smelled sweet—heavenly sweet—on the other side of the room, and he launched himself from where he lay and searched out that single beating heart. In such a short distance he barely had to put any effort into his leap and soon he had a man beneath his claws.
"Draco!" The word was high and squeaky and seasoned with panic. His salivary glands leaked.
"Draco!" That word again, the panic fading away. It sounded different this time, full of awe. Should he know that word? It was familiar. Maybe a fictional character or a star.
"Would you get offa me?" Stunned, he wasn't used to those deserving his vengeance to order him about in such a calm tone. The man below him tried to push him off, and the Hero blinked.
"What's gotten into you? I've been looking for you for weeks…"
Something… Something was familiar here. And comforting.
"Draco?" The man's eyes were wide and he had bottle-bottom glasses. There was a scar…
Harry sighed. "About time… What's been going on…?"
"Bloody hell, Potter!" Draco. He was Draco Malfoy. Why was he laying on Harry? His blood thickened in his veins and he scampered away.
"What the hell happened, Malfoy? What are you?" Harry asked. He was staring at the Hero, at Draco, a mix of alarm and relief that couldn’t seem to settle on his features.
Was Harry daft? "Isn't it obvious? I'm a hero. A hero in disguise."
Harry's shoulders relaxed and he looked up to the ceiling with an amused smile. With a deep breath he returned his gaze to Draco. "Well, you see. I think there's more to it," he said with an air of calm. He gestured towards Draco's hands and Draco looked down at them and the inch long claws extending from his fingertips. Flaky, brown something was crammed under his nails.
Then: "Umm, Malfoy. You have a little blood on your chin; that is so… unsanitary."
Here, let me show you the equation.
"What do you mean I'm a vampire!?"
This couldn't be happening. He'd come to the States for a conference for Merlin's sake; a safe, boring conference with other wizards and witches in pressed robes and a penchant for policy and law speak. He'd gone to dinner with some of his fellows, and in a moment of camaraderie he'd drank too much. He remembered now, some bloke hit on him and all he could think about was Harry fekking Potter back over the Atlantic. He had a free pull, but all he could think of was what was waiting for him back home.
Damn, he was doomed.
So, he'd had one too many, and the man was pushy so he'd left to go back to the hotel. That was the last thing he remembered. Well, the last solid thing he remembered. He remembered flying; he remembered descending upon evil men and doling out punishment. He remembered the taste of life in the back of his throat.
Shite. He was a bloody vampire. How was he going to deal with this?
"But how? How can this be?"
Harry was pacing the little room that smelled like bile and acidic chemicals. Apparently the sun had recently set. Something in the moon sung to him; he swore he could hear a melody.
"Well, obviously you got bitten," Harry stated and Draco was annoyed to hear that the man didn't sound very sympathetic.
"Well, I don’t remember!" This couldn't be happening. He was a respectable business man. He liked pushing parchment. He liked filling out in triplicate and dotting his Is and crossing his Ts.
But honestly, he liked wreaking bloody vengeance, too. The memory still lingered sweet on his tongue.
"I'm not a vampire, Potter. You've got it all confused." Denial. It was a lesson he'd learned long ago—anything could be denied.
"Oh really?" Harry lifted up his hand and started ticking off fingers. "I saw you drinking blood. You fly. Your eyes, they have a bit of a glow to them, you know. And during the day… dead to the world… literally. If not a vampire, then what are you?"
Draco jumped to his feet. "I'm obviously a hero. A super hero! I can leap from rooftop to rooftop, and I patrol for evildoers on the streets. I descend upon them in their acts of treachery to instill in them a healthy fear of the night!"
Harry gaped at him. "Okay," he drawled. "So, if you're a super hero, where is your cape?"
"So gauche, I mean, come on. Last year's fashion."
"You're a vampire."
"Right, and somewhere in some other universe, you're also the normal one."
Somewhere, through the course of your day, you realize you lost your Golden Ticket.
The night was chilly, but Harry didn't give a damn. Pulling a coat tight around him, he stalked the mostly empty streets of this part of New York. He couldn’t stop thinking about Draco. Vampire. He was a vampire. A blood-thirsty, evil monster. Well, maybe not evil. A hero of sorts? Draco as a vigilante? Now that seemed even more far-fetched.
They'd talked for hours. He couldn’t believe that Draco wouldn't accept that he was a vampire. Even though they had had some holes in their Defense classes, Professor Lupin had covered the signs of a vampire that year. Harry chalked it up to Draco not paying any attention. Little aristocratic snob.
Draco'd become bad-tempered as the night drew on and Harry realized he was probably hungry, guessing he hadn't gotten much feeding the night before since he'd been knocked out cold.
"Stop being such a prat and go eat something… a nice Doberman or maybe a bulldog," he'd said. He didn't like the idea of Draco drinking people's blood. That seemed just… wrong.
Draco had looked scandalized, but eventually he did leave. Harry told him he'd be waiting for him when he returned, but he couldn’t stay in that building. He needed to think, and the cool air cleared his head.
Draco. A vampire. A completely clueless vampire.
A part of Harry felt like his favorite puppy had wandered off and he had a hollow place in his life where it once resided. Already, he was missing Draco. He thought back to his last conversation with Ron and Hermione through the Floo and how he didn't tell them the entire story. Sure, he and Draco were friends, but if Harry were to be truly honest, he'd wanted to be more for such a long time.
And now, that chance seemed to have disappeared, because you couldn't really get close to a vampire, could you?
Sometimes, you know you're not the only soul in this fish bowl.
When he returned the room was empty. It wasn't yet dawn but it was fast approaching and Draco could feel a sluggish misery descending upon him.
The night's villains abounded in the right parts of the city and Draco'd found ample men to exact his revenge upon, his very hungry revenge. He couldn’t face the idea of feeding off a dog like Harry had suggested; he wasn't a barbarian after all, just, apparently, a vampire.
The blood hadn't been that appetizing. Though they ran and screamed and he'd punished them for their crimes, he was sure it was supposed to be better than this. Not that he really knew anything; Harry knew more about what he'd been turned into than Draco did.
He really was a bit of a pitiful case.
Suddenly, he was lonely.
Then the door banged open and Harry stepped in. His chest rose and fell, heaving with breath like he'd ran up the three flights to the room, and the brilliant green of his eyes reflected the weak light of his wand that he pointed inside.
"Draco!" he cried as Draco jumped to his feet calling out, "Harry!"
Caught in blubbering reaction they stumbled over each other's words. "You go first," "No, you, what were you going to say?" Finally, they stood in silence, gawking, and Draco, overcome with a bout of shyness, had an urge to tear his eyes away.
"I wanted to say," Harry began, "That I don't mind that you're a vampire. I mean, you're still you, right? Other than a bit of biting and blood-drinking… the books say you should still be you."
Draco was pleased at that; he didn't want to be anyone but himself.
He tilted his head down and looked at Harry through his thick lashes. "So, the… er… biting and blood-drinking doesn't bother you?" he asked.
"Well, it is a bit disgusting…but, umm, I think I could learn to get used to it," Harry said with a nod.
Draco smiled, accidentally showing some fang. He looked away with a blush, working to retract his teeth.
Three steps closed the distance and Harry was there, wrapping his arms around Draco, who stiffened in shock.
"Draco, I've been… er… wanting to ask you," he stammered, but Draco knew exactly what Harry was trying to say. He could hear it in the beat of his heart.
"Me, too," he whispered and then, right as the sun breached the horizon, Draco kissed him.
It didn’t last long, but as his body went limp in Harry's arms, he could hear Harry chuckle and vow he'd be there when night arose the next evening. The last things passing through Draco's ears before his fateful oblivion were sweet, sweet promises of more.