Eternal /Drarry/

Chapter 1: The Blood-Thief

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You expect me to drink that tasteless, useless garbage when the real thing is perfectly within reach and is so much better in every way possible?"

"We expect you to control yourself and behave."

Harry snorted. "Whatever, go ahead and expel me then. I don't care, I have the next five hundred years to learn whatever I want to, so it doesn't really matter anymore."

"Your parents would be ashamed to hear you say that," Dumbledore said quietly.

"And I'm supposed to care because...?"

Dumbledore just shook his head sadly. "We're going to see an old friend of mine who will be teaching this year, and then I'll be taking you to the burrow for the rest of the holidays."

"No way," Harry snarled, stepping backwards. "Not a hope in hell am I going to the burrow."

"Enough is enough, Harry. We can't have you running around and posing a threat to muggles and wizards alike. At least when you're at the burrow we can know what you're doing," Dumbledore said, his tone firm.

Harry breathed out a cloud of smoke, raising an eyebrow. "You honestly thing confining me to the burrow is going to do anything?"

"We can only hope," Dumbledore said quietly. "Take my arm."

"No."

"We don't have time for you to act like a five year old," Dumbledore said, sounding more tired than reprimanding.

Harry huffed, rolling his eyes as he did as he was told. The whirling sensation of apparation began, making him feel like he was being pulled in every single direction simultaneously.

Flying around as a cloud of smoke or a cloud of bats was much nicer. There was less of a jerking feeling, and flying that way didn't make him feel like he wanted to vomit.

When the nauseating feeling ceased, Harry found himself standing next to Dumbledore on a dark road, illuminated dimly by a few weakly flickering streetlights.

"Still trying to hide who I am, I see," Harry said with a frown, looking at his pale, white skinned hands, knowing that his eyes would be a dull and lifeless green behind his glasses.

"Only a select few know about your condition," Dumbledore said calmly, beginning to walk. "And I think it would be in your best interests to keep it that way."

"A condition? You say it like I've got some disease," Harry said with a frown, easily catching up to the old wizard. "And a select few? The whole Weasley family knows, and look at their ridiculous amount of relatives. The red-head legacy will never end."

Dumbledore didn't reply, simply avoiding Harry's gaze and carrying on walking. He walked rather briskly for a man of his age, whatever that age might be.

Dumbledore walked down a path towards a house, Harry trailing somewhat reluctantly behind him. The vampire's curiosity was piqued as he saw the interior or the house, though.

If not for the utter haphazard and dangerous looking mess that the house was, it once would've been a rather nice place. The door was broken off its hinges, swaying slightly in the night breeze and creaking as it did so. The carpet was dirty and had muddy footprints plastered all over it. All the coffee tables and couches had been upturned and destroyed, a glass chandelier lying on the floor underneath a hole in the ceiling. What Harry could make out as dragon's blood was splattered across the wall, making the place look more like a serial killer's hideout than somewhere where someone was supposedly living.

Harry could hear a heartbeat, but it was slightly muffled, slightly dulled. He turned, frowning in confusion as he realised that the noise was emanating from what looked like regular armchair. It was probably the only non-destroyed item left in the house, looking very out of place amongst the mess.