Monsters by Nightfall

He was going to run. At least Draco really wanted to. He even moved his entire body towards the opposite side, ready to lift his feet and sprint away. One hand on the tree trunk he stood against, about to leap.

Only he couldn't. Why couldn't he? He tried again.

His body, as if petrified, just didn't move. Didn't respond to Draco's demands. The only movement possible was back towards his classmates and that of course was not an option.

And they didn't seem to move either. Suddenly stock still, Draco debated what to do.
Maybe he should wait.
Glimpsing at the three shadows they had stettled down in the thicket, huddled together, debating something Draco didn't care to listen to. He was more occupied with panicking.

His eyes shot around, desperately searching for a way out, for something to do. Something to safe him from ripping apart the Boy-Who-Lived to be annoying, like the innocent doe he had killed before.

Hadn't the animal filled him up enough?

It was the rebound, Draco figured. Because of the runes. The spells. The precautions made for tonight. They were coming to bite him in the arse. Why hadn't he just stayed home?

Suddenly his eyes fixed onto something shiny on the ground. A stone reflecting the moonlight.

A sharp stone, from what Draco could see. Perhaps...

Draco didn't want to. He really didn't. He prided himself on his flawless skin. But he also prided himself on living. On being perceived as normal. Maybe if he only cut a little bit. Only used the blood. Would it even cut his skin? Maybe if he lend a little magic to the stone.

Forcing himself downwards, Draco let gravity take over.

His knee's hit the ground hard, but he couldn't even feel the pain. There were too many thoughts rushing through his head. To much fear. Too much worry.

And then there was blood. Dripping down his hand, over his fingertips, onto the ground.

It was most peculiar to Draco. He knew blood - Being a Vampire, he was even somewhat of an expert on blood - but this didn't smell like normal blood. He had never seen or smelled his own blood before. Not for the last eight years. Maybe before all this, back when he had been able to bleed.

This wasn't like the blood he knew however. It was more of a mixture. Remnants of his last few meals, combined into one.

Another odd thing: he wasn't drawn to the red gashes, spreading over his hands now. Not like he had been before, at the campsite, when that witch had fallen from her broom. Neither was he fascinated by it's crimson flow.

Contrarily, It repelled him.

It made Draco sick.

It reminded him of the suffering in his prey's eyes. It held the pain of their bloodshed. It reeked of death and sadness. Every drop hitting the ground reverberated in his ears like screams. The cuts burned like fiendfire.

It disgusted Draco to know what was flowing through his veins, what his body was coated in since the day of his 6th birthday.

Eight years of torture, pressed into his blood vessels. Of course only the last few killings were part of his body now, warming him fron the inside, to simulate a human appearance. To give him the strength to live on.

But there were still traces of older blood, within the steady stream, flowing through his body.
To think that all those creatures, he had hunted and killed over the years, had died to keep him alive. And for what? What gave Draco the right to live?

His hand fastened on the stone, it's sharp edges cutting into his hand even deeper. He didn't have a right to live, Draco knew. But he was selfish. He wanted to live. He had to, if he ever wanted to become something worth all the bloodshed. If he wanted to redeem it.

And then he began drawing, blood coating his finger.
A straight line.
Another shorter one, forming a cross with another.
Another straight one.

Humanity.

The pad of his finger was shaking, drawing the rune onto his forearm. Then the second rune.

His eyes flicked up to his three classmates, still conversing quite soundly a few feet away. He was almost done. If only they were to take just one step away from him. Perhaps then Draco would be able to breath normally. Function again.

This was horrible. Mortifying. And then, finally, the rune was finished.

Draco wanted to inhale gratefully but nothing had changed. His breathing was still uneven. He'd done the runes! So why were his senses still so sharp? Had he done something wrong? A line too much?

Why wasn't it working? Please! why couldn't it just work? He had done everything right! Please. Why?

Normally runes drawn by blood worked even better. Held longer. Their effect stronger.

But why didn't it work now? Was it his blood specifically? Did it not work with vampire blood?

What was he supposed to do now? He wasn't gonna admit defeat. No. He could figure this out.

What did Draco know about runes? What had that book said about them again?

'Runes are symbols representing various sound values, belonging to a runic alphabet. The runes themselves could be used both as an alphabet or as stand-in for whole words (as logograms). Especially in the Middle Ages...'
No this wasn't helping. But what had it said next?

'Runes can be drawn by magic or simply applied with colour or any other lasting substance or material on a surface... Especially in advanced magic, runes are more efficient when written in the blood of the writer.'

Blood. Excactly. So why wasn't it working? Unless...

Oh.

Well this was unfortunate. This blood wasn't Draco's now, was it. Of course it flowed in his veins. But it wasn't his to begin with. It was stolen from his prey. It was mixed up. Remnants of dozens, if not more species - Draco had no idea how long the blood was able to be stored in his body. Of course it didn't work.

But what else was there to do...

There was rustling of leaves behind him. The trio was moving. Finally. This was Good.

But then one suddenly turned and then they were moving in Draco's direction. Not good.

"Do you think he would've said yes If I had asked him to sit with us? Or to come with us to the your family's tent, Ron?"
"I highly doubt that Harry."

Draco had to move; and he had to move fast.
There wasn't much time to think before more blood ran down his other hand. Blood drawn from his left forearm.

One Rune.
Another.

"Where do you think he went when the players came up? He was suddenly gone. His parents too."
"No not all of them. I saw his father join the minister later."
"Can you two please shut up. I'm trying to think over here. Why are you so hung up on making friends with Malfoy anyway? I thought you hated him?"

Numbness.
Pain.
Dispair.
Sadness.

"Hate? Have you seen him talking about that bratty dunglicker recently? It's like he's in love with him or something, the way he starts beaming whenever anyone e en mentiones him."
"I do not. And I'm not in love with him. Shut it!"

Rustling of leaves. The voices above were one big blurr to Draco. Had they spotted him? Why were they coming closer? So close. Too close. GO AWAY!

"Merlin, is that Malfoy? Speak of the devil."
Weasley. Draco hated this. Another cut.

"Draco! What are you... God, What happened to you?  Who did this? Is that your blood? Does anyone have a cloth? Merlin's beard, your bleeding all over your arm. Shit. Hermione do you know any spells?"

Draco was trying to shield his wound as long as it was still there. But like before his movements were sluggish. His inner vampire fighting him. Still on the brink of breaking free. He just had to do this last cut.

Drawing the last line, Draco's muscles finally gave up the fight. His body slumbing unceremonious right against the tree trunk.
"Draco! Come Ron, let's get him sitting upright."
"Malfoy? Do you hear me? I don't think he can hear us Harry."
"Do you think he was hexed?"

"Merlin's beard! Did he cut that into his arm himself? With a stone?"
"Maybe he was hit with the imperio curse? I read about it in our DADA book this year. People under the curse aren't themselves anymore. They are controlled by the caster. But it's illegal to use it. Surely..."
"I don't think the Death Eaters care about whatever is legal, Hermione."

The golden trio had surrounded him now, cutting off most spaces to duck away to. Of course, that didn't mean Draco didn't try. Only, in his trance like state, Whatever movements his body tried to execute came out sloppy.

"Malfoy, don't move too much. Shit we gotta stop the bleeding."

Bleeding.

Huh.

And it wasn't even his blood he was bleeding.

This was too much.

Going from one extreme to another like this, gave Draco severe whiplash.
One minute a bloodthirsty vampire, the other a numb humanoid potatosack of a being. 

As if on autopilot his legs started to sluggishly scramble for surface. Before he knew it, Draco was stumbling away.

"Hey Draco, Wait! Shit, wait up."
Potter was coming after him.

Absentmindedly rubbing away the seemingly infinite stream of blood running doen his forearm, Draco didn't notice he was going back to the edge of the forest. His mind more occupied with the wound than his surroundings.

Draco didn't know how long it would take to heal and this unknown factor scared him more than anything else.

"Draco!"
Potter had caught up with him fumbling out of his muggle jacket to forcefully bind it around Draco's bloodied wound.
"Draco please stop, for just a minute. Your bleeding. You could be seriously hurt. You..."

Draco wasn't really listening when he stopped, at the last tree of the forest, ripped out of his trance by the flames licking at a sea of tents down below. There was yelling and a cacophony of screams.

And then something was thrown into the sky. A streak of black shooting up and exploding into a giant black skull. And then the skull opened its blackened mouth to let out a ginormous snake.

The Dark Mark.

The Death Eaters.

He who must not be named.

The Dark Lord.

Voldemort.

"You have to hide."