Concubine

The Red Room, some called it, although it was much more than a room. Painted blood red and furnished in ebony, it was as darkly beautiful as the people within it. It was at once soft and hard; cold and inviting. Couches of black leather upon which the most beautiful creatures on earth, it seemed, lay, clad in dark corsets emulating the colors and the feeling of the room, exposing their long necks, their breasts, legs thin and toned from years of experience. The men were no less lovely with jagged features and red lips, eyes that glowed brighter than any jewel held up to the sunlight.

Sunlight. There was very little of that here. Amidst the glass tables silver goblets multifaceted candelabras black roses gorgeous concubines persian carpets, there was not one window, nowhere the sun could peek through.

It was a room of opulence, of decadence, of indulgence and sin for those who sought it. Many did. Many more obsessed for years, picturing the room, too frightened to see for themselves, fearing damnation. What they would find would no doubt exceed their wildest fantasies. Some said the room, and its inhabitants, were under a spell, that nothing natural could be so incredible, no ambiance could be as strange and pleasing as it was. Whether this was true or not remains to be seen, perhaps.

Truly, it was the most cursed place on earth.

He had promised himself five years ago that the fantasies would end. He would never again picture another man writhing underneath his body, naked, sweating, and beautiful. He had promised himself that the make-believe would end. He had promised himself that he would never again dwell on what he couldn't have, being gifted with so many other delights and pleasures.

But he did.

He had, for the better part of five years, been unable to escape obsession. He had contained it, surely, but as he grew older the fantasy grew and became more complex and certainly more sensual. He also realized, once puberty had changed him in more ways than one, that he was not the only one who enjoyed the company of other men. No, it was not that his fantasy was impossible in that respect.

But there was a twist, as there always is in these cases.

Nobody noticed. Draco had always been a pale child in complexion. Pallor was, of course, an ancient sign of aristocracy, so this suited both himself and his family. His face had hollowed out, his bone structure almost jagged, but this transformation had happened at the same time as he grew taller and was thus put down to puberty. His eyes were the same gray as they had always been - by day. But at night, they shone with desire, as though made of steel. He lay awake at night staring into a mirror, wondering how long it would take to be blinded by the flash of his own eyes. It was this strangeness that kept him from his fantasies.

But nobody noticed these peculiarities, because Draco never took any bedfellows - not from Hogwarts, in any case.

He had heard about the Red Room six months ago, a rumor in the Slytherin dungeons. It had been mentioned in passing, but Draco thanked whatever deity controlled fantastic luck for having heard it.

It was notorious and decidedly wicked, but this bothered Draco not a bit. In six months, he had become acquainted with the blood-red walls and the way the concubines were so comfortable, clad in practically nothing and draping themselves on chairs, couches, tables, as though they were fully clothed and in the privacy of their own home. How much of it was an act, and how much of it was truly of their own volition? He didn't know. He had never cared to ask.

Draco had been entertained by many men in the Red Room, but had, within two months, found one who was perfect for his intents and purposes. This boy looked young, no more than seventeen himself. He was unearthly pale, naturally. His cheekbones were almost frighteningly prominent. His eyes positively blazed emerald in the candlelight, and his black hair was always messy, his fringe seemingly permanently glued down to his forehead with perspiration, as though he had had been sleeping under heavy blankets that day - this was what Draco liked to believe, in any case.

And this boy was perceptive. He spoke very little - not at all, at first, but he quickly caught on to the game and knew how to play. Draco knew nothing about the boy's real voice, however, because by the time the boy spoke to him his voice had taken on the unearthly tones of a vampire starved for blood, as if a god was speaking through him, deep and harsh.

He followed the boy into a room - those who believed that the Red Room was, simply a single room for the sole purpose of staring at the beautiful creatures within had been sorely misled. This smaller chamber was much like the rest of the place, painted red and persian carpeted. A magnificent four poster draped with black sheets (naturally) stood in the center of the room. Draco closed the door behind him.

Naked, panting, two bodies paler than humanly possible twisted and tangled like one being, dark and light, good and evil. Red lips and harsh kisses and clothes practically torn in the haste of removing them. Sex so furious it was practically violent, this was what Draco was after and this was what he got, week after week, month after month.

He had the boy under him, eyes closed and mouth open, waiting. Some nights he was able to wait longer before this moment, sometimes he could not hold out so long. By no means was this the end, so it was never of much significance to Draco. It was his favorite part of the game. The boy gasped as he felt Draco lower his head and slowly, so slowly it was more sensual than it was painful, he punctured the skin of his neck. Draco drank, and drank, and drank, feasting on blood so rich it might have been cream. The boy screamed and moaned, and as he did, Draco could hear his voice begin to change. He pulled away from the boy's neck and resisted the urge to lick his lips.

For this was Draco's real problem; the reason he had come to the Red Room in the first place. He could not take a partner at Hogwarts because he had doubts that they would enjoy being feasted on night after night. Admittedly the act had a certain intimacy, but there was the risk of death to consider.

Now he waited. The boy went still and his moans turned to those of pain. Draco didn't move, although he was far from finished with the boy. He watched the eyes flutter, the green becoming more and more brilliant, and also more wild. He threw back his head, arched his back, and finally the words trickled out of his lips in a whisper that was ferocious made ferocious by the harsh, almost choked, tone.

Please.

And Draco grinned, and began to lower his head to the boy's lips. As he did so, he could see the boy's smile, pointed teeth and mouth desperately hungry. He pressed his lips against the boy's, and opened his mouth, letting the blood trickle between them. The boy swallowed and groaned appreciatively and kissed Draco voraciously, licking his lips and draining every drop of blood from inside Draco's mouth.

Having done this, they could resume other actions, Draco gripping the boy's hips so tightly he thought it would bruise, pressing his lips to the boy's neck - without his fangs - and listening to the noises the boy emitted. The punctures in his neck had already begun to heal, so Draco felt no guilt as he let his mouth wander over them, tracing his neck, his jaw, his collarbone.

He came, whispering the same word he always did.

Harry ...

And this, of course, was the other problem, made all the more dangerous by his fierce desire to act on it. Harry Potter. He was the reason for all of this, the emerald-eyed concubine and all of Draco's other nights spent alone, wishing for the one boy he couldn't have, in part because of their heated enmity and in part because of ... well, because of his fangs.

But this time, the boy did something unexpected, something very very wrong. A sigh fell from his lips as well.

Draco.

This was almost frightening and certainly startling. Concubines and their men did not know the name of the other. They could, of course, say the name of a person about whom they fantasized - in the case of a customer - or a name that their man had specified, in the case of the concubine. But Draco had never indulged in the second part of this unwritten rule. The boy knew him by no name, and the fact that he did made him feel instantly vulnerable.

He turned to the boy with a start. His eyes flashed - which was perfectly normal at this time of night - with anger.

Who are you? he demanded.

The boy did not answer. He was staring at the rumpled sheets. Refusing to meet Draco's eyes. Looking more melancholy than afraid.

But Draco persisted. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders.

Who are you? he said again.

The simple action that followed should perhaps be recorded in detail. It was, after all, an eerie and ethereal scene. Two boys - for they could be called that, being young and naive and vampiric - one with hair so light it was practically ivory, the other the exact opposite, hair of jet black. Gray eyes, green. Both unearthly pale, naked, glistening with sweat. Against the black sheets, rumpled and stained as they were now, their bodies seemed all the more white. The light-haired one, whose soul was not so light, held the other boy by his shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes ... gray, green, both blazing with light. The boy still did not speak, but as they say, actions speak louder than words.

The boy raised a trembling hand to his forehead and pushed back the fringe that was perpetually plastered down with sweat. When he dropped his arm, Draco sat, stunned by the lightening-shaped scar he saw there.

For a moment, Draco's world spun uncontrollably. Then it righted itself, his vision cleared.

Harry was still there.

---

Author's Notes: In a way, this is a continuation of Princess in the sense that it follows the same story line of Draco and fantasies. If you didn't get it (which would make you rather slow, I'm sorry to say), Draco is a vampire. So is Harry, but of course he doesn't know this because vampires look different by day and by night. Especially in a brothel ... and yes, Draco has been having sex with Harry all this time and not knowing it.

I hope that clears up anything you don't understand - and for God's sake, it's fiction, allow me some creative justice. If there's a major discrepancy, I'll appreciate your telling me. But I swear on all that is evil that if I get ONE review that goes, OMG lyke u totally can't make Malfoy turn 2 a vampire, that's soooo not gonna happen'. I will blow up the earth. Probably.

Because dude, this is MY story, not anybody else's.

Love and angst,
Vivica

Disclaimer: Do I have to? We all know who the books belong to.