Alone Together

Wet Dirt Tastes Good

It was all her fault.

If that idiotic girl hadn't pricked her finger, he would've found some way to scare her off, get her away so he could consume some blood from the chickens. That's what he had gone there for, and the brash Gryffindor had followed him to confront him.

He had been weak from lack of sustenance, and the blood in the fresh air had been too much. Draco couldn't control himself at that point; the animal instincts had taken over, and he despised it.

But what he despised most was the taste.

It had been nothing like the old blood at all, or the animal blood for that matter. It had been intoxicating, rich, the metallic tang a subtle afterthought instead of overwhelmingly present. It had been sweet and tart. The only comparison that Draco could think of that even came close to the taste was a foreign drink called Nectar of Heaven. He craved it, thought about it, and now since he had tasted it, he wanted nothing else. He was supposed to hate it, push the thought of it away because of how much it disgusted him, but he couldn't.

Draco felt healthier, more awake, more alive than he had in months, but his thoughts kept going back to Granger. He'd barely been able to stop himself, and when he did, she had been limp in his arms, her head lolling to the side. Panicking, he had checked her pulse, and let out a sigh of relief.

"I could have killed her." Draco realized. He had held her life in his hands, and had almost crushed it as easily as crushing a new blossom. He had also realized that he did not want to kill her, despite her being a mortal enemy of his.

She had looked so fragile in his arms, so helpless, it scared him. Quickly, he had brought her into Hagrid's abandoned hut before anyone could see them together. Carefully, he had laid her motionless body on the bed, the only sign of life a small rise and fall of her chest.

"What am I going to do now?" he had thought, gazing down on her still form, feeling like an intruder though he was the one that had brought her here. It was so foreign, so strange to see Granger looking vulnerable, and Draco hated it. It was much harder to push all the blame on the sleeping girl rather than the one who was smirking and confronting her. 

Not to mention, even now, the scent of her blood clouded his brain, as he stood meters away from her. It was seared into his mind now. 

Draco tore his gaze away from Granger, turning his back towards her. He had to think clearly.

Now the Gryffindor knew what he was, and he had basically attacked her, and drained her of half of her blood. The only advantage he had now was that the school was run by friends of his father. Even though his father didn't care about him, he cared about his reputation, and everyone finding out that Draco was a vampire would definitely cause it to dip.

Draco did the only thing that he knew he could.

He left, and pretended like nothing had happened.

That was yesterday.

After a sleepless night, Draco wandered the halls during the morning hours, having too much nervous energy to sit still. 

Him! Nervous energy! The thought appalled him. Draco never got nervous, whether it was before stealing a kiss from a pretty girl, or up in the pitch right before the start of a Quidditch match. Of course Granger had been the one to bring this plague upon him. 

He didn't want to go to class, fearing the worst. He knew there wasn't a chance of it happening, but every time he thought about going into a place with a group of people, that Hermione Granger would be among them, and point him out saying,