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Draco wondered why he bothered begging for his life.

He knew he would not see the mercy he sought, and yet he dredged up the last of his dignity and threw it at the feet of the man who controlled his fate.

Laying there on the dirt, covered in his own cold sweat, he had never felt filthier before. The April night was cruel, wind whipping his skin and screaming in his ears. Draco had seen the Cruciatus Curse delivered so many times before. He was familiar with the uncontrollable twitching and writhing, yet he had never felt it before that day. He thought that when his skin had been completely lacerated the year before, that would be the worst pain he would ever feel, but he knew now the naivety of the thought.

"I am disappointed in you, Draco," the Dark Lord hissed, ignoring Draco's whispered pleading. "You have settled the fate of your family... betrayed your kin and your lord... for a filthy half-blood?"

"My... my Lord," Draco gasped, his fingers outstretched. His vision was blurred. He could vaguely make out the figure of a pale tall man above him, but the details swirled upwards into a never ending night sky. The moon was gone for the night. He knew he would be able to see the stars if he could only see at all.

Something cold landed on his face. It took him several moments to realize that it was beginning to rain. It was a slow, gentle rain, but he could feel his fingers stiffening as the cold seeped towards his bones. He wondered where his parents were. He wondered how they would react when they would see his dead body — if the Dark Lord even allows them that privilege. He wondered if they would be struck with sorrow or if they would be grateful that they no longer had a son to sully their name. He wondered if they would bury him gently or burn him to ashes. He wondered if their bodies would soon join him in the tomb.

"Hendrik," the Dark Lord's harsh voice snapped.

Draco could only vaguely make out footsteps emerging from his left. A large figure loomed over him, just a bit taller than the Dark Lord, yet bigger and squarer.

"He's yours."

—

There was something about the reception area that was making Draco feel like he might explode.

Many things, actually. For one, the ticking of the clock above the Welcome Witch's desk seemed to hasten his heartbeat with each second. Despite the clamor and chaos of the room, the clock was the loudest thing in Draco's ears. Of course, the openly wounded and ill patients only added to his unease, as the St. Mungo's visitor's entrance essentially doubled as the emergency room waiting area.

The wailing and moaning of the injured created a cacophony of misery. He could smell the open wounds from across the room, but he managed to keep himself grounded by digging one of his canines into his bottom lip. Draco was diligent — he did not allow himself even a glance at the injured. After nine years, he was well trained in restraining himself around others even when they were bleeding, but he had only had two blood bags that day. A man's faith in himself tends to waver from time to time.

The eyes unnerved him the most.

Draco did not often find himself in public, but he was accustomed to the stares after all those years. That did not mean he enjoyed them. Mind-reading was not one of the liberties he was granted with his magical species designation, but he was clever enough to deduce what thought swirled behind the pitiful, hateful, and curious looks he received. His features made him far too easily recognizable. That was where the eyes would go first: his hair, his eyes, and then his left forearm, as though they could see through his clothing.

The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up as he imagined all the other visitors behind him watching him. His gloved hand tightened its grip on his cane.

His eyes slipped up to the clock mounted on the wall. His eye twitched in time with a tick.

Draco flinched when the next tick was more of an ear-popping snap. Before him appeared the Welcome Witch, her lips smacking on pink bubblegum. She was so busy inspecting her long black nails that she didn't notice Draco standing three feet away from her until he cleared his throat.

Her eyes rolled up to him slowly, staring at him as though he was the biggest inconvenience of her day.

"Yeah?" she drawled, raising an eyebrow.

"I am here to meet the Chief Healer. I have an appointment."

"Name?"

"Malfoy."

The witch paused for a moment, her lips frozen mid-chew. She glanced at him up and down, recognition washing over her face. "First name?"

"Draco." He twisted his cane in his grip.

"Huh."

Draco watched as the witch dug through some loose papers on her desk. She hummed under her breath as she finally found whatever it was she was looking for. The witch slammed it onto the counter space that divided them, tapping her nails against the glass rhythmically.

"Sign," she sighed heavily, handing him a quill.

Draco made haste to leave his signature above each blank line. The moment he handed the paper and quill back to her, she waved him away impatiently.

He could feel her gaze burning into his back as he turned and began walking away. He was slower than she liked, certainly. His left leg dragged ever so slightly against the tile. His bones ached and muscles were weak. It was a wonder they did not make an audible creaking sound, begging to be lubricated with just one more bag of blood. Just one more bag would help, but he ran out this morning.

He winced when he reached the stairs. He had no choice but to take them, no matter how painful nd slow it would be. Without a sufficient amount of blood in his system, he was too weak to Apparate without splinching himself.

Five long flights later, Draco found himself in front of the chief's door. He could hear loud arguing from inside, and it did not seem to be ceasing anytime soon. Two female, two male, one distinctly belonging to Chief Leveret. The moment he rapped his fist against the wood, the voices silenced.

"Who is it?"

"Malfoy," he returned.

He heard some paper shuffling. He had the good sense to take a couple steps back before the door swung wide open. There stood Leveret, flashing his pearly whites. He was a tall man, perhaps only an inch or two shorter than Draco, with a broad build and dark complexion. He grinned at Draco as though he had not been quarreling with three people only moments earlier.

Those very three filed out of the room, each graciously nodding at him in greeting.

"We shall continue our conversation later, then, Leveret," one of the women spoke briskly, her steely eyes saying what her stiff smile did not. She shook his hand sharply, the other two following her lead.

Leveret waited until the three walked away before speaking. "Come in, come in," he insisted.

Draco heeded, sitting down in one of the dark blue armchairs in front of the impressive, ornate wooden desk. It was a large room, though decorated tastefully with jewel-toned furniture, embellished framed portraits and certificates, and a display case filled with magical antiques including a candle with a never ending flame. Leveret sat behind his desk with a loud sigh, that wide smile still occupying his face. The window behind him cast a glow around his body, making it difficult to discern his features.

"I apologize for the late notice this morning," Leveret grunted. He reached down and opened a drawer at the bottom of the desk. "We received the first case of Spattergroit last night, and then one more only half an hour before I wrote to you," he explained, his grin beginning to waver. "Naturally, we are a bit worried about which particular strain this may be... Good of you to come on such short notice, anyhow! You did not need to, I would have surely stopped by at yours tomorrow morning first thing."

Draco smiled politely. "I'm sure you would have. However, I'm not sure what state you would have found me in had I waited until then."

Leveret's eyes widened. "Oh, yes, you must be hungry. Here —" He reached into that open drawer and pulled out a small pouch. Draco knew already from their dozens of exchanges that it was charmed to contain and maintain a month's supply of blood. "Why don't you tear into one while we talk?"

Draco did not quite love Leveret's wordage, but he did appreciate the green light. He took the pouch from Leveret and pulled a bag out. The feeling of the bag in his palm was enough to make him salivate, and the sight of deep red liquid was almost enough to make the dull pain in his left leg subside.

He looked up at Leveret. They both stared at each other expectantly.

Leveret gestured at him. "Please, go on."

Draco's eyebrows rose slowly. "Ah. Would you happen to have a cup for me to drink out of?"

Leveret furrowed his brows. "You can't just use your teeth?"

"I can."

There was another brief silence. Draco could see Leveret slowly become visually uncomfortable. He himself was a bit offended at the assumption that he would drink straight from the bag in the middle of a business meeting like a wild animal, and yet he knew that his acquaintance was functioning with such little knowledge of Draco's kind. Despite the sheer plethora of literature on vampires, most did not understand the high functioning nature the creatures were capable of.

Realization finally washed upon his face. "I see. You can, but you prefer not to!" Leveret quipped, that agreeable beam once more returned. "But of course. You are a gentleman, after all."

With a flourish of his wand, the Clabbert paperweight on the desk transfigured into a simple silver cup, clattering slightly against the wood.

Draco reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, velvet blue pouch. The Galleons inside clinked against each other when he gently tossed it onto the table, the sound making Leveret's smile somehow grow wider and eliciting a delighted glint in his eye.

Draco and Chief Leveret had made a deal seven long years ago when Draco realized animal blood and makeshift potions would not sustain him for long. Leveret gave Draco blood bags, and Draco gave him money and antidotes in return. The money was to recoup the cost of lost bags, keep suspicious board members quiet, and to satisfy Leveret himself. He was a rather significant investor in the hospital, to the extent that he was offered a position on the board. He turned it down; it came with far too much publicity. The antidotes, however, Leveret had not initially asked for. In the quiet of his flat, where Draco kept himself secluded, he passed time experimenting with potions. It was his strongest subject as a student in Hogwarts, and he soon realized he had a penchant for creating remedies. So far, he had given Leveret a tonic to speed up concussion recovery and a balm to calm lacewig hives among other restoratives.

"Tell me about the Spattergroit, then," Draco urged as he twisted the clip off the bag and poured its red contents into his cup.

"Ah, yes. It's the classic symptoms, really. Purple pustules, sore tongues. It is too short of a time span to determine the strain or seriousness, but it does deeply concern myself and the hospital board that two patients have come in within twelve hours. We have them kept separately, but if more cases come in, they'll have to occupy the ward. We'll have to move all the others," Leveret sighed, his hand massaging his temples.

"Did they know each other?" he inquired, sipping from his cup perhaps a bit quicker than he should

"They work in the same office building. We worry that their coworkers have likely caught it as well, they simply have not shown symptoms yet."

"It's certainly possible."

Already, Draco was finishing off his cup. He could feel the blood moving down his esophagus, slowly revitalizing his muscles. He could turn his left ankle without feeling flashes of dull pain. The blood did not taste particularly marvelous, but it was soothing. Slowly, his energy returned, but he knew the one bag would not be nearly enough. By the time he put the cup back down, that wave of disappointment hit him. For Draco, drinking blood was like flying an old broomstick. It does fly, surely, but it only goes about ten feet in the air before plummeting back down to earth.

"It's a public relations nightmare, honestly. We've already had a reporter from the Daily Prophet come to visit us, and if more cases come in, it'll be a whole horde of them."

Draco's eyebrows slowly lifted. "Ah. Well, I can see you have plenty on your plate. I won't take up more of your time." He got up from his chair and grabbed his cane, though he would not need it to walk for the rest of the day. "I will see you next month."

"Yes, of course, of course."

Leveret graciously walked Draco out of his office. They exchanged a handshake before the chief disappeared back into the room, closing the door behind him.

Draco walked slowly down the hallway, his cane tucked under his arm and his hand in the small pouch in his pocket. He was already beginning to feel hungry again, but he was certainly feeling stronger and more clear-minded than before. The blood bags were no perfect solution, but they were his best and only option.

As he began his descent down the stairs, a strong scent stopped him in his tracks.

It was a dizzyingly powerful smell. He could almost feel it permeate in his veins, making his heart shudder and pulse throb. Draco felt every hair on his body rise, his senses suddenly heightening tenfold. Every little sound made across the hospital was suddenly in his ear, from the pained wails of the patient on the fourth floor who consumed the wrong plant, to the murmurs of visitors browsing the flowers in the gift shop, to the Welcome Witch's plodding tone. His hands flashed up to cover his ears, but it was to no avail. Every footstep, every tick, every little noise in St. Mungo's swirled around his head with a treacherous echo. It was painful, but it was nothing compared to the way that potent scent licked his skin and wrapped around his neck akin to a leash. His eyes flashed up and down the stairwell as his body began to move unconsciously towards the smell.

Draco had witnessed that scent once long ago.

He found himself on the first floor, moving as though in a trance. He walked past a Healer, hearing her ask him something but not quite noticing what. He heard every whisper, shout, comment in the room at a magnified volume, but it only became the background noise to the hunt in his mind.

He could smell the antiseptic potions, the open, bleeding wounds, the mud tracked in by dirty shoes, but it all faded away in comparison to the one scent that absorbed him.

He stopped in front of a door at the end of a short hallway. The plaque on it read: "Magical Bugs Ward."

Draco did not think before opening the door. He only knew his thundering heart beat, the adrenaline coursing through his limbs, and the pain he felt in his gums where his canines sat.

The moment he crossed the threshold, Draco nearly doubled over in pain. His palm came over his mouth where he could feel his gums tearing. His fangs were sharp, but they had always been subtle and easily disregarded as a simple genetic trait. Now, he could feel them shifting and growing uncomfortably in his mouth, which was beginning to salivate in anticipation.

Once, Draco was hungry for many things.

He was once hungry for approval, so he sought it from his professors, from his parents, and from the man who condemned him to his new life. He spent years destroying himself — and certainly destroying others — to see a flicker of approval on the face that so painfully resembled his own. In the search for respect and acceptance, he failed to find any within himself.

He was once hungry for power, so he abused it wherever he saw fit. Perhaps he cannot be blamed, for he was only following the example set by his father. It had been so easy for him to damn another's future for a brief flicker of satisfaction. It had been so easy to cast threats upon friend and foe alike, until he had done this so many times that the gratification of buying things with power and wealth alone began to wane.

He was once hungry for retribution, no matter the size of the grievance. No matter upon whom he exacted his vengeance, even if his victim was not his perpetrator.

Now, Draco was hungry for only one matter.

Hunger sharpened his teeth and wet his tongue. Hunger had Draco Malfoy in a chokehold, and with each passing day, its grip only became tighter. Hunger drove him to devastate, to ruin, and yet no amount of bloodshed, nor any amount of feed, could ever satiate the beast which had its fingers around his throat.

The smell of blood always made Draco's hunger swell. It was something he battled with for years and managed to train himself to control. He had hurt more than one person from his sheer inability to restrain the brute within him, and it took immense willpower and time for him to gain discipline. The smell of blood always made Draco hungry, but this — this was no simple hunger.

The smell of this blood made his veins feel like sandpaper, as though he did not just drain an entire bag only minutes ago. This smell made him feel as though he would die if he did not taste it immediately. This smell made him feel so weak and desperate, as though his heart would cease to beat if he did not find its source.

Human blood had kept him alive for this long, but hardly. It was never enough. No vampire should need a cane to walk, nor struggle with blurry vision in the morning before he has had anything to drink, nor should he have eight hours of sleep at night and wake up feeling as though he only had one. Human blood, any human's blood should be enough for Draco as it would be for any other vampire. He should be stronger than he was before he turned, quicker as well, with sharp senses and full energy.

And though the smell of this blood made him feel like he was moments away from dying, he had not felt this strong in years.

Dozens of patients laid in cots in the large, long ward, but Draco did not even have to spare them a glance to know they were not who he sought. Within a blink, he found himself in front of yet another door, unsure if he blacked out for a few seconds or simply moved as fast as it felt like he did.

When he opened, he saw a young woman in a narrow supply room. Her back was turned towards him, and all he could see was long, black hair pulled back haphazardly and lime green robes.

"I know that arm hurts, Robbins, but you have to stay put," the woman said sternly. She was moving around, grabbing things from the silver cart in front of her. She glanced briefly over her shoulder, doing a double take.

The woman whipped around completely, surprise cast over her face. She was clutching her left arm in her right hand. The sight of dark red blood soaking the bandages that half wrapped the cut on her arm nearly made Draco's knees buckle. The sweet smell was making him hazy.

"Sir, you cannot be in here," the woman spoke calmly. "You —" She faltered softly, the color draining from her brown skin. "You."

He could hear her heartbeat. He could hear the blood rushing in her veins, the way her pulse picked up in pace. He could smell her fear the way he could smell her perfume, and he could taste her blood just looking at it.

He was gripping the doorframe so hard he was sure he was leaving imprints from his nails in the wood. Somewhere, deep in his mind, buried underneath the starving creature, the humanity he had worked for years to preserve was holding him back.

But a human can only be so strong.

So when a drop of her blood fell to the tile floor, his fingers slipped, and he all but pounced at the young woman with unthinkable speed.

He reached for her the way a man might reach for his lover at the edge of a cliff, desperate to touch her, to know that she is real and keep her with him for eternity. Her widened black eyes captured him in that fraction of a second, and something in him relished the horror she possessed. Something in him stirred at the terror etched into chestnut irises.

His right hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her closer to him.

Just as his lips nearly touched the blood dripping from her palm, he felt the burn.

With a sharp inhale, Draco stepped back, throwing her wrist back at her. He looked down at his palm. Through the hazy blur of his bloodlust, he could see his skin was red as though he had shoved his hand into a fire, blisters surely soon to form. The sharp sting was enough to pierce the veil of his trance, and slowly the discord of noise subsided. He stood there panting, staring at his burnt palm,  the thick smell of the woman's blood still filling his nose.

He dragged his eyes back up to hers. She was trembling where she stood, holding her wand up. He scanned her features. Her thick eyebrows were furrowed, lips pressed in a thin line. A sole bead of sweat rolled down her temple and onto her high cheekbone. The baby hairs by her ears and forehead were slightly wavier than the rest of her thick mane.

Draco was panting, he realized, and sweating himself. The strength he felt moments ago gave way for fatigue. His head was rushing with blood, and his heart was beating so slow that his vision was growing black spots. He stumbled backwards, gripping a cart for support. It began to roll away, and he found himself stumbling once more and finding the doorframe to lean on.

"Leave," the woman demanded with a shaking voice, black eyes piercing him. "Or I'll —" she interrupted herself to swallow dryly, "— kill you."

He could hear her every inhale and exhale as though her lips were right by her ears. He could hear the way her pulse shuddered as though her heart was in his own throat. He could smell her fear, twisting with the tendrils of her blood, a delight for him to inhale. He could see the way her lips twitched, the way her jaw tensed, the way she shifted her weight back and forth on both feet as she tried to conceal her anxiety.

He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse exhale.

"Get out."

Neither of them moved. His eyes flitted between hers and her palm.

She muttered a curse he heard but didn't quite comprehend, but he saw the flash of bright red light. With whatever little strength was left in him, Draco managed to Apparate away moments before her spell reached him.

Panting, he found himself in his living room, the crack of his Apparition still echoing in his ears. He only barely registered the sharp pain in his arm before his view went dark and he collapsed on the couch.

—

CH. 02 SNEAK PEEK

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She didn't have the energy to move, but she tensed as she felt his gloved fingers find her chin. He slowly lifted it up until her head rested against the brick wall. Her eyes flashed open when she felt his fingers gently tuck her hair behind her ear. His silver eyes were focused on the left side of her neck where he brushed her locks over her shoulder. A shadow cast over half of his regal features, his eyes darkening, lips parting, and his tongue just barely grazing against his lower canines. She could feel his breath on her jaw, his hair gently brushing her cheekbone.

"Like I said..." His fingers traced her collarbone. His voice was deep, dripping with hunger, and made her already racing heart skip a beat. "I'm not here to hurt you. Only to talk."

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QOTD: what has been your best birthday yet, and why?