My attempt at a Harry Potter Fanfic… Even those who haven’t kept up with the series can understand the plot. I try to elaborate enough so no one is confused. So, if you’re still interested in reading this… read on wonderful reader! Read on! Warning: first half of the chapter is kind of a recap of the books, but by using the Malfoy’s point of view. Hope I didn’t over elaborate or give you too much to digest, but this is to weed out potential out-of-character-ness.

The extravagant manor sat on top a mossy, fifty-foot hill. The white pavement contrasted with the dark lawn as it winded from the front of the gargantuan mound, snaking all the way up to the spacious lawn laid out before the enormous mansion. Flower bushes, full of coloring blossoms stood seven feet tall--all were trimmed to have precise, straight outlines. The slightly moist grass was kept short, sparkling with a healthy glow.

A stone fountain--modeled after an elegant looking witch and a young, handsome wizard--lay dead-center in the lawn, twenty feet away from the tall, front doors of the manor. Crystal blue water fell from the spouts that were the tips of their wands--extended high in the air--and landed without noise into the calm pool surrounding the stone figures. If the interior was represented by the atmosphere outside the pearly, white walls, it must have been exquisite to say the least.

And that it was. The entrance hall alone was stunning by any standards. It was a long, wide corridor, lined with golden pots which stood on small, matching tables. Roses upon roses--bewitched to have golden petals--were settled neatly in each one. There had to be at least twenty sets of flowers along each side. Crystal chandeliers--hung high from a ceiling that stood at fifty feet--formed a center line, heading towards the greeting area. The welcoming carpet extended from the stone steps outside to the far end of the corridor. It was colored a deep emerald, embroidered with intricately-placed gold trimmings. The floor underneath was a bold, non-faded black with a gold, marble design etched into the tiles.

At the end of the hall, the room rounded out and rose higher. A double staircase led to the second floors. Black, carpeted stairs with gold railings lay against the walls to each side, connecting as they reached the second floor. On both floors, hallways to either side stretched endlessly, decorated with carefully placed greenery and statuettes.

In the middle of the greeting area stood a tall, emerald-scaled dragon that curled as it rose to the ceiling, its glowing white eyes lighting up the entire area. Its talons and the rims of its tail and spine were painted gold as were the teeth that were revealed from its large jaws.

These features of the Malfoy Manor alone demanded the utmost respect from all who dared set foot on the grounds, let alone enter the mansion itself. However, what really grabbed the praises and respect from the visitors where the people themselves.

Lucius Malfoy was the current owner of the Malfoy Manor. He stood tall and poised with long, sleek, platinum-blonde hair that tucked behind his ears and it cascaded over his shoulders. His eyes were a piercing gray color. His smooth pointed face was handsome indeed as was his lean, tone physique.

His wife, Narcissa Malfoy was by far a beauty among others. Her silky strands of golden blonde hair swept and curled past her smooth, thin shoulders and rested mere inches above her waistline. Her dazzling blue eyes shined like sapphires, contrasting to her pale, delicate skin. She always walked with an air as if she were gracefully gliding an inch above ground.

The son of Lucius and Narcissa was none other than Draconis Malfoy, who always preferred to be called by the shortened name of Draco. In fact, only a select few new this teenage boy by his full name. He inherited features from both parents, more so his father than his mother. At sixteen years-old, he was a spitting image of his father in fact. He was blessed with the same platinum-blonde hair that rested just an inch below his shoulders and smooth, pale skin to match. His one physical trait that was conjured by both mother and father were his piercing eyes. They were predominately gray, but were adorned with specks of a cerulean color.

Outward appearances gave off an aura of stunning beauty, unmatched by any other family. They took pride in every aspect of their lives, striving to remain perfect.

Yes, that was the perfect life within Malfoy Manor…

However, such looks are always deceiving. Their family wasn’t perfect because each member did not look towards the aspect of being a family as something that needed to be perfected. They were always ‘too busy’ to focus on something so insignificant. All were arrogant and power-hungry, Lucius more so than the other two. As the head of the household, he demanded full obedience and accepted no less. He was always engaging with everything and everyone else--making sure their outward image remained untainted--that he very much neglected the inward appearance.

Draco knew this. He knew his family was less than perfect, and the fact the it was made his face cringe with disgust. He had always been brought up to be flawless, obedient, powerful. He always had to come out on top, because his ‘dear father’ accepted no less. If such standards weren’t achieved, Draco’s punishments were beyond imaginable. Yet, Draco still looked up to him.

He remained faithful to his father, admiring the power that glowed off of him. His father could well be the most powerful, feared wizard in the world. The Malfoy family line was one of the longest running to date. And yet, Lucius was not the most powerful wizard to grace the land. His father was just some lap dog for an even darker wizard.

Yes, his father was a Death Eater--meaning he was a servant, no slave is more like it, to the ‘great and powerful’ Lord Voldemort. A wizard who was feared by all--feared so much, no one dared to speak his name. His servants called him the ‘Dark Lord’ or ‘Master’… others referred to him as ‘You-know-who’.

Draco was infuriated by how much of a hypocrite his father turned out to be over the years. Lucius brought his son up to make sure he was at the top of class and the top of his game. He was taught to bow to none of his peers. They should bow to him. And yet, here lied Draco’s father, the ‘respectable’ Lucius, bowing and kissing the feet of another. How could his father stoop so low? And now, where has Lucius ended up for his loyalty to his master? Why no where else but Azkaban prison. A prison for condemned witches and wizards. All fear going there, all fear dying there. But that’s where Draco’s father was--locked up behind bars like a common criminal.

And one would think that Draco should be upset with his father, upset with Voldemort no less. But no, he didn’t take it out on them. As angry as he was, he remained loyal to his father, and dared not to have a row with Voldemort. So who did he blame?… None other than Harry Potter.

Yes, Harry Potter. The so-called savior of the Wizarding world. Harry Potter became famous at the age of one, when the Dark Lord himself went straight to him and attempted to murder him. Harry’s parents didn’t survive but the young toddler did. The curse meant to kill him backfired and hit Voldemort, leaving him utterly weak and powerless. And what happened to Harry? Why all he received was a lightning shape scar on his forehead and a credit to be marked as a legend among all wizards and witches.

Fast forwarding to the present, he is still that famous boy, for Voldemort returned to seek revenge and the power he lost. So where did everyone turn when things got messy? Why, towards Harry of course. A teenage boy who has stood tall against Voldemort countless number of times and always managed to thwart the Dark Lord’s plans.

It was this boy, with the help of another great wizard--an old, experienced wizard by the name of Dumbledore--who, just last year, revealed that Voldemort indeed had returned. Not only this but they also managed to catch a handful of Death Eaters inside the Ministry of Magic--the Wizarding Government Building.

Draco’s father was among those Death Eaters who were caught. So, Draco sees no reason why he shouldn’t blame Harry. Yeah, it was that conniving, meddlesome prat who caused all this. It was Harry’s fault that Lucius was in prison, which meant that it was Harry’s fault for having Narcissa, Lucius’ beloved wife, left in shambles.

Now one would ask, if the Malfoy family were having issues anyway, why would Narcissa be so devastated? The simple answer is that she is a Veela. Veelas are angelic-looking creatures who live their lives searching for just one mate. Once that mate is found, they stick by them, and love them no matter what. They thrive on building a family, staying by the side of their children and loving them as much as they love their destined lover. Without that family that is created, a veela cannot survive. Being a veela is the reason why Narcissa is so extravagantly gorgeous--and it is also the reason why she is so distraught.

So now Narcissa sits by a tall, gold-trimmed window in the study, staring out into space, overlooking the vast stretches of fields in the back yard. The direction of the prison is in the direction she looks out at, day after day. Looking at nothing in particular, but perhaps hoping that one day, her beloved lover would return.

Everyday, Draco would pause at the doorway as he passed to go elsewhere and ask his mother if she needed anything, but she always silently declined with a wave of her hand and sent him on his way. Draco sighed as he entered the doorway to his quarters. He wondered if he would ever end up like that. The thought was not welcoming to say the least.

Since his mother was a Veela that made Draco half-veela. In essence, Draco would come upon a time in his life where his veela inheritance would come and change his life forever. His beauty, enchanted by a powerful allurement, would be recognized by all who glanced at him, making him seem irresistible, yet untouchable. And that’s the way a veela would want it to be. They want to remain untouched and untainted as they look for that one and only person who will fulfill that need to love that veelas hold within their hearts.

And that time has come for Draco. His allurement charms and sense of yearning for his mate kicked in the moment he turned sixteen this past April. Yet they remained weak until the inheritance that was passed from mother to son occurred this summer after he returned home from school. So now, not only was Draco stuck without a father and left with a moping mother, he now had an undying urge to flee from the manor in search of his mate.

The part that infuriated him most of all was that all these troubling aspects were out of his grasp. He could not bring his father back, meaning his mother would remain tragically depressed and the one hope of happiness left could not be attained until he left these castle walls.

Draco slammed his fist on the wall beside the doorway before advancing and falling on top of his elegant, four-poster bed. The velvet comforter was a silky black with a marble design of a sky-blue color sewn in the fabric. Navy blue curtains hung from the posts surrounding the thick, cozy mattress. He glanced over at the gold trimmed fireplace, a crackling fire readying the room for the cool, summer night. The walls within the castle always created cool temperatures throughout the manor at night.

A relaxing idea to allow Draco’s mind to escape from everything came into play just as he pulled his head back against the silk-lined pillows and closed his sleepy eyes. I know what would help…

In fact it always helped. Immediately raising himself off the bed and strolling over to the silver door that lay right next to it, Draco entered and sighed with satisfaction as he gazed around the room…

The breathtaking bathroom was lined with silvers and greens as were the furnishings. The silver-rimmed stone sink had a elegant, emerald countertop that stretched from one wall to the next. Over to the right was a dark-green futon with silver railings. And laying right next to it on the opposite wall from the doorway was a silver-rimmed, emerald-lined tub that stretched at least ten feet long. It was an in-ground bathtub with ten matching faucets--five on each side. With a flick of Draco’s wrist the faucets automatically began pouring out crystal clear water. Two facets, one on each side and set in the middle of the two rows of five, began to deposit a milky-white substance. Draco preferred this cream because it always kept his skin baby-smooth.

Anticipating the feel of the creamy liquid seeping into his skin, he immediately started to undress. His silk, black slacks--with matching boxers of the same material--silver tie and white, button blouse slid soundlessly to the floor. His lean, nude form bent at the knees to retrieve the items and folded them neatly, placing them on the countertop. The taut, chiseled muscles in his smooth back and flat, defined stomach contracted with the slightest movement as he strolled over towards the awaiting bathwater.

Grabbing an emerald, cotton towel on his journey there, he placed it on the floor before slipping his feet into the depths of the pearl-colored water. Slowly sinking into the scalding hot liquid, Draco could already feel the troubles slip away like the water between his fingers. Leaning back against the rim, he felt the edges of his silvery-blonde hair soak with him. The scent was intoxicating as silver vapors rose to his nose. As he inhaled, a sense of blissful dizziness consumed him and he let it take over. He let the substance surrounding him soak into his moon-colored skin.

Yes, this was a good idea…

And just as the water started to still once he remained motionless, the flat surface began to ripple once more as Draco was startled--startled by a haunting vision. It was a person. But not just any person. He could feel it running through his veins. He felt as if their presence was right in front of him, in the tub--accompanying him. ‘It’s them!’, his mind shrieked as he furiously shook his head to clear his mind. It was his mate. This feeling only occurred when they were experiencing a terribly strong emotion. And Draco could feel exactly what emotions his mate was going through at that moment.

Hate, hurt, anger, a sinful desire for revenge. Whatever his mate was going through right now, it was causing them to suffer. Draco clenched his fists slamming it into the water, splashing it over to edge--it spread on the tile floor and just barely missed his towel. His eyes grew stormy-gray with cold rage. How dare they? Whoever was doing this to his beloved would pay dearly.

But Draco suddenly snapped himself back into reality. Veela or not, a Malfoy does not lose control. Besides, there was nothing he could do to resolve the problem. Even feeling his mate’s emotions was not enough to find them--not when he was stuck here, at the Manor. ‘Very soon’, he thought to himself, ‘I will find you. Just wait until I get back to school.’

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was the school he had been attending since he was eleven. Draco would be entering his sixth year there. He knew he would find the one within those castle walls when he returned. Draco had knowledge of this because along with the desperate pull in his heart, he caught the faint scent of his mate, floating through the air when he was there last year, during his fifth year, after he turned sixteen in April. However, he had no time to search for that special someone and reluctantly agreed to find them when he returned in September--when he had more time.

Draco sighed and settled himself deeper into the water until he was submerged neck-high, his hair swimming around his face. With a deep, shuddering breath, he regained himself and was forced to relax once more.

Closing his eyes and leaning his head back once more, Draco slowly nodded off with endless visions of emerald green eyes smiling at him.

>>>>>>

The door to Harry Potter’s bedroom was shut with a ear-splitting SLAM! Harry just stared at the door, his emerald eyes blazing with hate, anger and hurt. A foreboding need to seek revenge upon his so-called ‘family’ rumbled in the pit of his stomach. He despised being here, but he was stuck without a choice. He heard the deadbolt on the other side of his door click into place--and with a steady jingle of keys--heard his Uncle Vernon stomp through the hallway, threatening to shake the pictures off his small desk.

Harry huffed in defeat for the millionth time that day, but immediately regretted it when an all-too familiar pain rippled through his ribs. He hissed in response as he slowly stood up, taking careful strides to the small, shabby wardrobe closet beside the bedroom door. Pulling open one of the double, wooden doors, a body-length mirror was revealed. Immediately, yet gingerly, he raised his over-sized, flannel t-shirt that used to belong to his whale of cousin, Dudley.

Purple and black blotches were etched in his skin over his ribs, matching the marks that lay in patches over his face. The area around the bruises were as red as cherries. Harry growled at his reflection, hating these painful reminders that no matter what happens he would have to stay within these depressing walls of ugly, chipping, yellow wallpaper. Such a room was far too small for a fifteen year-old--sixteen to be exact once tomorrow arrived. Focusing on the bruises again, he cautiously slid the shirt over his tanned, toned stomach.

Underneath all those baggy garments was a pretty decent, tone figure, but his size still seemed too small for his age. If he kept this up he would be blown off his own broomstick the next time he tried to fly. The reason was simply because he was malnourished and forced to slave around the house all day. In fact, his task of doing daily chores was the cause of his newly sustained injuries.

He was walking into his Aunt and Uncle’s house after a few long hours of lawn work underneath the sweltering, summer sun. After performing chores like that was the only time he wished to be inside. But he never noticed the dirt that was encrusted underneath his worn sneakers. His enraged aunt, Petunia Dursley, immediately shrieked and cried over her tile floors, ordering him to thoroughly sweep and mop the entire kitchen floor before dinner. His eyes shot daggers of green ice, but he reluctantly obeyed nonetheless. Successfully sweeping up the contents, Harry was relieved his job was halfway through. But his dear-ol’ cousin, Dudley Dursley, had other plans in mind. He waddled into the kitchen on an expedition for a hefty snack to settle his appetite before dinner--and just so happened to notice the bucket of mopping water that lay behind Harry.

Without hesitation, Dudley knocked it over with his stubby, elephant shaped foot. Water spread all over the kitchen and even started soaking into the carpet of the connected living area. Of course perfect, iddle Duddikins didn’t get the blame. He never did. Harry was the one who had to answer to his uncle. Vernon, who was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, shot up, almost knocking over his tea cup. With pure hatred gleaming in his eyes, he forcefully knocked Harry in between his shoulder blades with a shaking fist. Since the abrupt attack went unsuspected, a vulnerable and unprepared Harry fell face first onto the floor. His uncle bent over him and grabbed Harry by his unruly, raven-colored hair.

Violently yanking Harry’s head back in a rather uncomfortable angle, his uncle yelled forcefully in his ear, “You will mop up every drop of water from this kitchen floor and carpet even if you have to suck it up with this unruly, detestable excuse you have for hair. Then after slamming Harry’s face into the floor, Uncle Vernon rolled him onto his back and pressed his incredibly large, wide foot deep into Harry’s chest. “Do I make myself clear boy?!” Harry could only reply with a weak nod--as he had no air in his lungs. Because of the foot that sunk deeper into his chest he could not even speak out in pain, let alone breathe.

After roughly pushing his foot off of Harry’s chest, Vernon growled all the way back to the table as Harry struggled to steady himself back up. Once he was balanced on his own feet again, Harry proceeded to clean. Somehow, and he still doesn’t know how such a miracle could happen, Harry managed to clean the entire mess, even get the water up out of the carpet, but it was finished well after dinner. Harry guessed it was quite easily after eleven o’ clock by the time he had finished. His uncle would not permit him to leave until the carpet was completely dry. And once he was finished with his task, Uncle Vernon grabbed him roughly by the collar, a small plate of food in his other hand and marched Harry straight up to his small, sorry excuse for a bedroom, which is where he sat now.

Resting on the short, dirty mattress, Harry yearned for the next month to go by as quickly as humanly possible. Then, September 1st would arrive and he could return to Hogwarts, his real home. He was fed-up with having to be trapped in his own bedroom, like a prisoner. Now I know how Sirius felt…

But the immediate thought of his godfather didn’t brighten his spirits any. The reason behind that was because he could no longer get in contact with his only true family member whenever he was feeling worried or depressed--or just needed some comforting advice. His godfather was gone. Dead. The word still rang in Harry’s mind like an unstoppable bell caught in a pendulum. Harry never thought he would have to fit the words ‘Sirius’ and ‘dead’ in one sentence. But that one dreadful sentence kept floating in his mind… Sirius was dead.

Harry forced away the burning tears that threatened to surface like so many other times he recalled the memory of his godfather. Hell, for those short, three years that Harry knew him, Sirius was a father to Harry. The father Harry never had.

But Harry couldn’t think these thoughts right now. He wouldn’t. He had to be strong--but why did that concept seem more impossible as the days progressed? Blinking the last traces of excess moisture beneath his lids, Harry glanced at the clock on his bedside. It barely worked, considering how old the poor thing was--the green numbers kept blinking--but it was still functional. At the moment it was blinking 11:59 pm. Just one more minute until July 31st--Harry’s sixteenth birthday.

Yeah right, Harry scoffed to himself. Happy birthday to me… yippee.

And as if his thoughts transferred from his brain to the clock resting on the shabby desk, the clock immediately changed, blinking 12:00 am within the screen. Harry expected to feel nothing. He never really did when his birthday approached because it was during the summer, when he was stuck here, in this Hellhole. But something was different about this birthday. As if on cue, immediately after the clock’s face changed, something within Harry started to constrict.

Pain was searing through his chest--and the cause was not due to his recent bruises. This pain was more internal, wrapped around his very heart. Harry collapsed on the floor in agony, unable to move, as the unbearable sensation spread through his bloodstream like wildfire right down to the tips of his capillaries. His blood felt like molten lava as if it would burn through his skin any second. What the hell?! Harry screamed inside his head, hoping his body would answer.

“What’s… h-happen… h-happening to m-me?!” Harry choked out. But it wasn’t his voice that escaped his lips. It exploded like a deep, animalistic growl.

He struggled to crawl to his wardrobe closet. His fingers clawed at the wooden floor beneath him--and it was only then that he realized his fingers were sprouting bloody, razor-like nails beneath his original, stubby ones. They slowly pierced through his skin--every millimeter that extended sent another searing pain hissing through his body. But he desperately needed to see what was happening. Even now, he could feel his body twitching in horrible angles and positions as it started some strange metamorphosis.

Panting uncontrollably, his lungs begging to cave in, he finally reached the open door to his wardrobe closet. He gazed at the bottom of the mirror, his reflection staring back at him, and it scared him shitless. His eyes were bloodshot red?! Not the veins in his eyes, but his eyes--in their entirety--were glowing red. Before being able to fathom what was happening, a seething, immense jolt of pressure exploded inside his head, pounding against his scar. He growled in blinding agony and collapsed right where he lay--unconscious to the rest of the world.

And immediately after he did so, the clock started blinking 12:01...

>>>>>>

Draco Malfoy immediately bolted upright in his bed. The silk sheets and linen pajamas stuck to his skin with every movement. To say he was startled was an understatement. He couldn’t even fathom it--fathom the devastating nightmare he was startled awake from. Was it a nightmare? It couldn’t be. He was feeling that familiar tug once more. It was a desperate pull, but a pull for what? … for help?

Draco immediately clutched his hand to his chest and glanced at his bedside clock. The silver, sparkling numbers informed him that it was 12:01 am. Desperate to control himself once more, he regained his breath before doing anything further. It had to be his mate. There was no other explanation. But they were experiencing an insurmountable bit of pain--almost as if they were dying. He experienced this horrible phenomenon in his sleep as if he was going through the torture himself. His own veins almost burned to the core.

And then, as soon as it happened, it stopped just as abruptly. This was the aspect that scared him even more. His mate’s signal didn’t slowly fade away as it normally would. It was if it just vanished into thin air. Where was his beloved soul-mate? He felt helpless for not being by their side this very moment--but there was nothing else he could do. For the moment, he could do nothing but wait.

Straightening his hair back into place, Draco settled himself completely onto the mattress once more. He turned on his side and gave a tremendous sigh, which felt more like a shudder, as he collected himself once more and fell into a restless sleep…

…To Be Continued…

The second installment… I want to thank Laura for her wonderful review. I love constructive criticism! You’ve made my day!… well, night actually. But anyway. As far as your review goes. I respond by saying, I did realize I tend to over elaborate at times. I’ve tried to work on it since the writing of this chapter. Hopefully it won’t be as bad in the rest of the story.

But I thank you for pointing it out. It reminds me that I do have things I need to work on. The only thing is that it does seem a little much to digest in the intro because I want the reader to have a full idea of Harry and his world especially through the Malfoy’s view, because their point of view is hardly expressed in detail in J.K. Rowling’s novels. And that’s the reason for small amounts of dialogue as well. But I promise as Harry and Draco begin to interact with other characters, there will be plenty of dialogue…

And if you have anything else to add throughout the story please feel free to do so, like you did in your review of my first chapter. It’s refreshing and welcomed.

And that goes for others as well. And I will answer any and all question, too. So, with that said… enjoy!

************

Harry’s limp form was spread-eagle on the worn, ragged throw rug that lay in the middle of his room. The afternoon sun reflected off of the digital alarm clock, resting on a chipped wooden desk, next to Harry’s bed. The current time was 7:45 pm. Already the sun’s golden yellow rays were darkening, turning crimson as they settled lower on the horizon. The remaining light of the dying day gently caressed Harry’s relaxed features. They brushed over his brow and then his eyelids before blanketing his entire face in its warmth. The welcome feeling settled him even more as he fell into a deeper slumber, until--

BANG, BANG, BANG! “Harry Potter! I demand you answer at once!”

Slowly Harry’s eyelids uncovered his blazing emerald orbs--a translucent, blood-colored tint wrapped over them like a thin, filmy substance before finally fading away. His dilated pupils finally contracted--the first sign of him regaining consciousness. Steadily, his eyelids lowered once more, blinking away moisture and sleep-developed crust.

BANG, BANG, BANG! “I know you’re in there boy. Now get up! You’ve had your punishment long enough. Get down here and clean this kitchen, now!”

A dry, ragged groan rumbled in Harry’s throat as he carefully pulled his head away from the floor. A bad idea at the moment. It felt as if prickly, little thorn-berries were dancing around inside his skull, numbing his--already paralyzed--head; at least, that’s what it felt like.

What was going on? He could faintly hear his uncle shouting out demands from outside his door. That was no surprise. But why was he spread out on the floor? Why did he ache so much?

He heard the click of the locks outside his door as he desperately tried to form a reply--but the words wouldn’t surface. His throat hurt too much. It felt cracked, almost to the point of peeling away.

Immediately, he struggled to wet his tongue and lick his lips. Feeling this was enough to sound out a decent reply, Harry was about to speak, but found that his uncle was already stomping away, downstairs to the kitchen.

Knowing he was expected there within no less than a few minutes, Harry’s struggle to stand had begun. He wondered why such a simple task could prove to be so hard. His legs felt as if they held no bones at all--just jelly--and to add to the list of bodily tortures, his whole upper half felt like someone just tossed a couple of five-hundred pound weights on each shoulder.

Now the word ‘weird’ could hardly tread ground on explaining how Harry felt at that moment, but it was the only word he could think of. No, wait. There was ‘pain’ and ‘hunger’. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, so he could explain the hunger part…

… Or maybe he couldn’t. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right with the way his stomach seemed to rumble. It felt like it had a mind of its own--and it knew what it wanted. The problem was, it seemed to be keeping it from Harry. What was he hungry for anyway? It didn’t feel like he was desiring any form of food, but that couldn’t be right. What else could his body possibly crave?

Nevertheless, Harry still had his chores to comply with so he put the ache inside his stomach aside and prepared to stand. His face cringed with pain when he was finally able to put weight onto his feet. Using the desk for support, Harry stopped himself from moving any further and took this opportunity to rest for a moment. He used his unoccupied hand to rub the back of his neck and work out some kinks that had manifested. All the while he took no notice to the lengthy locks of night-colored hair that collapsed over his hand and fell many inches past his shoulders.

Either way, he dropped his hand and started to steady himself, slowly weaning away from the desk.

‘Alright, real progress,’ he scoffed to himself. ‘If I keep up this pace, I’m sure I’ll make it to the kitchen by the this time, next year!’

It was a slow process, which seemed to stretch through eternity in Harry’s mind, but he was definitely gaining his strength back. The strenuous task to walk had begun as he slowly lifted his hand away from the desktop and held his arms out--one to each side--to balance his way over to the door.

But when he had finally managed to wobble at least halfway across his room, his body just wouldn’t have it. It gave away and let gravity yank him back to the ground, causing him to collapse on his hands and knees. Why the hell did he feel so weak? All the pain and stress emitting from his nerves was starting to get a little agitating.

Harry tightly closed his eyes and drew in a few deep breaths, already feeling winded. He then pulled his eyelids ajar and let his gaze fall onto his hands--his blood-covered hands.

“What the hell?” he thought out loud. “When did I start bleeding?” But he wasn’t bleeding any longer. In fact, he found no scars, no incision, no scrapes to indicate his hands had been injured. All he saw was the thin blanket of the crimson fluid, dried out and flaking off with every movement. His eyes wandered curiously over his palms, the back of his hands and finally over his pointed nails, extending past his fingertips by an inch at the least.

‘Wait a minute… nails?!’

Harry gawked at them, his face contorted in confusion. Since when the hell did he have nails? Long and razor sharp to be exact. Curiosity getting the best of him, he began running them gently along his skin until…

‘Fuck!’

He glanced at the neat incision he accidentally created on top of his left forearm. His own red fluid began to swell out of the wound before sliding over his strangely-pale skin. And since when was his skin so light? It was almost sickly in his opinion. Harry’s skin was supposed to be tanned, not pale. Why on earth was his body so different all of a sudden? It was as if he switched bodies with another. Nothing looked familiar, not even in the slightest way.

He absent-mindedly ran his fingertip carefully along the wound and dabbed at the blood seeping out of it, spooning it onto his finger. The look of it alone struck a nerve deep within Harry’s mind and it took every bit of strength he had--which wasn’t much at the moment--not to actually lick his wound clean. But his stomach pained at the sight of the wine-colored liquid. It growled with an undying hunger.

And that’s when something him. That’s when Harry slowly started to realize what this whole ordeal might be about. He crawled as fast as he was able, proving to be quite a difficult task, and stopped when he reached his wardrobe closet. He threw the right-side door open, almost breaking it away from the hinges and nearly screamed when he saw the figure that was supposedly his reflection.

His emerald eyes stared back at him, glazed with confusion but also blazing with an unknown passion. His pale face was chiseled and more defined. He carefully ran his fingertips over his new facial features, exploring every detail that was not there before. That’s when he noticed a slight lump just underneath his lips. It didn’t feel like a bruise of any sort, just something hiding behind them. Harry slowly parted his rose-colored lips and immediately snapped his mouth shut when he found the new addition to his row of ivory-shaded teeth.

‘No… it can’t be! How the hell did this happen?’

He didn’t want to believe it, he refused. But not many other explanations were laid out to explain his situation.

“Long nails, pale skin, desire for blood and razor fangs…” Harry mumbled the checklist to himself and added them all up. Harry wasn’t stupid. In his opinion, only an muggle (non-magic person) with a negative IQ would not be able to realize what he had turned into. The only questions remaining was how? Why?

One thing was for sure--he couldn’t stay here at the Dursley’s any longer this summer. Besides, if they found him looking like this, they would probably kick him out without another thought, family bond or not. Not even a million howlers could force them to agree to let him remain at their home. Harry had to escape fast. He had no choice.

Immediately, he crawled with all the strength he was able and gathered his things. He fumbled a bit as he tried to raise up and pull what little clothes he had out of his closet, but within minutes Harry found himself able to stand if he focused well enough. After the little amount of luggage--his trunk full of clothes, books and supplies and most importantly, his wand--was all packed he dragged all his belongings over to the window. Luckily it wasn’t barred anymore like when he was held prisoner in this very room during the summer before his second year at Hogwarts.

He thanked Merlin for letting his pet owl, Hedwig, camp out at Hermoine’s for the summer--one less thing for him to haul. Besides, as many death threats as his uncle threw at his loyal companion, Harry was afraid for the owl’s life if it were to remain at the Dursley’s residence.

He strenuously pried the window opened and tried to lean forward with his luggage as much as possible to cause the least amount of racket when his trunk fell. Pressed against the sill as far as he was able, he dropped the trunk and watched it fall with little noise into the flower bushes below.

‘Aunt Petunia’s not going to be happy about that one.’

With a quick pause to make sure the drop didn’t cause any commotion downstairs, Harry proceeded to swing his leg through the opening, followed by the other. He slipped over the sill and landed beside his luggage, overlooking small sores from the fall and quickly brushing himself off.

He could have sworn he heard his Uncle Vernon bellow through the house--stomping up to Harry’s room to scold him for not obeying, no less. Indeed, Vernon barged in without warning and noticed an unoccupied room and an open window. But by the time he put two and two together and raced to the window to catch sight of their ‘escaped convict’, Harry was already around front, tearing down the streets and out of sight.

>>>>> Meanwhile at Malfoy Manor… >>>>>

Outside, Draco’s appearance was no different than it was any other day. His midnight-blue attire accented his pale features, causing them to stand out beautifully. His platinum-blonde hair, having let it steadily grow out, was neatly pulled back into a simple, matching hair band--not one strand stood out of place.

He was at his usual setting at the dining table. The gorgeous, cherry-oak furniture stretched well over one-hundred meters. It held fifty chairs on each side and one chair at each end. The end farthest from the entrance doors was the head chair, reserved only for the head of the household. The wife, Narcissa, sat to his right, which left Draco to sit across from her to the left of his father.

In a solitary state, he sat eating his dinner too neatly to be considered enjoyable. His mother would be doing the same if she hadn’t secluded herself to the confines of her study as usual. He held a small bit of sympathy for her, understanding her predicament quite well. He held similar emotions for a certain significant other for he had no clue as to their whereabouts.

He kept his outward appearance in check though--back straight, shoulders square, chin tilted slightly upward and a calm, emotionless expression masked his face. Inside however, he was a nervous wreck. Ever since his disturbing encounter with his mate’s emotions last night, Draco has been left feeling worried and confused. He received no more signals from his destined mate and he was distraught with the idea that something dreadful might have happened to them.

“I’ll find you,” Draco softly whispered through the still air. “I won’t rest until I have found you and made you mine.”

But all his thoughts ended rather abruptly by an ear-piercing scream that felt like it was quaking the very walls that surrounded him. He knew that voice anywhere and to hear it wail so painfully wrenched his very heart.

Without warning, Draco bolted out of his seat, knocking his chair onto the stone floor, and dashed out into the halls in a very un-malfoyish manner.

Sweat began to seep out of his pores and bead across his forehead, gluing his platinum-blonde locks to the flustered skin of his face. He hurried past the portraits in the west wing, racing to his mother’s quarters. The life-sized paintings of his ancestors towered over him as he flew by them. Some gaped at his behavior, some ‘tsked’ their head in shame. Others either tried to fuse their palms against their ears to tune out the shrieking or remained standing proud, deciding not to care.

Narcissa’s cries faded within a manner of seconds, causing her son to fall deeper into a black hole of doubt and fear. So, Draco began to leap up the stairs to the second floor--Narcissa’s wing--with only one thought and destination in mind.

With unknown strength that went unnoticed, Draco threw open the double doors to his mother’s study--tearing them away from their golden hinges. All types of questionable explanations ran through his head as to why his mother was just screaming for her life--but the real reason was far from expected.

There was nothing in this universe that could have prepared him for the sight he was now witnessing. It was so horrific, it was unfathomable. He stood paralyzed--his feet nailed to the wooden floor. His breathing ceased to flow and his heart shut down completely. Or at least, that’s how he felt. The emotions were so strong and the picture that laid before him was so unbelievably terrifying, he felt like death had already stolen his soul, leaving behind a freezing, hollow shell of a young man.

He felt so cold in fact, that he almost screamed when his Veela instincts seared with a blood-boiling desire to stop what was happening before him. It was as if he snapped and lost all touch with reality.

But there was his mother--or what was left of her--lying helpless on the ground, decaying into a mass of putrid sludge. Her cries had died out, her lungs having almost completely dissolved--along with the rest of her chest. But her mouth still hung open, gaped in shock and horror.

Normally, Malfoys represented emotionless beings to the fullest but the Veela in Draco wouldn’t have it. It burned with the desire to love his family--no matter how dysfunctional--and the fire has been immensely strong since his inheritance. The instincts he had been trying to fight against for so long broke through as he ran over to his mother and collapsed onto his knees, hovering over Narcissa.

“Mother?” He forced out a weak inquiry to get her attention. He had no idea what to do. Should he even touch her? By now, her form was a black, slimy mass in the shape of what used to be her beautiful body. Her eyes remained, although they were red with malice. Her fingertips were the only body parts that looked remotely human, as they too began to rot away.

It was finally hitting him. As Narcissa drew in a deep, final gasp of air, Draco realized that his mother was dying. His exterior appeared as solid as steel and cold as ice--but inside, he was trembling with fear.

Why? Why had his mother so suddenly met her demise. How could such a powerful witch be brought down in a manner of moments by what seemed to be absolutely nothing at all? Draco slammed his fist on the wooden floor--angry at himself for not knowing. Malfoys were supposed to know everything!

And as soon as he started beating himself up was the very same moment an electric current zapped his nerves and charged his mind with the only possible answer. The only reason someone so powerful could seem so weak…

Narcissa, like Draco, had Veela blood coursing through her veins. And there was only one thing that could so quickly cause his mother to die away.

Lucius was gone…

************************************************************************