So I decided to start another story while working on The art of deception. The idea wouldn't leave so figured might as well try it. It will be a vampire/creature fanfic. I know they have been done alot but figured I add my two cents.

I haven't decided on where I really want to go on this or even if I will finish it. Deciding to write until I run out of stuff to write about it. It will be a slash story. Sorry to those that don't like, just know you have been warned.

I haven't decided on the pairings yet, but will be harry/and someone.

Please note that the prologue is angsty but will get lighter after that!

disclaimer: Not JK Rowling (sigh), don't own harry potter or the other characters you recognize from the books. This is for my writing pleasure only,

Warning: child abuse,eventual slash, eventual bloodplay

Read and review! LOve to hear what you think!

Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them. ~Dion Boucicault

Prologue: The start of then end

The day had started like any other day for one Harry James Potter, that is loudly. He had been awakened by the screeching voice of his lovely Aunt Petunia. He really could not be sure how he had already screwed up if he had just awoken, but there was his relative's logic for you.

He had of course been denied breakfast on this harshly sunny summer day, for whatever pre-conceived slight his Aunt had deemed was his. Fortunately, well for them anyway he was still given the honor of preparing their breakfast. There was after all no point on everyone suffering for the freaks faults, or so Aunt Petunia stated. This of course went smoothly right up until Vernon (he refused to call him uncle even in his own head) had decided that he didn't actually want the diced tomatoes in his omelet (it made little difference to Vernon that he was the one to specifically tell his freak of a nephew to add them in the first place), this of course resulted in a well deserved (well as far as Vernon was concerned) blow to said nephews forearm. It would have been to the freaks face but the freak happened to have annoyingly fast reflexes and had managed to shield his head.

The blow of course was not really about eggs or tomatoes or really even the freak, Vernon had merely needed an outlet for his current bad mood. A bad mood that was the result of a rather vaguely requested upcoming meeting with the head of accounts. Something that did not delight Vernon in the slightest.

Thankfully, for Harry this one blow was deemed enough to restore a resemblance of good cheer to his obese uncle and he was banished to the back yard where he spent the next several hours, sweating in the 30 degree heat pushing the mower. Aunt Petunia had refused to upgrade to something other than a push mower saying it was bad for the environment (not that this stopped her from buying numerous snacks wrapped in plastic for Dudley). However, regardless of the reasoning she came up with, all that mattered was the result, that being Harry having to mow, remow and mow again to ensure an even cut.

He had been given a stale piece of bread and chunk of cheese for lunch and had drunk his fill from the garden hose when he was sure Aunt Petunia wasn't watching. The afternoon of course consisted of more time under the scorching sun, pulling weeds and trimming the hedges.

It wasn't until Vernon returned from work that everything had gone to hell.

Apparently Vernon had, had good reason to be worried about the requested meeting between his boss and himself, it had not been pleasant. No, not in the least, Vernon had found himself on the receiving end of a rather sharp verbal dress down and on probation for the remainder of the summer. For things that were of course not his fault.

Harry had sensed the moment the purple over blown face had walked in the door that it was going to be bad. He had of course the misfortune of having just finished the yard work and entering the house. Vernon had taken one look at the emaciated, sweaty, dirty teen and lost it. Harry had tried to lessen the blows but they just kept coming.

He vaguely recalled retreating into that safe, dark area of his mind when he felt his right arm bone break. When even this did not help, pure panic had ruptured forth. A wild need to stop his uncle had taken over him. He felt a burning, raw, intense power erupt from his very core, the backlash of which had sent him into blissful blackness.

Harry did not know how long it was until he awoke. When he did he was greeted by intense pain radiating from every cell of his body, blood of which he was pretty sure was his own, and the sight of an unconscious Vernon slumped against the far wall. Aunt Petunia and Dudley were thankfully still absent, likely still having tea with one of Petunia's 'friends.' Harry sat staring at the slack form of his uncle in shock. He didn't know what to do. He could not quite bring himself to go and check if his uncle was still breathing so instead he stared.

He was broken from his revere by the sound of a sharp tapping on the window. Slowly, he managed to stand up careful not to jostle his oddly angled arm more than normal. He took a minute to take stock of his own person and quickly summed up the damage; a broken arm, several broken ribs, dislocated shoulder and sprained ankle, that and more bruises and surface wounds then he could count. All in all it hurt like hell. He used this pain to focus his mind long enough to open the window and retrieve a letter from a rather stern looking owl.

A minute later and his world truly fell apart.

It was a letter from the ministry, one that told him rather succinctly that he had preformed yet more underaged magic and this time there would be no hearing, no chance to explain, just a confiscation of his wand and an expulsion from Hogwarts. All cheerfully stated and signed, wishing him the best of days.

No, No, no….this could not be happening. He could not be expelled; he could not lose his wand. He could not be made to forever endure life as a muggle at the hands of his relatives. He would not survive. When….If… Vernon woke up there was no telling what he would do.

Panic expanded. Harry stopped thinking and started to only react on instinct. He hastily froze and broke the lock on the boot cupboard. Panic had him grabbing his wand and shrinking his few belongings. He didn't bother with the school trunk since he would not be going to Hogwarts it seemed a little pointless. He grabbed his broom and his father's invisibility cloak and did the only thing that made sense to his harried mind. He ran.

Or flew rather. He was a jumble of emotions, each flashing through one after another. Fear, Panic, Anger, Disbelief, hurt, horror over and over again as he flew through the night sky. He did not know where to go; he had no one he could trust. The Weasley's were kind to him but they could do little to shield him from this and he would only get them in further trouble, Hermione for all her good intentions was much too trained to respect authority and would make him turn himself in, and Dumbledore….

No, he would not think of that now. His anger and hurt, at his once beloved headmaster was still a festering sore. Dumbledore had lied to him, he had ignored him when he needed him, he had let Sirius die, he had sent him back year after year to the Dursleys, all for some greater good that Harry had little hope of ever actually living to see. So no his headmaster was a definite no.

So he just flew. Hour after hour, until the pain had dulled and the numbness of cold was taking over and still he flew. Eventually, the last shred of reason made itself known in his mind. It whispered that he was sliding closer and closer to the end of his broom, that his grip was growing weaker and weaker, and that he was several hundreds of feet in the air. Some part of him acknowledged this and he found his broom angling closer to the ground. His brain vaguely noted that there were a lot of very tall trees, a forest then. He was somewhere rather cold, with a forest.

Bone tired weariness fell over him. He was tired, so tired of everything. He was tired of pain, he was tired of impossible expectations, he was tired of lies, of suffering most of all he was just tired. His jumbled mind registered he was no longer on a broom, it noted that there was another jolt of pain, new pain that is, it registered that he was laying on a rather cold, wet musty smelling surface.

Leafs…Harry brain supplied. He did not know where he was, he did not know what would happen, he did not know if he cared.

Harry let his eyes close wearily; the darkness that crept in was welcomed.


He walked silently through the ancient trees. His movements spoke of an in-human grace, his footsteps light and without the hesitation so ingrained in most mortal beings. For he had little to fear, there were few things that could actually injure, much less kill him.

The centuries had not been kind. While his physical appearance was still as perfect as it had always been anything beneath the outermost layer was long since disfigured beyond recognition. These deep scars had not leant to un-tempered rage; they failed to twist him into what muggles would term the sole incarnation of evil, no these scars simply were. He had not felt any true, deep emotion; no fierce hatred, no intense sadness, no bubbling joy in over a century, he simply existed.

A despondent shell that refused to destabilize, like its empty interior would predict. He had no real motivations left, no reason to continue to be and yet here he was. It had been 246 years since he had felt kinship or kindness towards another being, living or dead. His once close friends had given up after the first 150 years, eventually conceding to his wish to be alone. No, there had been little light since he had lost her.

Her memory was the only thing that really stirred anything anymore. The only real lasting memories that he still chose to recall was the cruelty of her death, and not only her death but that of his unborn daughter. They say time heals all things, he disagrees. Time changes things it does not heal.

Leonor continued his nightly foray, treading deeper and deeper into the Schwarzwald Forrest, or better known to tourists adn locals as 'The Black Forrest.' Normally he would have chosen a forrest that was a little less known but he had been residing nearby as of late and figured it was as good as any place to find peace that only came with complete isolation of night. No sane person would wander this deep under the cover of darkness. The nickname bestowed the forest was not complete myth after all.

He ignored the familar burning itch in his throat. He probably should have fed earlier, ah well it was no big consquence. He was not a youngling who allowed his thirst to rule him. He had once found amusment in the muggle views of people like him. The views had shifted over the years going from a blood thirsty ravenous beast to a beauitul soleful seductor. Niether were close to the truth, though the first was probably closer then the second. He could not fathom the ideas that made ridiculus teenage muggle fantasies.

Just another proof that human kind was demented. It was not saying that he could not be beautiful or engage in seduction but he found little use in either, it was so much simplilar simply to over-power and kill, he had little patience for games. He knew there were many of his kind who enjoyed toying with their prey first, but he was not them. Of course most of those that enjoyed that type of perversion were not true immortals. They were what muggles and wizards alike termed vampires, a name he thought appropriate as they were much closer to parasites then to what they hoped to emmulate.

He was an ancient. One of the chosen, the truly immortal. The others were cheap immitations, made through a curse rather then a gift from magic. They were the ones ruled by their base instincts, the need to hunt. No, there were few ancients that chose to inhabit the mortal realm, most of his kind lived in a sancutary , a realm of their own. Not beacuse they feared the miniscule little mortals but because they could not be bothered to put the effort into completely destroying them, plus there main food source had to come from somewhere. The Shadow realm was what one childish immortal named this hidden plain. The child had been favored by their Prince and so the name had stuck.

He had not been back to the realm since Mencia had been killed. It had shocked the entire realm, for she and his unborn child were also immortals and therefore should not have died. And yet they had. Panic had overrode judgement on when it had happened, never before had the immortals experienced a vulnerbility. When he had enacted his self exile the royals had been no closer to finding a cause. He had kept a ear open over the years but nothing had been found.

He pulled himself out of his morose thoughts, debating if he was ready to return as of yet. He was currently reciding in a small secluded cottage, it was sparse but comfortable. It met his needs; it was secluded and went unnoticed by other beings thanks to his magical masking of the place, it was also not too far from a small town. Small enough, not to be annoying but large enough so no one knew each other well enough to notice if a few went missing.

He stopped, freezing to a stillness that would have put a statue to shame as he noticed a small prone figure laying across the forrest floor ahead of him. For a split second he was sure it was dead, but then he noticed the small shallow movements of what had to be pained breathing.

Well, he thought wrly to himself looks as if Fate has favored me tonight and supplied a meal.

He moved gracefully to stand next to the body, it did not stir at his approach. It was a tiny ittle thing. A child he discerned most likely having seen not much over a decades worth of years, as slight as it's body was it did not have the healthy plumbness one ascertained with mortal children. He knelt quietly, leaning in to get closer and carefully layed a hand on a painfully sharp, frail shoulder.

He really did not need to move quietly or carefully but he found blood tasted so much better when it wasn't diluted with endorphins caused by panic and fear. Not that he was likely to get much blood out of this one, he could smell that it was all but bathed in it's own blood. Likely from the injuries he could decipher even from this angle. It's blood smelled heavenly, it had a sweet, spicy smell with just a hint of a bitterness. So much better smelling then most mortal's blood, usually to saccrinally sweet or so soured by their cores. He could sense magic leaking from it's body, a wizard then he assumed, it didn't smell right to be a elf or veela.

He carefully turned it on its back and scooped it up in his arms before standing. He stared down with mild disgust. Some might label him as a monster, but even he would not have inflicted the damage and pain that had been inflicted on this small creature, at least not on a child. It revolted him enough to dim the craving that the smell of it's blood had caused.

He almost started when he looked down to see a set of huge, unnaturally green eyes staring calmly back at him. They showed no fear, no desire to save it's self, nothing really beside acceptance.

Why he did what he did next, he would never know. It could have been because of what those eyes showed or what the boy said. He honestly did not really want to know.

The boy continued to stare at him, a weariness and age in his eyes that should not have been there for one so young. "Thank you" he whispered, in a lovely soft voice before closing his eyes and letting the tension that had been present while he spoke drain to nothing. Leonor stared at him with something akin to disbelief on his pale face.

One would have to be a complete idiot not to recognize what he was, or what they would believe him to be, he did have fairly prominent fangs after all. Perhaps, the child was too young? Or maybe a little slow? Surely with his magic as drained as it was he could sense the inhernent danger Leonor represented. He was unsettled, off balanced for the first time in a very long period. What was it doing thanking him? Did it have no self preservation at all?

How odd...Leonor could honestly state he could not recall any of his prey having thanked him for making them his meal. No, most beggged, pleaded , attempted to bargain or held some delusion that he would change them at the last minute, but none of them thanked him at the thought of ending their existance.

And suddenly he held no desire to kill this being. He was much to curious. He couldn't recall having been interested as to the why behind someone's actions in over two hundred years. Perhaps it was the weariness, the numbness that he had seen reflected back at him, in a way it was like looking in a mirror. So empty.

He did not know where this new desire came from exactly, but suddently he felt the need to keep this human. He knew that it would probably have preferred the quick death and peace of darkness that came with it, but he never said he was anything but a selfish being. That wasn't about to change now.

With that he turned around, careful to not jostle his new study and began to make his way home. This time there was just the smallest flicker of something in his gut. He dare not recognize it after all these years.

But some might call it hope.