Part of the Enchantment Series
Title: Vitula: My Beloved. Third in the Enchantment Series.
Summary: AU. On Harry’s tenth birthday, a violin calls to him in his dreams. He begins to have nightmares of wizards and magic and soon finds himself the beloved of a vampire.
Warnings: Seduction, Chan, Lemon, Mild Blood Play, Vampirism, Stockholm Syndrome (?), Brainwashing, Magical Surrealism.
Part the First—Gravity
The first time he heard the gypsy violin playing in his cupboard, Harry thought he was dreaming. It was dark, probably nighttime as he couldn’t hear anyone moving around the house, and he had been locked in there for several days already as Mrs. Thorpe’s hair had mysteriously turned blue at the local market when he was present.
The music was haunting and so otherworldly that Harry shivered as he listened to it. It filled him with such longing for something he could not explain that he found himself lying on his bed, moaning and panting, until the violin faded and left him alone and sweating.
When he was finally let out of the cupboard, Harry learned that it had been his tenth birthday.
For days he could think of nothing but the violin and every morning he awoke shaking, his young body covered in sweat and strangely stiff. Some nights he would dream that the violin was calling to him and other evenings were taken up with nightmares where he never heard the strange and beautiful sound ever again.
In late August, he found himself sneaking out of his cupboard and staring out the window and the dark sky, the violin music singing sweetly to him in his mind. He knew he should be in bed, Aunt Petunia would be displeased if she knew he was in her pristine kitchen, but all thoughts left his mind as the violin music caused his body to shudder with pleasure before it lulled him back to sleep.
He was awakened the next morning by a scream when Aunt Petunia found him sleeping on the kitchen floor.
She didn’t believe him when he said the violin had called to him and sent him to the cupboard that night without supper, locking him in.
The violin never stopped calling him.
As the weeks passed, he got used to the strange feelings that coursed through him, the pleasure that would paralyze him until he was gasping for air and hesitantly touching himself. He didn’t know why it happened, only that he needed to do it whenever the violin called him.
Harry never told anyone about the haunting music again, but every evening he would stare out the window wondering if he would hear it again, if it would call. Some nights he wouldn’t hear it at all and that’s when the nightmares would come, of high pitched laughs and flashes of green lights, of men in brightly colored robes and strange metal boxes in their hands that stole the light from the lamps on the street.
He didn’t know what the dreams might mean, but they frightened him. He despised the laugh and hated the man with the long white beard that left him on a doorstep.
“Aunt Petunia,” he said one morning in October as he made breakfast. “Did the man go to jail?”
She looked up, startled, and forgot to tell him not to ask question. “What man, boy?”
“The man in the bright robes who left me on your doorstep. I dream about him and how he stole the light. Did he go to jail? Isn’t that what happens to people who kidnap children?”
Her lips thinned. “Yes, it is. He’s not in jail, though.”
“I hate him,” he admitted quietly as he flipped an egg. “He’s—bad, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Harry,” she said, using his first name for the first time in years. “Very bad. He took your mother away from me when we were children.”
“So he does take children?”
Harry nodded but didn’t ask any more questions, thinking of the violin that called to him, and then he knew—it was calling him home—away from his small cupboard and the dreams of flashing lights.
Later that week, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon gave Harry his own bedroom. Dudley had been unhappy, and had been soundly punished for it strangely enough. Life began to change for Harry. He was given fewer chores and more to eat, and whenever his aunt or uncle heard Dudley calling him a “freak” his cousin went to bed without supper.
Still, the violin called to him. Some nights he would leave his window open and let the music float over him as he pulled off his now fitting pajamas and ran his small hands over his smooth chest. He felt ashamed, wicked. He didn’t want Aunt Petunia to find out, now that she seemed to care for him a little, but he couldn’t stop. The languorous notes caused his body to arch in despair and pleasure with no conscious thought at all, his breaths short and gasping until he would finally shiver and collapse against the mattress.
Dark eyes closed at his soft moan and the violin music halted in mid note, a bow lifting off the body, and Harry sighed in the darkness, missing the music that called to him every night.
“Do you like the violin, young one?” a soft voice asked and Harry quickly sat up, drawing the sheets around him.
Fumbling at his bedside table, he flicked on the light and saw a shadowed form leaning against his window, a beautiful violin held in his pale hands. “Who-Who are you?” Harry asked, his eyes mesmerized by dark orbs that appeared to know everything.
“Sanguini,” was the hissed response before the figure was gone again, the curtains flapping in a nonexistent wind.
Snow began to fall a few weeks after that, and still the music came, playing for Harry as he slept, caressing him like a lover might if only he were older. Sanguini never came again, but sometimes Harry dreamt he was standing over his bed, watching him with his violin in his hands, stroking his hair at times, causing him to shiver in the cold of the open window.
When Aunt Petunia found the sash drawn early in December before Harry was fully awake, she quickly closed it with a snap.
“Harry,” she said slowly. “You’ll catch your death.”
“No I won’t,” Harry whispered, half asleep. “I like the cold—the outside. I never had a window in my cupboard.”
Harry had been given an extra treat at lunch that day.
When the violin didn’t play, the nightmares would return. He dreamt of the man in robes, a stick in his hand, almost like a wand, coming to his house and laughing with his parents. Then there was only green light and laughter, a kind faced man and then a flying motorcycle, taking him away.
“Aunt?” he asked one morning close to Christmas. “I had a strange dream again.”
Dudley looked up, startled, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t nice to Harry but he never teased him anymore. Harry had his first friend in Piers Polkiss who had strangely taken a liking to Harry as soon as Dudley stopped hating him. Dudley had kicked up a fuss when Piers first came over to play with Harry, but he was sent to bed without dinner—again—and he never said a word about it again.
“What did you dream?” she asked worriedly as she gave him a second helping of eggs.
Harry smiled his thanks. “Uncle Padfoot came to take me, but the large man stole me away on a motorcycle,” he confided. “Then the man with the bright robes was here and left me on your doorstep.”
“Uncle Padfoot?” she asked, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
“I’ll go see if your mother made any mention to a Padfoot in her letters from when she was at school,” she promised and left it at that.
Harry had never been more content.
On Christmas morning Harry had a small pile of presents including a brand new blue bicycle. Dudley no longer pouted at anything Harry was given, but happily opened his own presents and smiled for the photographs his mother took of him. One was even taken of Harry, and Aunt Petunia promised to put it on the mantle.
When all the presents were open, Dudley counting his and complaining that one of them was too small, Harry looked out the open window at the new fallen snow. It was perfect, untouched, and yet in the front yard a small bright package sat, almost calling to him. Without even thinking about it, he had rushed to the window and pointed excitedly, Dudley coming up behind him before rushing for the door.
“Another present!” he shouted happily before his father held him back.
“I’ll get it,” Petunia said quietly, looking with fear at her husband, before she waded out into the snow, leaving small footprints. “It’s for Harry,” she admitted when she came back in. The same look passed between her and Uncle Vernon.
Uncle Vernon held out his hand for it and read the tag, confusion on his face. “Do you know anyone named Sanguini?” he asked and Harry nodded quickly.
“He’s a boy from school,” he lied and Dudley shrugged when his parents looked at him for confirmation.
Aunt Petunia seemed to sigh in relief and Harry was given the present. It was small and wrapped in blue paper and he opened it carefully, savoring the gift from the strange man with the dark eyes, the violin music playing through his memory.
It was small, delicate, and Harry adored it immediately.
“What’s that? A necklace?” Dudley asked cruelly before his father glared at him and sent him to his room, without his presents.
The gift was indeed a necklace. A silver pendant of a crescent moon hung on a leather straps that could easily be tied around Harry’s neck.
“Pet,” Uncle Vernon said nervously once Dudley was out of the room. “It is a necklace and a bit—well—“
“Yes,” she sighed before asking Harry to hold out his wrist. He did so and she tied the necklace around it several times. “Now it isn’t, though,” she said firmly with a nod of her head.
The music played again that night, and Harry found himself arching into gentle caresses and soft breath whispering over his skin. “Harry,” a voice murmured, and he awoke to cold lips pressing lightly against his own. “Harry.”
“Sanguini,” he murmured as the teasing movements caused him to shiver in bliss.
A soft laugh met his ears and then the gentle and loving contact was gone.
“You wore it,” the voice said—and then Harry was once again alone.
He didn’t tell anyone when Sanguini continued to play for him, hidden in shadows before soft kisses were given to him. Harry couldn’t stop drinking them in. They were light, teasing, almost innocent, and despite his relatives’ newfound kindness, they still bestowed little physical affection on him.
As January melted into February, Harry found himself more and more drawn to his nightly performer, even falling asleep within cold, hard arms though he always awoke the next morning alone. He never took off the bracelet except when in the shower, and when Dudley tried to steal it from him, he had been given some of Harry’s old chores to do for a week.
Dudley was still loved, still doted on, but the more Harry had nightmares about the man in the colored robes, the more he felt like he was one of the family.
“Hush, little wizard,” Sanguini whispered one night and Harry instantly drew back, eyebrows rising in fear.
“Don’t say that,” he murmured, his green eyes flashing. “Magic doesn’t exist.”
“Of course it does, little one.”
Harry shook his head. “I’m not allowed to say the ‘M’ word,” he confided and Sanguini ran his nose against the smooth line of Harry’s neck. “I have—dreams.”
“Of a man in robes, who came and took me away. He left me here on the doorstep and he shot green out of a stick and laughed. I think it was him, anyway.”
“If I showed you a picture, would you recognize him?” he asked and Harry shrugged.
“Maybe,” he admitted before cold hands undressed him completely, a kiss, more possessive than the others that preceded it, claiming his child-lips in bliss.
When Harry asked his aunt if she had found anything about ‘Padfoot’ she sighed and shook her head. “Probably a good-for-nothing,” she murmured while she packed Harry’s lunch. “You’re normal, though—now.” She looked nervous but Harry didn’t question her. He was glad to be normal.
Sanguini had, though, found a picture of the man from Harry’s nightmare. He was on a small card that said he had defeated a dark wizard and discovered the twelve uses of dragon’s blood.
“That’s him,” he whispered in the darkness and Sanguini smiled.
“I thought it might be,” he whispered as he kissed down Harry’s neck. “He’s a bad man—dangerous. The head of a school for wizards.”
“Oh,” Harry gasped as cold hands began to fondle him. He closed his eyes in bliss, never wanting the sensation to stop. “I love you,” he admitted quietly, and Sanguini stilled.
Harry wearily opened his eyes, green meeting near black, and he smiled softly. “I’ve never said that before,” he admitted.
“No one’s said that to me in a long time,” Sanguini murmured before kissing Harry passionately.
Harry was immediately caught up in the sensation of it as a soft tongue traced the lining of his lips. Hesitantly, he reached up and grasped Sanguini’s chest, pulling him closer, and opened his mouth hesitantly, giving the quiet permission Sanguini needed.
He smiled. Although Sanguini hadn’t said the words back, he knew that for the first time in his life, he was loved.
A few weeks later Dudley got his first girlfriend, a pretty little redhead who was too afraid of him to say ‘no,’ and Harry couldn’t stop laughing at the sight of them. Piers had ignored the entire situation and Dudley said he was just jealous. Harry had raised an eyebrow at him.
“Little wizard,” Sanguini murmured near the end of March, his movements rough and jilted. Harry had noticed that over the past week he had become inexplicably paler, dark circles forming under his eyes and he lingered longer over Harry’s neck when he kissed him.
“N-Nothing. I should go.”
He slipped his hands out of Harry’s pajamas but Harry clasped onto him tightly. “Don’t go,” he begged. “What if you never come back?”
“I’ll always come back. I’m just—hungry, little wizard.”
Harry sat up, his legs now firmly wrapped around Sanguini’s torso and he moaned at the close contact between their bodies. Sometimes he wished he could make Sanguini gasp like he did, but his visitor would only shake his head and tell him that playing the violin was enough for him. “We can sneak down to the kitchen. Aunt Petunia doesn’t mind—not anymore.”
Sanguini sighed and shook his head, holding Harry close. “I don’t—eat that type of food, Harry,” he admitted as he took a deep breath, teeth scraping across Harry’s skin.
Harry tangled his hands in Sanguini’s dark hair and moaned. “Stay—anything. I’ll do anything. Just stay,” he moaned and Sanguini’s cold hands roamed up his back before a sharp sting pricked his neck.
He groaned in pain, but Sanguini held him closer, rubbing their bodies against each other until Harry barely noticed the light headed feeling and sharp pain that almost paralyzed him. Soft lips kissed away the hurt, and Harry found himself being kissed by blood soaked lips.
“Come for me,” Sanguini whispered and even though Harry didn’t understand his meaning, he shivered in bliss and smiled when a few moments later Sanguini did the same.
Harry had never been so happy when spring bled into summer. Dudley was almost pleasant to him and Harry had grown three inches since Christmas, which Aunt Petunia proudly marked off next to Dudley’s on the kitchen door.
Sanguini came nearly every night, playing his haunting violin, whispering stories of gypsies in Harry’s ear, before drinking from him and bringing them both to bliss. For a few weeks, Aunt Petunia was worried that Harry was looking a bit pale, but she started giving him iron pills every day, and soon Harry barely noticed any light headedness when the small pain came.
“You’re a vampire,” he whispered in realization before Sanguini drew away and gave him a small bottle he now always brought. It was steaming and pink and always made Harry feel better after Sanguini drank from him.
“Yes,” he admitted, never moving his gaze from Harry’s.
“If vampires are real, is magic?” Harry asked, leaning forward to kiss Sanguini softly.
“I can’t be a wizard—Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon will put me back in my cupboard,” he confessed and Sanguini held him close.
“I don’t want you to be either. They’ll take you away from me. They hate vampires,” he murmured as he pulled Harry’s shirt over his head, exposing his bare chest to the warm spring air.
“I won’t, then,” Harry promised. “I swear I won’t.”
Dudley’s birthday passed without comment and Harry was allowed to go over to Piers’s house. His mother baked them cookies and they made plans for the upcoming year. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, after much consideration, had decided to send Harry to Smelting’s along with Dudley. Piers was going as well.
He had the grades and had been so good and “normal”—and Aunt Petunia decided she wanted him to have the best in life. “We can afford it,” Harry had heard her say. “More than easily. We don’t want them getting their hands on him.”
Dudley, who had been listening in with Harry, looked at him, confused. Harry shrugged, though he knew she was speaking about wizards.
The letter came, like Harry knew it would, and he stared at it impassively.
“Who’s it from, Harry?” his uncle asked, not looking up from the morning papers.
“Them,” was the only answer Harry gave before ripping it open and glancing over the letter.
Aunt Petunia looked up, startled. “Them?”
“I want to still go to Smelting’s, if that’s alright?” Harry grabbed a pen from the counter and scribbled a quick response declining the invitation to the school before looking out the window. “How am I to send it back if there’s no owl like it says?”
His aunt quickly got up and took the letter from his hands, smiling slightly as she read his response. “I’ll take care of it, darling,” she whispered before walking out of the room.
Dudley blinked at him stupidly.
“That’s my nephew,” Vernon said proudly.
They didn’t like the answer Harry sent and were soon knocking on their doorstep one night when Harry was supposed to be asleep.
“What’s that?” Harry whimpered, his slick skin pressed against Sanguini’s bare chest.
“Wizards,” he breathed, worry tinting his dark eyes as he lowered Harry onto the bed. Kissing his lips softly, Sanguini pulled the covers over him before picking up his discarded violin and melting out the window, leaving Harry alone.
He shivered at the sudden cold and pulled the covers to him tighter before screaming erupted from down below.
“Harry doesn’t want to go!” Uncle Vernon shouted and Harry sighed, looking over at the bedside table. The vial of potion was still there, at least, he thought to himself. Sanguini hadn’t taken much blood tonight, but it was nice to have it, just the same.
“You freaks!” Aunt Petunia now added and there was a pounding on the stairs before Harry’s door was roughly thrown open just after he swiped the small vial and shoved it under his pillow.
He blinked several times as the hall light almost blinded him. He could feel his own blood trickle down his neck and he brought the covers up closer to hide the healing mark that Sanguini left. “Who are you?” he asked quietly and the man—the wizard from his dreams—smiled kindly.
“I am Albus Dumbledore from Hogwarts—“
“I don’t want to go,” he stated firmly before rolling away from the man in robes that hurt his eyes. Harry didn’t want to be a wizard, didn’t want to leave Sanguini.
He closed his eyes and soft violin music that only he can hear caressed him lovingly. No one else moved. Harry knew he was the only one that could hear it—that Sanguini only played for him.
The man sighed. “Harry, your parents were friends of mine—“
“They’re dead,” he snapped back, turning over and glaring at the man. “I’ve dreamt about you. What you did. Get out.”
The old man, Dumbledore, looked taken aback. “Harry.”
“I’m tired and I’m sleeping. I’m going to another school with my best friend. I won’t let you take me away.” Not from him, not from Sanguini, was left unsaid.
“Your parents would want you to receive proper training as a wizard,” Dumbledore tried again.
“Then they shouldn’t have died,” Harry explained.
Aunt Petunia finally found her voice. “You have your answer. Harry wants to stay here with Dudley and Piers—and I will let him stay.”
“You need to be trained—there’s a darkness—“
“I’m safe,” Harry whispered, his hand unconsciously seeking out the charm still wrapped around his wrist. “Nothing can hurt me. Nothing at all.”
The wizard came back again and again, the third time with a court order that forced Harry to attend Hogwarts. Harry stared at it dolefully, tears welling up in his eyes. Aunt Petunia screamed and threw things at Dumbledore and the stern-faced witch that accompanied him. Nothing did any good.
On his eleventh birthday, Harry found himself in Diagon Alley, rushing off to Knockturn Alley with a puffing Hagrid running after him. Sanguini had told him to go there, that he would find him and he would be safe.
He ducked into Borgin and Burkes, a store Sanguini had mentioned, only to run into a small boy with a shock of blond hair. “Sorry,” he squeaked, stepping away, before cold arms enveloped him from behind. “Sanguini,” he whispered before he was turned around and embraced.
Sanguini breathed in Harry’s scent from beneath his hood before setting him down again. “Court order?” he inquired and Harry nodded.
“The wizards say as an orphan I have to go to Hogwarts—I have no say. Aunt Petunia has no say.”
“Bastards,” Sanguini spat out before his dark eyes caught the cold, calculating gaze of another wizard. He nodded. “Malfoy. Your son?”
Harry turned around quickly and observed the boy again.
“I see you’ve found a—Beloved,” Malfoy replied quietly, taking in Harry’s small frame and the symbol around his wrist. “A wizard child.”
“Not for long,” Sanguini murmured before taking Harry’s warm hand in his cold one. “Come, little one. We leave tonight.”
That was the last time for years a human ever saw Harry Potter.
Part the Second—Beloved
The violin never played in this new, strange place, but Harry didn’t care. For dark years he lost himself to sensation, knowing nothing but Sanguini’s haunting lips and the pull of blood from his neck. As he grew older, the kisses became more sensual and the first time Sanguini made love to him, he learned that it was now his fifteenth birthday.
“When will I be yours?” he murmured against Sanguini’s hair, pulling him closer, never wanting to let him go.
“When the Violin plays.”
Harry had almost forgotten the sound of the music that still haunted his dreams. He didn’t need it anymore, though his blood craved it. When he heard it again, it would be time. He was not old enough, he knew, but it did not matter. All that he knew was that when Sanguini shuddered within him, he was happier than he had ever been.
He was loved, he was safe, he was wanted.
Still, the violin did not play.
Winter melted into spring, which burned into summer, and soon Harry found that the ground of the soft forest was covered once again in snow. A man—a human—had been amongst them for over a year, but Harry had never seen him. He did not care to, did not wish to.
All he knew was the feeling of lips against his own and whispered promises in the dark.
No other vampire was allowed to touch him as long as he kept the charm that claimed him as Sanguini’s, an old Christmas gift left for him in the snow. He now wore it around his neck, proudly, peaking out from the fur cape that kept him warm.
“Do you remember Christmas?” Sanguini asked him one night and Harry looked at him and nodded. “Would you like to go to a Christmas party—at Hogwarts?”
Harry stared at him. “I thought—“
“The ministry cannot touch you now,” Sanguini soothed with a soft kiss, his cold hands running across the bite marks on his neck. “You’re almost of age to them and have given yourself to me willingly.”
With a soft smile it was decided.
Eldred Worple was the name of the wizard who outfitted him for the party. Harry’s hair had grown out so much that it easily covered his scar and gently fell around his shoulders, hiding the teeth marks Sanguini so lovingly gave him.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Worple confessed as he buttoned up Harry’s dress shirt. It felt odd wearing something other than skins and furs. The vampires, Harry knew, wore wizard clothing, but for some reason he was set apart, perhaps because of his position in the clan. “The human beloved. I have a whole chapter on you in my book.”
“Yes. Quite.” A bow tie, like the one Uncle Vernon used to wear, was expertly threaded around his neck. It felt confining, tight, and Harry glanced over to Sanguini who was hungrily watching his ordeal.
“No tie. Leave the neckline open,” Sanguini instructed and Worple hesitated. “He is not a wizard.”
Worple nodded, the shirt sliding off from Harry’s smooth shoulders. Another, this one black and made of silk, soon replaced it. “There is rarely a beloved, and even stranger too that you were chosen as a child,” Worple continued uneasily. “How did you meet?”
Harry smiled to himself, his eyes locking on Sanguini’s. “He used to play the violin to me when I slept.”
“And your parents?”
“Dead. I never knew them.” Nothing else had to be said. It was all in the past. All that mattered was here and now and Sanguini’s burning gaze on him as he was dressed.
Hogwarts was more beautiful than Harry could ever have imagined and he squeezed Sanguini’s hand, which possessively cradled his own. “My parents went to school here?” he murmured against Sanguini’s lips but Worple heard him.
“Your parents were wizards then?”
Harry did not answer. He did not need to. Human rules no longer applied to him, and as a Beloved he rarely spoke to anyone but Sanguini.
He moved through the hallways with a majesty that the vampires had taught him. He knew people were staring at him, at the symbol declaring him beloved, his name unuttered except in the heat of passion. When they reached the party, it was all bright lights and tinsel, a reminder of something he’d lost but never missed.
Harry rarely remembered Piers or even his cupboard anymore. There was nothing before the violin began to sing to him, nothing before sweet stolen kisses in the dead of night.
A thick, portly man greeted them, and Harry was introduced simply as “beloved.” He had no name, not anymore. Only Sanguini was permitted to use it—only he was privileged.
“Oh, the famous beloved!” the man cried happily, offering his hand which Harry did not take. “I’ve read all about you, of course, in Blood Brothers.”
“It could hardly have been accurate,” Harry mused aloud. “I never met this human before tonight.”
The man’s face fell slightly before lighting up once again in a smile. “Of course, of course. Forgive me, of course. Such a pleasure, such a pleasure. Come, try the mince pies.”
Harry found it strange being around humans again, around people who would have been his friends, his peers, if Sanguini had never played to him.
A bushy haired girl was under the mistletoe with a boy. He remembered that tradition from somewhere—sometime long before he became beloved.
Worple noticed his gaze. “Humans kiss under the mistletoe at Christmastime. It is a tradition.”
“You have been beloved for a long time?” he asked, hesitating.
“Yes.” He paused. “I was to come here to Hogwarts, against my will. Sanguini took me away before they could.”
The small wizard started. “Really?”
“I don’t like wizards. They killed my parents—kidnapped me. I did not want to come.”
“You were to come to Hogwarts?” a new voice said and he looked up to see the bushy haired girl, her dress slightly rumpled. Her—date, if Harry remembered the term correctly—looked upset that they weren’t under the mistletoe any longer.
He turned away from her.
“I’m Hermione Granger,” she held out her hand, but once again Harry did not take it. She harrumphed in annoyance. “Who are you, then?”
“He is Beloved,” Worple answered for him and her eyes widened. “You are not permitted to touch him.”
“I’ve read about Vampire traditions,” she hurried on quickly in a bossy voice. “There hasn’t been a known Beloved since the fifteen hundreds.”
Harry blinked at her, his eyes then roving around the room for Sanguini. He was leaning against a wall under the mistletoe, his eyes calling to him in invitation.
“Is there a vampire here, then?”
Harry was gone before he could hear Worple’s response.
Long fingers slid into his hair and Harry gasped when Sanguini leaned down to kiss him hungrily under the mistletoe. “Are you angry?”
Harry tilted his head to the side in a silent question.
“That you never had any of this,” Sanguini whispered, his fingers trailing down his neck and possessively pressing against the two dark purple pinpricks on his neck. They always healed but the repeated feeding caused scars to be left.
They were scars of honor and love, to be proud of. Any vampire who saw him would know that he was able to keep his lover satisfied and was worthy of his title of beloved.
Not that these petty humans would ever understand.
His eyes fluttered shut as frost-covered lips began to kiss his neck and he moaned decadently. He didn’t care that they were in public—these were wizards after all. If they didn’t understand, then Harry just didn’t care.
“Potion?” he asked quietly and Sanguini’s hold on him tightened.
“Isn’t that illegal?” a voice to Harry’s right asked and Sanguini looked up at the interloper imperiously.
Another girl, this one with dark red hair and brown eyes, looked between them. Harry thought she might have been pretty, if he liked humans. He couldn’t look at anyone other than Sanguini—he was his everything and Harry was his muse.
A tall boy with chocolate skin was behind her at a distance, clearly watching.
“Human,” Sanguini mocked, his arm snaking down to around Harry’s waist as he pulled him closer. “They think they know everything.”
“He’s human,” the girl observed, pointing at Harry, and Sanguini laughed quietly.
“He is beloved.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Beloved?”
“Mudblood?” This time Harry spoke, using the term the vampires employed for those who knew nothing of other magical cultures.
Harry had been worried as a young boy that Sanguini saw him as a Mudblood, but with soft kisses and even softer words he had been assured he was not. He was beloved. He was above such human concerns. He was no longer a wizard, but more.
The girl inhaled sharply and the boy behind her chuckled, now joined by another wizard, this one with pale blond hair and pointed features.
“How dare you!” she hissed, drawing attention to them.
The pompous man from before quickly made his way over, Worple and Granger close behind him.
“What’s wrong?” Worple demanded, looking between the vampiric couple and the young witch.
“He,” she pointed at Harry, “called me a Mudblood.”
Granger stiffened and Harry’s eyes narrowed. Clearly Granger at least was a Mudblood, then.
Cold hands caressed his hip soothingly and he closed his eyes in pleasure, the soft chords of discordant violin music playing through his mind. Soon, he realized. So very soon…
“Beloved?” Worple asked, bowing his head in submission, but Harry ignored him as he usually did humans, although these were the first humans he had seen in years that were not used as nourishment for Sanguini’s brothers.
“She knows nothing of our ways,” Sanguini answered with a sigh as Harry clearly would not speak. He traced a finger down Harry’s jaw before nipping lightly at his neck.
Harry sighed out in pleasure. “You’re teasing me,” he accused.
The girl shuddered in disgust.
“Ginny,” Granger said as she approached the witch. “The—human—is beloved of the vampire. It’s a position of honor among vampires. As soon as he put that charm around his neck,” she pointed to the necklace that hung on Harry’s bare chest, “he was—married to the vampire. He will be turned when he is old enough.” Her voice was academic and clipped.
Harry looked past them at the two wizards and his eyes narrowed. “I know you,” he whispered, before dragging Sanguini away from the mistletoe and closer to the blond. “I met you in Diagon Alley before I came away. Malfoy.” He smiled slightly, proud that he could recall the small detail. “Remember, Sanguini?”
Malfoy bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Beloved,” he murmured. “I do remember.”
Sanguini pulled Harry against his chest and stroked his neck lovingly. Harry leaned into the touch, but his eyes never left Malfoy. He was the first connection to Harry’s past, before he was fully initiated into the darkness as Sanguini’s Beloved.
“I was to buy my books for Hogwarts,” he confessed quietly, “but I escaped.”
“You were a wizard?” Malfoy’s companion asked, bowing his head in deference and using the correct tense, for as beloved he could no longer be a wizard. “Blaise Zabini.”
Harry looked away, but Sanguini answered with an inclination of his head. It was all Malfoy and Zabini needed.
“It’s sick,” Ginny said somewhere near them and Blaise sighed at her antics.
“She’s your date,” Malfoy reminded him. “That’s what you get for going for blood traitors.”
“She’s in love with the idea of Potter anyway,” he replied quietly and Harry’s ears picked up.
They turned toward Harry and Malfoy nodded. “Harry James Potter, the missing savior.”
Harry glanced at Sanguini with a question in his eyes. The vampire kissed him lightly in response. Words were not needed between vampires and were rarely used.
“He was left with Muggles and an injunction was signed to force him to come to Hogwarts,” Zabini explained in a hushed tone. “He disappeared in Diagon Alley and no one has seen or heard from him again.”
Harry lifted an eyebrow. Malfoy’s eyes widened in understanding.
“She’s in love with me though she has never met me,” Harry mused aloud and Sanguini’s grip tightened against his waist. “How odd.”
That night Sanguini took him slowly against a soft bed of silk on the forest floor. Everything was white and cold around them but Harry didn’t feel it. All that mattered was Sanguini and the discarded violin that he had played for him that night. The music had caressed him with unspoken promises and Harry sighed as Sanguini bit the area directly above his heart, drinking him nearly dry.
His lips glittered in the light of the moon, and Harry reached up and kissed him passionately, shivering in his release. Soft fingers leaned him back until his chin was tilted upward and a wrist was pressed against his mouth and he drank in the tangy liquid hungrily, never wanting to stop.
He was home, he was beloved, and as his body slowly died, the soft strains of gypsy music reached his ears before he went deaf and the world turned completely black.
As the years passed he was no longer called Beloved, and he was given a new name as a vampire—Vitula, the stringed instrument. He never took the necklace off. It was a reminder of the years as a small boy he could barely remember, but as the decades passed and a strange wizard war erupted around them, he found his mind strangely returning to the cupboard where he first heard the violin play.
In the early days of his rebirth, Sanguini had taken him from England and one morning had pressed a violin into his hands. “Play,” he had commanded, and after years of diligent practice, Harry played for him as Sanguini once serenaded him.
They returned to England when the ashes settled, making love quietly on the desolated grounds of Hogwarts where death still lingered, whispering “Beloved” as they each gained their pleasure. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing ever had, but the gentle strain of violin music and a love that could not be spoken of except in that one perfect word.