Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling, but I do own the silly plot.

Warning: SLASH, LANGUAGE, OOC-NESS. This story disregards OotP, HBP and DH, which basically translates into: "lalala I can't hear you, all the characters I like are still alive."

Pairings: DM/HP, RW/HG, SS/SB, RL/NT

Summary: He could have been anything. A Goblin. An Orc. A Mountain Troll. Hell, he could have been the King of Dwarves for all Harry cared. But NO, of all the magical creatures, Draco Malfoy had to be a vampire. 7th year at Hogwarts.

Short A/N: This fic is dedicated to Kat-chan, my poor comrade lost in some godforsaken town of England. Cheer up. The rain will stop. Um. One day.


"Vampire. You know, Nosferatu. Bloodsucker," Hermione patiently repeated, her eyes not leaving the enormous book propped up against a jug of pumpkin juice.

It was another normal year at Hogwarts. Another animated meal in the Great Hall and another brick in Hermione's wall of books.

Ron lowered his chicken wing to his plate and cupped his chin in his greasy right hand, pretending to think. "Well, Malfoy is a sucker, so I guess we'll just have to figure out the blood part."

"But—how would you know this, Hermione?" Harry asked bewildered as Ron rubbed his head where the young witch had smacked him hard.

"Being the brain of the Golden Trio sort of helps. Besides, everybody knows I know everything," she answered distractedly, frowning at the page she was reading.

"But—there has to be some kind of mistake!" the Boy-Who-Lived insisted as Hermione absently smacked the redhead again for his less than pleasant comment about the indecent size of her brain.

"But—haven't you seen him? He's a freaking blonde"

"I din' know you had dat' kind of prejudish mate," Ron chimed in unhelpfully, his mouth full of yet another chicken wing.

"—and he's got grey eyes, for Merlin's sake!"

Hermione closed her thick tome with a snap and looked at him suspiciously. "Harry, have you by any chance noticed that each and every one of your sentences starts with 'butt'?"

There was a short pause. Then, on a very serious tone: "Are you sexually frustrated?"

Ron emitted a strangled noise.

"Ha bloody ha, Hermione." Harry chose not to think about where exactly the bushy brown-haired girl had found that kind of knowledge. Poor, poor Ronniekins. Harry sighed. Ron wouldn't even understand love if it bit him in the ass, so poor Hermione would have to—


Note to self: never associate "Ron", "Hermione" and "bite in the ass" in the same sentence. Ever.

Harry liked his best friends, but he didn't need the mental images. Ew. That was just—ew.

"I'm not bloody frustrated," he sighed as he started playing with his napkin, "What I mean is, he's not the dark type—"

"Well, it depends on your definition of the concept, really," Hermione interrupted.

Ron frowned as well. "Mate, as much as it pains me to say, the git is the Ice Prince of Slytherin. Y'know, with the wicked dark reputation that comes with it."

The Boy-Who-Lived was getting more and more annoyed. "Bu—I mean—oh hell, it's just a matter of logics! How by Hades can you be a vampire when you look like some bloody elf? Well, except for the pointy ears and dreamy looks," he added as an afterthought, still fiddling with the abused napkin.

"Anyway, the story got it all wrong!" he suddenly exclaimed, arms flailing about. The two third years sitting next to the Golden Trio started sliding to the right on their bench, away from their slightly deranged housemate, but Harry didn't pay them any mind. He was on a roll.

"—and if Draco Look-At-Me-And-Drool-To-Death Malfoy is anything, it has to be a Veela, VEE-LA, got it? Not some stupid vampire!" The innocent napkin was now being methodically shred to tiny bits.

"Harry," Hermione warned.

"There's no way he gets to be a vampire when he's just some snot-nosed little—"

"Harry," Ron tried to interrupt, glancing worriedly at the napkin as it drew its last papery breath.

"I can't believe that arrogant sonova—"

"HARRY!" Ron and Hermione yelled in perfect unison.

"What?" he snapped.

"You wouldn't happen to be—" Hermione slowly began as she too contemplated the now very dead napkin.

"See, it's just that you sound like you're sort of—" Ron began as well.

"—jealous," they ended together, throwing each other an identical horrified look.


The Great Hall was full of the usual packs. The first years had been a bit more difficult to unstuck from one another than last term—most probably because of Snape's Glare of Doom™—but they were now happily digging in the delicious food provided by the house elves.

The headmaster was his usual twinkling self, now and then joking with the multicolored leprechauns running all over his newly bought robes.

One could tell by his twitching brow that Snape was more than ready to hex the excited first years into next century.

Flitwick and McGonagall were absorbed in a discussion about the pronunciation of some obscure spell: "I assure you Minerva dear, you had better not stress the second 'i', you would end up conjuring a pack of ghouls that would start worshipping you as their goddess." "No, no, what I mean is, in order to get the spell to last longer, you have to pronounce it very slowly."

Hagrid had to be thinking of Madame Maxime since he was currently trying to spoon-feed his right ear, and Remus Lupin was back as the DADA teacher, happily eating his soup.

The Slytherins were already plotting their ultimate revenge against a certain Savior of the Light. It did not matter that they had been on the same side during the war; even victorious, Gryffindorks would always be Gryffindorks. The Ravenclaws were not visible anymore, barricaded behind tittering towers of books. The Hufflepuffs were chatting about the next Hogsmeade weekend: "—and then I'm going to kneel down in front of her and read my poem." "Oh my God! That's just sooooo bold!" As for the Gryffindors, they were about to deal with one furious Harry Potter. Again.

Hermione and Ron had finally managed to restrain their homicidal and slightly obsessive best friend after their discussion about a certain Slytherin blonde when Seamus finally made it to the Gryffindor table.

While it was a common occurrence for Seamus to arrive late in the Great Hall, what was less common that evening was the way he sat down at the Gryffindor table looking like the cat that got the canary, the cream and pretty much all of the dairy products to be found in a 10 mile radius. Used to his best friend's antics, Dean kept eating with his right hand and cuffed the Irish boy with his left. "Drop the stupid face, granny. What's the latest gossip?" Rubbing his abused head and pouting for all he was worth, Seamus answered, unknowingly setting off a green-eyed, bespectacled bomb: "Some Ravenclaw lad was bragging about how he took a picture of Malfoy's wicked vampire teeth—"

*Crash* went the glass closest to the Boy-Who-Lived.

After that, saying that very few breakable things at the Gryffindor table survived Harry's wrath would have been the understatement of the century. Dumbledore absentmindedly cast a quick 'Reparo' as if it were an everyday occurrence. He looked on as his favorite student stomped his way out of the Great Hall and took a mental note to keep the irritable teenager away from his secret stash of lemon drop jars. Innocent candy did not deserve to be caught in the crossfire of hormonal teenage angst.


Now here Harry was, stomping down the corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower. He had stormed off the Great Hall without looking at the mess he had created there. To hell with the Feast. First, his best friends had had the most ludicrous idea about him being jea—ANYWAY, that idea had been positively ludicrous, then the whole of Gryffindor had started gossiping about Malfoy and his awesome vampire powers. Gah! What were his friends thinking? How could he, Harry Potter, be jealous of Malfoy? Hell, their very names were an oxymoron.

Talk about morons, really.

The insufferable git had yet to prove that his face wasn't stuck in a permanent sneer while he was bloody sleeping. Satan would be making snowmen in hell the day that Draco Malfoy would actually smile.

Such were the rambling thoughts of the Great Harry Potter when he looked up to see the very object of his jea—completely justified rage walking his way.

Draco Malfoy was indeed coming from the Dungeons with Blaise Zabini. When he saw The Savior of the Cowarding World—how could all those people think that a mere boy had to save their sorry asses?—Draco realized it was already too late to attempt a subtle retreat. Not that he was afraid of his rival; he was actually disappointed in the new turn his relationship with the Gryffindor had taken. After all they had gone through—six years of competition and insults as well as a war against what had to be the Ugliest Lord Ever—Harry had just gone from hatred to a dull indifference, avoiding all types of confrontations and mostly keeping to himself. Draco mentally sighed and came back to reality with a start when Blaise elbowed him in the ribs. What could happen to him, anyway? Potter wouldn't even notice him.

Draco was already turning back to Blaise to continue their previous conversation about the Quidditch try-outs when he felt Harry's furious gaze on him. What was going on?

In a few quick strides Harry was next to the Slytherin, not even stopping as he snarled at the Malfoy heir: "You couldn't have been a Veela, could you?"

Draco blinked once. Twice. He turned to say something to the offending boy, but Harry had already disappeared around the corner, stomping so hard it made the paintings shake on the walls.

"What the—is he PMS-ing or something?" Blaise muttered, annoyed.

Draco just shrugged but couldn't help wondering as well. Everybody knew that Draco was a vampire. It was kind of unofficial since he hadn't bothered telling the whole school of the changes he had gone through the day of his sixteenth birthday, but baring his fangs was both more explicit and efficient than any kind of declaration. So why did Potter seem to have just learned about this?

The two 7th year students resumed their walk to the Great Hall, one muttering darkly about 'temperamental, bloody Gryffindorks' while the other wondered whether he should take the Veela thing as a compliment. What was that all about, anyway?


Harry was certainly not sulking in the dorms, thank you very much. He was just righteously depriving his friends from his presence. There. Stupid friends saying stupid things about him. He lay sprawled on his bed, frowning as he thought back about his latest encounter with the Slytherin.

Snapping at Malfoy had helped him calm down a bit, but he was still annoyed. How could he do this to him? They had been enemies for so long and yet Harry had failed to see such a huge part of Malfoy…

Harry closed his eyes. If he wanted to be honest with himself, he had to admit that he was indeed jealous of Draco Malfoy. But he'd never tell a single soul. No. Over his dead body. Because it was one thing to be the Hero of the wizarding world; it was another to have silly, childish dreams.

Like wanting to be a vampire.

Back when he'd been a child at the Dursleys', Harry had stumbled upon a book about vampires among a pile of presents his cousin had declared "dangerous". Trust Dudley to think that books were a hazard to his already shriveled brain. Of course, the book was written from the Muggle perspective, which was only a very simplified version of what being a vampire entailed. Nevertheless, Harry remembered how he had wished to fade in the shadows, escape Dudley's beatings thanks to his inhuman speed and scare the Great Whale to death by flashing a bright set of sharp fangs. Sure, he'd have needed blood to sustain himself, but to the imprisoned child he had been, being a vampire had meant freedom above all.

Harry sighed for the umpteenth time. He knew he wasn't a child anymore. Besides, things were looking much better now. Big Bad Baldiemort was now pushing up the daisies, which was certainly an improvement. Sirius Black had been cleared of Lily and James' murder and Harry had been able to move to his Godfather's house.

As for Lucius Malfoy, he had been kicked out of his own manor by his furious wife. It seemed that the proud Narcissa Malfoy had discovered that despite claiming the contrary, her husband had still been crawling at the feet of the demented, snake-faced psychopath commonly known as Voldemort. While Narcissa might have been a Black before she became a Malfoy, she had always striven to preserve her family's honor: Malfoys did not crawl and that was all there was to it. The Aurors who came to make Lucius Malfoy answer for his foul actions found him sucking his thumb and pouting like a child in front of the closed gate of Malfoy Manor. His now ex-wife had cursed him with a brain de-aging spell to "punish the brat he had been all his life."

So yes, Harry's life had definitely improved, yet he couldn't help feeling that something was missing...

Ah, whatever. He'd better go to sleep anyway. It was his last year at Hogwarts and he had promised Sirius to enjoy it as much as he could and so he would.


A/N ("Author's Nonsense"): Hey guys! First, thanks for reading until here. Congratulations. You are impervious to bad puns and to my lame humor. Haha. Anyway, I just wanted to make a couple of things clear:

-English is not my native language; French is. Same goes for my lovely beta-reader Ash of Mine. If you want to know more, go check our profiles.

-This is my very first fiction hence the horrible structure, the awkward sentences and all the mistakes you'll find.

Conclusion: DON'T FLAME! Constructive criticism is most welcome, though. Thanks again!