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*Disclaimer - chapter title lyric by NightWish
Quidditch move from "Quidditch through the ages".


Slaying the Dreamer


I can hardly think as I get up from class, scraping my chair back, grabbing my books and making a dash for the door. Draco tries to leap after me, and I hear him call my name, but already I’m up and away, speeding towards the library, to somewhere that information on vampyres can be found. I remember studying them in third year, but there’s little that I can recall. I don’t pay much attention in Defence Against the Dark Arts anyway.

The library is quiet, as ever. There’s never really many people around in this place. I think it’s Hermione’s hide-out. I used to follow her, once upon a time, but that now seems like forever ago. I think I’ve lost Draco now, along the way, and for that I’m proud, or else he’d pursue me forever just to find out what I was up to, or more than likely to wrestle my money off me. Yeah, that will be it. He just wants my money, no more, no less. Greedy git. I bet he didn’t even kiss that girl anyway.

However, this is not, I remind myself, what I should be thinking about right now. Marching straight past Madam Pince, I ignore the snobby look on her face and pick up a book from a shelf, scanning it, before realising I’m in the “How to Transfigure a rabbit into a duck” section, and quickly move on. Yeah, they have weird sections here in Hogwart’s library. I blame Dumbledore, or better still, Lockheart. I think that duck series is his most recent saga. Not that anyone reads it, of course. It’s probably just a tribute to his memory for being the most ridiculous teacher ever.

I find the section that I’m looking for, the Care of Magical Creatures, and there’s a large volume all on vampyres. Now, I don’t exactly want to take this out in front of Pinched-Face, I mean, Pince, so I walk over to the library tables and open the book, deciding to read it here. It is then that Hermione Granger walks in, making the most of her free-period, and sits down on one of the opposing tables on the opposite wall. There’s a book on house-elves open inside her hand, and I pass her a brief nod, something she frowns at, mutter a “Hi”, and quickly look away, ever aware of her being in here when I wish she wasn’t. After all, I’m trying to concentrate on something serious. I might be turning into a bloody vampyre here!!

I open the book slowly, cautiously, and automatically bury my face in it. I don’t want Granger to see the front cover, so I turn towards the wall, hiding it from her, my eyes frantically searching the contents, running a finger along the page in an effort to find the correct chapter and page I’m looking for.

“Vampyres, how to kill a vampyre, why it’s important to report friends who look suspiciously vampyristic, where the damned hang out, who ate Mr Moonpee . . .” I trail off, staring at that last one for an instant. “Who ate Mr Moonpee?” Suddenly angry, I dig my nails into the book, as if this mere gesture will threaten it and make it coil in terror, to tell me the truth. “I didn’t pick up this book to find out who ate Mr Moonpee, I picked it up to find out how to tell if you’re a vampyre! I picked it out to bloody find information, not to analyse the death of Mr Moonpee and why Cansiserous drained him -” I stop, staring at the page in incredulous disbelief. Cansiserous . . .? Her face looks oddly familiar, her eyes burning into mine as she moves, slightly blurred on the page. I think they’ve used magic to strengthen the quality of the picture, because apparently vampyres don’t show up in photographs. Her hair is dark, just like the woman I met last night, the one who bit me.

Yes, she certainly is a vampyre, and Mr Moonpee apparently took her captive a long time ago, before she killed him and the rest of the visitors observing her.

A nasty shiver works its way up my spine, chilling my blood to ice.

Frantically, I search the index once again, trying to discover what information I can. Obviously, according to the book, this volume was not designed for people suspecting they are turning into vampyres. Its audience is a predatory one, teachers and students interested in killing vampyres or spilling the secrets from their friends. There is nothing about turning into a vampyre, how to seek refuge and who to question and beg for help.

This book supports those who want to murder vampyres, because, it says - because “they’re not even human”.

I swallow hard and grip the book more firmly. Vampyres, it warns, have tough nails, and they can walk in daylight, but are often prone to migraines for remaining in its glare for too long. Furthermore, vampyres lose their ability to produce magic, for their wands can sense what they are and therefore refuse to aid them. Vampyres have fangs, nothing too obvious, but you can sometimes tell if you look closely that their teeth are pointed at the end.

Cautiously, I run my tongue over my teeth, startled if I find something the least bit sharp. I swallow hard. No, that’s just a canine tooth, nothing to worry about, nothing to . . .

My mind freezes at the last sentence and my hands tremble. I inhale ear painfully and try to relax my shoulders, but find the tension and fear increasing.

If bitten by a vampyre, the book kindly and supportively states, hand yourself in immediately. It is for the good of both yourself and the public. The Ministry will know how to help you automatically.

. . . The good of both yourself and the public

. . . . Hand yourself in

. . . . The good


I slam the book shut heavily shut, my heart beat pounding, racing sickeningly, painfully against my chest. What the book is trying to say, I realise, in the politest possible way, is that if you have been bitten, you are doomed. Quietly surrender yourself and they will give you a swift death. A stake through the heart, whilst you’re still conscious.

Carry on hiding, and they’ll find you.

You’re as good as dead anyway.

I decide I don’t like this book, and replacing it back on the shelf, find my way swiftly out of the library and down the corridor, eager for something to distract my mind.

-------------------------

Sometimes it’s hard to dream when you’re forced to face reality. It scares me, the fact that any day now, I could be tracked down and killed. Cansiserous, a vampyre at the age of a shocking couple of hundred years old, only needs to drop a hint and they’ll be after me. They’ll know what I am - what I am becoming. What I am going to do.

Humans will be the flesh that hold my food, my fuel. Blood.

“Oh god,” I whine, sinking down onto my bed and burying my face into my pillow. “Oh god, oh god, oh god . . .”

The whole aspect still seems pretty far of my reach. It’s a concept I’m unwilling to gather, but despite this, the reminder pressures at my mind continuously, eating me whole, reminding me that oh hell, I’m alone, I’ve been bitten, I’m a danger to everyone else around me.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit -”

“Where have you been?!” Draco bursts into the dormitory, an angry look etched across his face. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You might have told me you had something to do. I would have asked for my money first.”

“Draco -” I groan in protest, drawing my knees up to my chin and hugging them tightly. “Not now, please . . .”

“I mean, I can prove it to you,” he continues, tapping his neck and revealing the smudge of lipstick there, as if that’s all he needs to tell me that he kissed some stupid girl, the girl that we pointed out. I haven’t the energy to protest that he probably drew it there himself, or paid Crabbe to kiss him, or maybe borrowed lipstick from Pansy, probably hadn’t washed since that sweaty night in the bar and therefore was utterly, horribly disgusting, and that perhaps I should settle the bet in bars of soap rather than cash. Still, he continues on talking, cutting into my thoughts and preaching to me about how awful I am. “ - Not even funny. I would have paid up hours ago. In fact, it should be twenty-five galleons, just because I had to walk all the way home alone, and besides, that next round was on you -”

“Just take the damn money,” I groan, lifting my head from the pillow and eyeing him darkly, still lying on my side with my knees gathered up to my chin. “It’s in the top draw on the right. And stop hassling me from now on, ok?”

“Good,” he retorts, satisfied at last, wrenching open the draw and helping himself. I don’t bother to point out that he’s taken thirty galleons, not twenty. I suppose he suspects I haven’t even noticed. Moron. He pauses at the doorway and turns, his pockets musical with money, crossing his arms across his chest and frowning. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“Nothing,” I mutter into my knees, staring blankly ahead. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Yeah, right,” he snorts and shakes his head. “You’re not tired. You’ve been twitchy all morning. What’s up your arse?”

“Shut up, Draco!”

“I mean it,” he adds, leaning on the door now, refusing to go away until I’ve allowed him to pathway into my mind. “You’re a right grump. What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” I enforce moodily, sitting up now and pushing my legs out in front of me, glowering. “Maybe you’ll find that the only problem is you insisting that there is one.”

He turns away, furious. “Of course that’s it. I don’t know what’s wrong with you Blaise, but you better sort yourself out. No one will want you’re company when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” I bark, insulted.

“Like that,” he pressures, gesticulating wildly. “You’re acting like you’ve just seen Goyle naked.”

“Maybe I have.”

He chortles a little, then the grin slips away. “Yeah well, if you’re tired, you had better get some sleep. Maybe when you wake up, you’ll be a little more civil.”

He goes out and shuts the door.

Sleep. I wish that was the least of it. I wish that it was the antidote to this horrible feeling inside, this crushing of reality that stifles all my dreams and locks my hope away. I shudder and curl up once again, pulling the duvet over my head. Everything suddenly seems so very cold, and I feel quite alone. Not so much to a point that I crave company, but to a point where I want such an emotion ripped away, to be with people who would understand and actually worry about what I am and help cure me.

Sleep. It’s the best way to end though, less my thoughts pursue me to echo within my nightmares. I’m just drowsing when the memories of something my mother always used to say strike me as arrows, battling against me like a rampaging wind.

“Better to be dead than inhuman, Blaise, my love. Better to be dead.”

I close my eyes sharply, as if to push the words away, yet the cut in me like a searing knife of cold, cutting into my life just like those fangs cut into my flesh.

“Better to be dead,” my mother says. “Better to be dead.”






Author's Note: Sorry it took me so long to update. I'm sort of going off fan fiction and hoping that this will be my last story before I go. Would be great if you could review, and thanks for reading.

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