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!

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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…

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