Dark as my Intentions

Please note: I do NOT own the Hogwarts realm, etc. The characters of Snape and Dumbledore, etc are all purely those of JK Rowling's imagination. The vampire character/protagonist is my creation though. I am making no money from these characters or this story (as my bank account will testify).

Note #2: not a terribly smutty story. Just a vampire with a bit of a case of Snape on the brain.


Dark as my Intentions

We pass through the halls of Hogwarts without recognition. We are not as animated as the ghosts like Peeves and Moaning Myrtle nor are we so constant a presence as the house-elves. Vampires have always paced these stone hallways and chambers, yet our footsteps never seem to be heard. We were allowed passage only grudgingly and, since then, we have remained – fleeting and unearthly. We try to stay out of the sight of the students, and we would never dare approach nor harm a fledgling witch or wizard. Since Hogwarts is enchanted, we need not even drink. Within these walls, it would not be out of necessity but more out of habit, like the nervous twisting of a skein of hair round a finger.

The students are untouchables – too innocent and needing protection, if not from us, by us. They have worries enough with the dark leader gathering strength in numbers and powers beyond these crumbling walls. The adults, however, are not off-limits. We would not dare incur the wrath of Albus Dumbledore, for as wise and loving as he can be, he can also injure and banish us most easily. Outside the walls of Hogwarts, we vampires may not fare so well for some Muggles do believe in us and seek us out. However, Dumbledore cannot do anything if we do no harm.

I slid through the door, making no more than a whisper of sound as I passed between door and jamb. I felt the wards that had been placed on the door press against me, around me like a velvet curtain, and then fall away – allowing me trespass. The room was in darkness, lit only by the light of the moon that fell through the window like a gossamer web. Everyone thought he slept in dark, dank dungeons – with the absence of light. How there could be windows in the dungeons, I did not know, but I did not question. The moon was almost golden, a crescent, like the tip of a fingernail. A soft sighing sound came from the bed. How fearsome he was by daylight; how vulnerable he seemed when asleep. His black hair fell across the moon-bleached pillow like a glossy raven’s wing. His face, in profile, was as wan as the moonlight. His marbled face was tipped into the moonlight, his skin drinking in the light. A simple white sheet was curled around his torso like misshapen toga. White skin against the whiter cloth. His back was to the door, to me. The breadth of his back hinted at the strength in that body, the energy that thrummed through those muscles. The muscles in his arms and shoulders looked like they could easily embrace or entrap, enfold or terrorize. The soles of his feet were so very white, lined only slightly like a child’s. There is something about a man’s bare foot that gives a wonderful suggestion of sensuality – the delicious nakedness that remains to be revealed from beneath the layers of stolid cloth. The hair that, by day, seemed greasy was as fine and soft as silk by night. I reached out and took a strand in my fingers, running the length through my palm and letting it fall back to the pillow. In sleep, he seemed so innocent and vulnerable. I could remember back to a generation before when he was a student at Hogwarts – so driven and ambitious, and yet easily cowed and victimized. Unpopular and unhappy. Only finding what he thought was power by joining a dark legion. Then, he was easily pitied; even though he hated that pity. Now, a generation later, he was hardened and cruel from greed and avarice. The line of his spine straightened as if he were going to turn over. The sighing of his breath quickened and slowed as he rolled towards me.
I sucked in a quick breath – my pale hand was still resting on the pillow, almost touching his silken head. His eyes flew open – dark as the night outside. Dark as my intentions. His eyes closed again – it was only one of those rare moments of lucidity during sleep. I touched his lip with my finger. My skin as white as bone seemed to glow against that velvety lip. My touch was as cold as his hardened heart. I bent down and touched his cheek with my lips. I thought of the youth he had once been and how he had changed so much. Greed and pride had devoured his soul. My breath on his pale cheek was icy. His eyelids fluttered again and I smoothed my palm down his forehead to keep his eyes closed. How I had watched this one through the years. His turning away from light. His apparent redemption and the forgiveness he had been offered. Yet, there remained beneath that austere exterior, a smoldering, dark creature – almost as dark as me. His forehead was damp and I could see a thin sheen of sweat bloom on his chest and neck, almost as in the throes of a fever. How things could have been different.

Muggles and mortals taste blood as having a coppery taste – thick and pungent. Vampires experience its taste differently – as uniquely as a fingerprint is to mortals. To me, it has the taste of bitter lemons. I bent my head, pressed my lips to his marble throat, to the crown of his head, to the velvet of his lips. I could almost imagine him returning my kiss. I sighed softly, gently yearning. His sigh echoed my own, and he murmured something that I could not quite hear. But, alas, I was never good at listening. I bent my head and drank deeply, sweetly. I always did love lemonade.