A Vampirefic

By: Avery Likelytale

Author's Notes: This is my first time writing Harry Potter fanfiction, so please be nice to me…I'm not overly familiar with the Potterverse. Sorry. D:

Anyway, this was written for my friend Mademoiselle Obvious, who likes vampires and Snarry. SO HENCE. THIS WAS BORN! I hope you guys enjoy it. And the title is either temporary or permanent. I might come up with a better title that I like more. But for now, this is A Vampirefic!

And it shall be updated sporadically. LLL comes first...and besides, I'm writing this in class. XD

Warnings: Slash (Snarry) that will probably develop slowly because I want to try to keep everything in character but I don't think I'll be able to because I suck at that; vampirefic-ness, which means bloodiness, I guess; character death in this chapter, but don't worry, it's not anyone important. At least, I hope it's not. And no real slashy bits in this chapter. I told you, it develops slowly.

Disclaimer: I OWN HARRY POTTER. Not.

The air was gloomy in the dungeon that day—but when wasn't it? A room always seemed to become gloomy when Severus Snape entered it—and if Snape was the master of the room, then the gloomy aura became almost unbearable.

Snape seemed to know about the gloom that he carried with him, and he enjoyed it. He paced down the row of miserable students, silently busy with work as they chopped roots and beheaded lizards, and mixed them all up in their bubbling cauldrons. It gave him satisfaction seeing them cower with fear as he approached them. Lovely.

Then he paused at one of the cauldrons—the cauldron of his most hopeless case, the despised Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Miracle Child Who Can Do No Wrong, the Slacker, the Thickheaded Delinquent. All of these titles—and a few more colorful ones—could be applied to this boy with the head of messy black hair, the glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose, the bright green eyes, and the famed lightning-shaped scar.

"Well, well, Potter," Snape said, in that soft but sneering voice that he knew all of his students—especially Potter—hated. "The Death's Face Draught is supposed to be opaque white at this point of its creation. What color is your potion, Potter?"

Potter glared to the side, refusing to meet Snape's eyes, and his hands clenched with indignation. "Red. –sir."

"Yes, Potter," Snape said. "Your potion is red. Transparent red—tell me, Potter, can you explain why your potion is in this state?"

"No, sir," Potter said stiffly.

Snape's lip curled into a small sneer, and he swept out his wand, lightly tapping the rim of Potter's cauldron. All of the contents in the cauldron vanished. Derisively, Snape said, "This time, Potter, you will add the powdered raven's beak before the scarab wings. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Potter's simple and controlled response annoyed Snape—he wanted the boy to get angry, to get out of line again. Set him up and knock him down… "I wonder why you made such a slip-up," Snape said softly. "Could it be that the miraculous Boy Who Lived is too busy concocting ways of defeating the Dark Lord to concoct a basic potion?"

Potter said nothing, but his fists resting on the table tightened. This small movement caused his Gryffindor scarf to slip down slightly, revealing the curve of his neck. A wild instinct gripped Snape—a primal, deep, unbreakable instinct—and he nearly dove forward and sank his teeth into that lovely neck—but he caught himself in time. Slowly, pressing the urge down until it was practically nonexistent, he ran his tongue over his teeth to feel that they had returned to normal…that his blood-hungry fangs had retracted once more…

It was safe to talk again. Knowing which subject Potter was most sensitive about, Snape went on, "Your father was like that too—not that he had any amazing prophecies made about him, of course, but he still thought that he was above everything and everyone, including—no, especially—classwork."

"Shut up," Potter hissed between his teeth. His arm was shaking, and it was clear that he was becoming riled.

Snape allowed himself an inward smile of satisfaction, but outwards, he put on a scowl. "Excuse me, Potter? What did you say?"

Granger, the know-it-all seated beside Potter, gave him a very noticeable kick in the leg. "Harry, don't—"

But Potter cut her off loudly. "I said, 'Shut up'—sir."

Every head in the classroom whipped around to stare at Potter, who had pulled himself into a half-standing position, though he was restrained by Granger holding onto the bottom of his scarf. There was undisguised loathing—loathing and anger—in Potter's eyes as he glared at Snape, his mouth twitching.

"How dare you speak to a professor that way," Snape said flatly. "Ten points from Gryffindor. And if you say anything more, I'll be forced to give you a detention."

"Slime…" Potter hissed. Granger let out a gasp of fear, and Snape's inward smile grew wider.

"A detention tonight, then. Now seat yourself, Potter. Unless you'd like more detentions? I'd be very glad to grace you with them," Snape said.

From the back of the classroom, Malfoy let out a loud giggle. Snape's eyes sought out the blonde-haired boy, and he frowned. Malfoy became more and more annoying each year. –Well, sure, he was Slytherin's poster boy, and Snape still favored him above the other students, but something about him was irritating. He was too much like his father—a slimy, yellow-bellied, crawling lizard. With a high-pitched giggle, at that.

Potter slowly sank back down into his seat, and, looking away, began chopping vigorously at a dandelion root. Snape stuck his wand in the path of Potter's knife, and Potter stopped instantly, looking up.

"There is no dandelion root in the Death's Draught Potion," Snape said, his voice stony.

And his inward smile reached frenetic proportions as he noticed, from the corner of his eye, Potter hacking away at his cutting board with a furious hand.

He was hungry.

Hungry in an animalistic way, with a deep, maddening, primal craving roiling and clawing at his insides, begging, screaming, roaring for food—for sustenance—for blood

He was starving, as he always was, every night at this time. Starved to the extent where it affected his rational thought, his reasons—where it made him nearly want to abandon everything, all of this pretense of being human, and just charge out and eat something.

It almost made him insane. –Almost.

Slowly, he began marshaling his rationality, until he was able to get a handle on the hunger. He lay on his bed, enjoying the ravaging pain in his stomach—no, in his blood—for several minutes. But he knew he could not remain like this forever, that soon the pain would become unsavory. He had to move.

He had to feed.

Snape slowly sat up upon his bed, suppressing the yearning to the best he could. When he ran his tongue along his teeth, he could feel the points of his fangs. It was no use trying to retract them—he was far too starved, too desperate.

He toyed with the thought of running out into the hall, grabbing a random student, and drinking from her (for some reason, Snape always assumed that if he ate students, he'd eat female ones)—but the idea was ridiculous. Students suddenly disappearing would be suspicious…and no matter how well he covered his tracks, if Snape ate one every night, then eventually, it would all point to him…

So he had to go through a ridiculously long routine, just to feed. He began by heading toward the statue of Gorbey the Grand, a wizard who had slain a famous vampire centuries ago (how ironic!). When he tapped the statue with his wand, lightly, the dully gaping mouth fell even wider open, until it created a doorway. Here was a secret passageway to Hogsmeade, one that no one knew about—not even Fred or George or Filch. It was a passageway Snape had made himself.

He headed through the long and damp corridor, and when he emerged, he was on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, which was currently experiencing a winter storm. Hiding himself behind a dead tree, he drew his cloak up to his chin with one hand, while removing his wand with the other.

The spell he murmured was a complex one, and another one he'd devised himself. Even if he fed on the villagers in Hogsmeade, it would start becoming suspicious. No, his best bet was Muggles—after all, no one would notice if a Muggle died.

"Arrrrreeeghhhhh!" screamed the porky boy who landed at Snape's feet

The spell Snape used to get Muggles was a Summoning Charm, of sorts, but a more complex one that could transport people over long distances—preferably Muggles, who had no magic to resist the spell. It was a spell Snape had devised himself, all in the name of feeding. A desperate vampire could perform all but the most impossible spells—if he needed to feed.

He toed the screaming boy slightly, frowning disaffectedly when the boy rolled over, revealing a chubby face contorted with screams and wails, and covered with tears and snot.

"Waaaaah! Where am I? Mum! Dad! It's c-coooooold!" the boy shrieked.

"Up," Snape commanded, nudging the boy with his foot.

The boy's round eyes tilted upwards, and he let out a screech at the sight of Snape's wand, protruding from his black robes.

"Hey! You're one of those...those wizard people!" The boy began backing off, pointing a shaking finger toward Snape, until he backed himself into another dead tree. "Just like him! Waaaaah! I hate him! It's his fault all you crazy wizards are coming to get me! Where's my mum? My dad? Waaaah!"

"How do you know about our kind?" Snape said slowly. "About wizards?"

"'Cause…'cause….," the boy whimpered, almost pathetically. "That nasty, yucky Potter boy…he's one of them…"

"Who are you?" Snape said. "And how do you know about Potter?"

"He's my cousin," the boy snapped. "He's my nasty, yucky, wizard cousin!"

"So, you are Potter's nasty, yucky, Muggle cousin?" Snape sneered. "How coincidental. It's too bad…"


But those were Dudley Dursley's last words as Snape's claw-like hand shot out and seized the Muggle boy by his sweatshirt collar. In a single, fluid motion, Snape's head was buried in the crook between Dudley's porky face and his shoulder, and his fangs were slicing through the skin and fat of the left side of Dudley's neck, until they hit the vein. Applying more pressure, he pierced the vein open—and a fountain of brilliant red blood gushed out, in an explosion of near ecstasy.

Snape sucked all of that blood, draining Dudley as if the Muggle was a juice-box. Dudley's expression was frozen in shock as he hung limply in Snape's fierce grip, while his blood ran out from the ripped skin of his neck, down his collar.

Snape licked the droplets of blood from the wound, then threw the Muggle aside. With a flick of his wand, he Transfigured the drained body into a log, then burned it. The ground of this area of Hogsmeade was covered with scorch marks and ash, half buried in frost.

He turned back toward the hole in the ground from which he had emerged, which was still hanging open, waiting for his return. His face lowered, he wiped the blood from his chin—then stopped.

Someone was staring at him, open-mouthed, from the doorway, peering out into the winter with a look of utter horror on his face. Snape stared back, frozen and wordless for the first time—or at least, for the first time in front of Harry Potter, his most hated student…

…and now the only other person in the world who knew Snape's secret.

Author's Notes: That's it, dudes. I hope it's not too bad. I'm a Potter n00b. AND I HOPE YOU LIKED IT MADEMOISELLE! (I didn't beta read it, either, so if I made some typos or stuff, feel free to tell me, all of you.)

Review, my faithful readers, and I will give you kisses and hugs!