Chapter Two:
In the four years that had passed in his time with the Dursleys, Harry found that little had changed despite his efforts. In the beginning, he believed that eventually Sirius or Remus would come for him. It could take some time to prove his godfather's innocence. Sure, they couldn't come right away.
Halloween arrived, marking a year's passage. Harry decided that perhaps Dumbledore had told them about the blood wards protecting him. Maybe they thought he was safer there. But then, nothing could stop Sirius Black when he had his mind set on something. Not even Albus Dumbledore. There was absolutely no way he would leave his godson in the hands of unknown muggles just because one man said it was safer. He would be confident in his ability to protect him.
Another and another Halloween came and went with no word. Harry gave up hope of a rescue. Obviously something had gone wrong. They weren't coming.
Harry quickly realized that he himself had changed, physically as well as mentally. His senses were far greater than that of a normal human's, though nowhere near what he had come to think of as usual for him in his previous life. He was much stronger than a normal child as well. When Petunia set him to chores at the age of three, he had no problem completing them quickly and efficiently.
His magical reserves, though far larger, were still mostly out of his reach. A few tricks here and there were fine, but anything larger exhausted him. When he was four, he attempted to stun Marge as she reached out to clock him in the head. He woke up two weeks later in the hospital. From listening to Vernon and Petunia's hushed conversations, he discovered that as Marge's hand made contact, he suddenly seized up and fell to the floor unconscious. It scared the Dursleys enough for them to take him to the emergency room. They were terrified that Marge had somehow been responsible and ordered a series of tests like the 'good people' they were. The doctors could find nothing wrong and the Dursleys passed it off as a 'freak' thing.
Dudley had yet to create Harry Hunting, but he was just as bad as ever. The fact that five year old Dudley had no concept of the fact that it was not normal that, when he threw his toys at his cousin, they stopped and hovered in mid air amused Harry to no end. In the absence of Harry Hunting, Harry had created Dudley Baiting. He would levitate a sweet just out of the pudgy boy's reach and watch as Dudley leapt for it. When that grew old, he would move it all around the room as Dudley chased after it. He reasoned that it was the most exercise his cousin would ever get, so why not keep at it as long as possible. That is, until either Vernon or Petunia wised up to their darling boy's stories of flying candy being more than just a happy dream.
All in all, his time at the Dursley's was, for the most part, tolerable. He kept to himself, did his chores quietly and kept his 'abnormalities' secret.
All that changed one night when he was six. He sat up in bed with a muffled cry of pain. His body was on fire, his head throbbed and hot, molten steel swam in his gut. His first thought was that he was somehow under the Cruiciatus. He scrapped that idea as a rising tide of nausea threatened to show him his dinner again. Leaning over the side of the bed, he expelled everything that was in his stomach, then fell back sweating onto the bed. The pain had lessened and the burning in his stomach had vanished, leaving him feeling so very weak.
With a shaky hand, he vanished the mess on the floor. His breath came in ragged pants and a numbing cold began seeping through his limbs. It seemed so familiar, but his foggy mind couldn't form the thoughts needed. A sudden lancing pain in his midsection caused him to double up with a gasp and a whimper.
"Oh, not this." he whispered in desperation.
This pain he knew very well.
Stumbling out of bed and clutching at his stomach, he spelled opened the door to the cupboard and half walked, half crawled to the kitchen. Almost before he knew what was happening, he was kneeling in front of the open refrigerator sucking viciously at one of Petunia's uncooked, bloody steaks. The pain began to fade and he returned to his senses to find his small body splattered with cold, nasty smelling blood, the mangled meat clutched in his hands.
Horror filled him.
Bloodlust. It was bloodlust griping him.
This was impossible! Harry Potter was born human!
It was undeniable. The foul taste of old, frozen blood coated his mouth. Though it was after midnight, his eyes penetrated the deepest shadows, illuminating the dark corners like high noon. His ears picked up muffled sounds of snoring on the floor above him. The scent of Petunia's kitchen cleaning solutions and harsh astringents nearly overwhelmed him, even as faint as they were.
He was a vampire again.
Dropping the slab of meat, he stood and grabbed a knife from the butcher's block. Almost desperately, savagely, he dragged it across the flesh of his arm. The skin split and red blood appeared, flowing steadily down his arm, dripping onto the floor. Harry let out a sigh of relief. The wound was closing, but slowly. If he had tried that before, the knife would have broken before it could draw his blood. Not the same then.
He could still die.
Six years old. That was roughly the age bloodlust first hit a born vampire.
An idea suddenly occurred to him.
Dropping the knife to the floor, he threw up a silencing spell around the kitchen, then held out a hand directed at a kitchen chair. If this worked, things would be changing drastically. If not, he would be found unconscious in the morning surrounded by rotten meat and dried blood. He concentrated, keeping a tight control on his power, then let fly with a blasting curse. The chair shattered into a million pieces, bits flying here and there all over the kitchen. Harry stood unaffected. That spell should have caused him to pass out, but there wasn't even the smallest drain on his power.
A feral grin crawled across his face. He cast a repairing charm on the chair, restoring it to it's previous state. He used various charms and spells to clean up the mess he had made. Still, he remained conscious. In fact, he felt stronger than he had since his return.
He quickly made his way back to the cupboard and locked himself in.
It was obvious really. He should have thought of it before.
His soul was that of a vampire. Not just any vampire either. His Master had been a First One, powerful beyond imagining. When he turned Harry, he did more than just create a new vampire. He passed on everything he had, everything he was, including his Curse. The First Ones were unlike any other vampires in that their immortality was absolute. Their bodies were completely indestructable. The only way a First One could die was to pass on the First Curse to another, thereby becoming mortal themselves. Harry knew he had been a fool to ask for it.
The fact remained, however, that Harry had a soul over twenty-eight thousand years old, including that of his Master and those who came before him. A human body could never hold all that. Therefore, it changed to accommodate this sudden influx of power and knowledge. He couldn't access his full magical ability before, because his body couldn't handle it. Now, it could. Now, it was no longer human.
Things would change now. He was still young and, for all intent and purposes, a born vampire. He would need blood. Not so much at first. Maybe once a month. He would have to remain under a glamour at all times. His skin would be just too pale to be natural, his lips redder and his eyes brighter than generally accepted of anyone normal, be they muggle or wizard.
He would also have to be careful. He was starting muggle school in a few weeks. He would have to restrain himself physically, magically and mentally. With his increased physical abilities, he could accidentally hurt one of the children, especially if they took to taunting him like last time. He didn't think he would have to worry about accidental magic as long as he kept a firm grip on it, but he couldn't attract attention by being too smart for his age. Although, if he seemed just a little brighter than the other students, it could only help him later.
Remus and Sirius surely knew that he was smarter than normal after his displayed intelligence that night. It was doubtful they would keep that information from Dumbledore. High scores in muggle school could only lend credence to the story of him being a genius of some sort.
The real problems with his vampirism would come when he arrived at Hogwarts. There were several people, Dumbledore most notably, who could possibly see through whatever glamours he put up. Then, he would have to decide between three tactics.
One, tell the truth. He was not looking forward to that one. If he told them he's an ancient vampire from over six thousand years in the future, even the mostly benevolent Albus Dumbledore would lock him up as a threat to society and attempt to extract whatever knowledge he had of the future.
Two, pretend he's a true born vampire. Most pureblood wizard families had some sort of magical creature in their lineage at some point and there were a couple of vampires in the Potter family tree. Vampirism had been known to skip generations.
Three, he could run. He could not go to Hogwarts and stay well out of the way of all things magical until the time came to kill Voldemort once and for all. He doubted his ability to go through with this option. He loved his friends and family and could never stay away from them. Also, the first moment a Death Eater attacked someone, he would be driven to help.
Harry sighed, laying back and pulling the thin covers over himself. He still had a few years before he had to decide.