A Fledgling

The air was arctic. The smell of the rotten flesh of some animal slaughtered by a beast was so faint that it was almost untraceable, for the atmosphere was too cold for the process of decay to occur properly. The odour of dead leaves was the most dominant. Tutmosis sniffed the air, trying to recall the specifics of the dead creature. Centaur. It must have been a centaur. He wished it wasn't winter. Winter had an annoying habit of freezing the world over, stopping the delicious scents from spreading around.

Tutmosis was a very young Dementor, not much over a hundred years old. A fledgling. Perhaps this was why he could still find pleasure in inhaling the air that was overlaid with the crisp scents of death and decay. He hadn't visited the outside world since his Enlightenment, but he had managed not to forget its spicy taste. Of course, nothing could match the richness of the impressions that the Isle and its prisoners provided, but there were other pleasures as well, pleasures found only where life thrived... and died. He marvelled at the way the world smelt, felt, thought. And this place, in front of the gates of... What was it called again? Hogwarts... Yes. Hogwarts. A place full of human fledglings. This place offered impressions even Azkaban couldn't. He reached out with his mind and probed around. Ah yes.... Yes.... So sweet.... His hunger intensified as he drank in the distant fear, the pain, the doubt, the hatred. There was even some terror....

The wards around the castle were strong but not strong enough to defeat his hunger. His mind circled through the thoughts of the inhabitants of the castle.

Anger. Guilt. Hopelessness. Jealousy.

So sweet, so easy. So different from the Isle. It was intoxicating to kill the joy of these innocent human fledglings, so easy to quench it with the terror from within their own minds. They didn't fight, didn't keep guard on their thoughts. He didn't have to search deep; everything was out on the surface, ready to be harvested.

Wrath. Fury. Self-pity. Grief. Resentment. Regrets.

The taste of the majority of the prisoners of the Isle of Azkaban lacked certain shades. There was plenty of anger and fear and hatred but little resentment or grief. The Isle had such a limited variety of dark thoughts....

Ahhh.... Another physical sensation reached his senses, one that managed to distract him from savouring the demons that rested safely in the minds of the humans of the castle. When he concentrated more, he detected a scent that made his entire being tremble with an emotion most akin to joy. Near to the gate he guarded was the smell of what he had lived for for several dozens of centuries. Metallic. Coppery. Warm and thick. Sweet and smooth. Once, he had thought it was the Ambrosia the Greeks told fables about. And in truth, it was. It was the liquid of divine taste that granted eternal life.

Blood.

He could smell blood.

Human blood.

Unaware that he was moving, Tutmosis glided towards the scent. The creature... no, the human, was heading towards him, slowly but persistently. The smell of warm blood was more and more pronounced on the cold air, although he felt its amount was very small. Regretfully, Tutmosis realised that the smell wasn't as overwhelming as it once would have been. It no longer made him dizzy, it no longer drove him to a frenzy, but he still delighted in it. All the Enlightened did. It was a price he had paid for ascending to the Enlightenment and for being able to taste pleasures that far exceeded that of blood. From underneath the layers of centuries' worth of memories, he dug out a comparison that seemed appropriate. A human fledgling didn't hunger for milk when it discovered the merits of sweet sugar. In the same way, a Dementor didn't hunger for blood when it discovered the merits of a sweet human soul.

The human he was approaching sensed him. It was terrified. The human was small, inexperienced. A fledgling. It didn't yet know what was going on, but its mind was making the connections. The fledgling was smart. Good, smart minds offered so much more than those of simpletons. The glorious fear that radiated from the fledgling was becoming overwhelming in a way blood had never been. The feeling of being small and unimportant and completely inadequate that the fledgling was experiencing with piercing bitterness felt divine inside Tutmosis' mind.

Then an impression of utter despair came and the fledgling started to wail like a hurt animal. The memory, buried deeply in its subconscious, sprang to life.

She was standing alone in a dark alley full of mean-looking people. She scanned the surroundings frantically in search of a familiar face. There was none.

"Mum? Dad?" she said imploringly but remained unheard. She tried louder. "Mum! Dad!"

No response came. The people watched her as if she was an exotic specimen from a faraway land. It wasn't entirely false since she must have looked foreign to the citizens of Cairo, with her fair skin and strange outfit.

The bazaar didn't look exciting anymore. She would never have thought the multicoloured stalls would be replaced with torn pieces of cloth on the shabby stands.

"Mum! Daaad!" she cried.

A heavy hand fell on her arm, causing her to yelp in pain and fear. She looked up. The face of the large bearded man bore the after-effects of some disease and he smelt of alcohol. The string of slurred words was only a meaningless noise to her.

"I... I don't understand," she whispered shakily as the tears started to flow. "Let... let me go."

Some woman in a dirty rags laughed and said something in derogatory tone. It was mocking laughter and the bearded man's face turned a deep shade of red, visible even on his dark skin. He replied something she couldn't understand and gave her a small push. She stumbled, and heard more laughter.

It was too much. Her heavy breathing, a transparent proof of her fear, turned into sobbing. She was alone amidst bad people who wanted to hurt her and her parents were nowhere in sight.

The fledgling heaved, close to passing out. Tutmosis stepped closer, savouring the pain of inadequacy while he could. Inadequacy wasn't the tastiest of emotions, but the fear was a satisfying one and there weren't many more around so he couldn't afford to be picky. The sobs of the fledgling were dying out so he bent over it, reaching up to his hood to reveal his face. The souls of the fledglings weren't the favourite of the Dementors, but Tutmosis was young enough to still enjoy them. They were innocent and uncorrupted. The old Dementors detested such souls, it was almost hurtful to them to devour them, and hence they tended to cede the dubious privilege to the young ones.

His hood slid down from his head and the warmth of the fledgling's soul warmed his face. His lips tingled.

"Stop now."

The words were spoken clearly and without any hesitation or fear. Tutmosis started, his senses swirling around to detect the intruder.

There it was. Its presence was oddly faint, but it might have been because of his preoccupation with the fledgling. Suddenly the human did something that made Tutmosis drop the fledgling and forget all about it. The human's voice echoed both in the air and in his head.

"Stop now. This is against your orders."

The resonance in his head was weak and unfamiliar.

Tutmosis turned around to face the human. The stream of thoughts became clearer. It wasn't foggy at all, unlike the conscious thoughts of all other humans. It was both delightful and peculiar to be able to speak to a human like to one of the Enlightened or the Ascendants. To be offered comprehensible thoughts, not having to delve deep into the human mind to extract them had never happened to Tutmosis before. The Elder of the Enlightened said there were highly trained individuals that were able to speak without words, but they were extremely rare.

The only disappointing thing was that the thoughts of this particular human were perfectly ordinary; they didn't have any emotional colour. Well, he supposed a 'highly trained individual' had to be this way to be able to communicate with the Enlightened.

"Against orders? Why so?" Tutmosis asked, curious as to whether the human could understand him. Apparently it did, because he was able to pick up a clear response.

"You are here to search for Sirius Black, not to harvest and prey upon the children."

"We are not within the walls of the... Hogwarts," Tutmosis answered. "The orders did not apply to the outside."

The response of the human was tinged with anger. Tutmosis instinctively reached with his mind to rekindle the emotion so that he could bask in it. And bounced off the protective shield that guarded the human's psyche.

"The orders apply to everybody except Sirius Black! Your Elders agreed not to interfere with the internal affairs of Hogwarts!"

This human was well informed.

"I was not aware that I was interfering with the internal affairs of... Hogwarts. We are outside its walls."

The human's mind was strangely inaccessible, and its feelings were held tightly in check. It unnerved Tutmosis not to be able to reach the emotional spectrum of his adversary.

"The fledgling belongs to Hogwarts."

"I was not aware of that."

"Of course you were. I could feel all of your kind surveying the minds of the inhabitants of the castle. You know us all by now."

Tutmosis wasn't about to admit that the hunger and the memory of blood had completely pushed aside any familiarity with the mind of the fledgling or any reservation he might have had because of the orders of the fearsome Elders. He changed the subject.

"I do not know you."

"I'm hard to sense."

This encounter was turning out to be the most unnerving experience Tutmosis had had since his Enlightenment. This human was uncommonly confident and aloof. It wasn't like any other human being Tutmosis had ever met before. It was said that even the 'highly trained individuals' didn't remain unaffected by the influence of the Enlightened. They were supposed to be able to speak to them, but their emotional side wasn't supposed to be immune. They had to protect themselves with magical shields and they never could stand in the presence of the Enlightened for long.

"I need to take care of the fledgling," the human said and something about the phrase caused Tutmosis to pause.

The fledgling. Tutmosis knew from experience that humans didn't use that term in association with their young. All the minds that he'd ever preyed upon had made him aware of many other terms, most of which had emotional affiliation. Only the Enlightened and the Ascendants termed their young as fledglings. He concentrated on what the human was doing. Its words, mere sounds in the air, spread as meaningless noise over the Dementor.

"Miss Granger, look at me. Miss Granger!"

The fledgling sobbed, its emotions shifting from despair to hope. "Professor Snape?"

"Focus. Think of the ingredients of the Sleeping Draught."

"Asphodel, wormwood--"

"I don't need you to recite them. Just think them."

The thoughts of the fledgling became specific and goal-oriented. Bland. Colourless. Tasteless.

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Yes sir, thank you."

"Hold this ice cube to your wound and don't let it bleed anymore. Go to Madam Pomfrey immediately. I shall talk about the stupidity of your being here without an escort to your Head of House later."

"I'm sorry, sir." The fledgling started to justify itself as if it was something important. "I was with Ron, but he wanted to go back to Harry to keep him company, so I told him to go with Seamus and Dean. I wanted to stay in the bookstore a little longer, I would have returned with Lisa Turpin, but she wanted--"

"Miss Granger--"

The fledgling didn't seem to notice the interruption. Its words were rushing in a stream of false focus designed to cover the fear. "And I tripped when I was going back and I cut my hand--"

"I didn't ask you for irrelevant details, Miss Granger, but for the ingredients of Sleeping Draught! Ten points--" It stopped in a middle of the sentence. "Go now. And I suggest you keep quiet about what you saw."

The fading sound of footsteps was barely audible as the fledgling scurried away; Tutmosis was focused on his strange companion.

"Why did you pause while talking to the fledgling?"

"Had I finished, she would have gotten become angry and you could have harvested."

That meant the human knew more than basics about the Enlightened. Tutmosis slowly circled around it and tried to solve the mystery the still and silent figure presented. He sniffed the air to make sure he wasn't mistaken. Layer by layer, he dissected the physical attributes of the creature, since he wasn't able to access the mental ones.

Barely detectable, but it was there, that peculiar scent that tainted the blood of Ascendants. However, the human wasn't an Ascendant. Puzzled, Tutmosis broadened the range of his mental perception to include the Enlightened and the Ascendants.

The emotional depth of the human revealed itself in all its glory. How was it possible? The Dementor wondered. Finally, putting all the pieces together, he came to a satisfying conclusion. Were he any older, he would have forgotten such a possibility existed.

"You are a Blood Child," he accused.

"I am," the human confirmed, a trace of both defiance and justification lingering in its thoughts as though it was ashamed.

Fascinating. Tutmosis deliberately dusted off the memories that he had intended to sacrifice for the sake of broadening his perception. They were not important, but they turned out useful now. Blood Children were rare, especially among the wizards. They were a bridge between humans and Ascendants, which the Ascendants created when they wanted to ensure their claim on human fledglings. The Blood Children didn't remain Blood Children for long, only until the Ascendant decided to Embrace them or kill them. In the very beginning of his un-life as an Ascendant, Tutmosis had had patroned several Blood Children so he knew they possessed some of the mental abilities of their Patrons. He had become bored after a while - they weren't worth the trouble.

How... interesting. This human was a potential Dementor.

"Your name?" Tutmosis demanded, noting with satisfaction that the human's confidence shrunk. "And the name of your Patron?"

The Blood Child shifted uncomfortably, a wide range of emotions escaping its tight control. Hopelessness. Self-disgust. And even a memory, filled with fear and disappointment and hatred. Tutmosis wished he could harvest on these memories, but the memories of Blood Children, like those of the Ascendants, were unattainable.

"My name is Severus Snape. I was claimed by Severia of the Giovanni Clan."

Severia. Tutmosis' form shivered at the name - it was a shiver of remembrance and pleasure. When he had been an Ascendant, he had known Severia well. She had been younger than him, by several centuries, but her hunger had been exquisite. Like him, she had followed the path of Enlightenment.

"You have a respectable lineage."

Surprise radiated from the Blood Child so strongly that it covered the previous emotions. What a pity... On the other hand, it was remarkable how amusing human astonishment could be. Not as much as feeding on their terror, but still.

"Thank you..."

"Tutmosis of the Lasombra Clan," the Dementor supplied. He might as well give his name - he would forget it soon enough. A name was an insignificant piece of information for one who had to master the hunger.

The heartbeat of the Blood Child quickened the instant it realised whom it stood before. Tutmosis supposed that hundred years weren't enough to push his fame into oblivion. The tales of centuries of drinking blood without regard to the victim were inspirational to many Ascendants. His cruelty was fabled throughout the ages and his means to quench the hunger had been the foundation for entire sects. The Abomination, he was called. He liked the sobriquet, all the Enlightened had had similar ones when they had been Ascendants. They could be an indicator of the level of power they would attain; the more menacing the title, the more victims to sustain the hunger. Just for the sheer fun of it, Tutmosis released one of his most treasured memories for the Blood Child to see.

The room was lit dimly so as not to hurt his sensitive eyes. It was lavishly furnished, in the baroque style that was so fashionable these days. On the ornate table a young boy was stretched out, looking like a human sacrifice on an altar. And, if you thought about it, he was indeed a sacrifice. Not an offering to appease any deity, but rather a tribute to his hunger.

The boy was naked, his hands and legs were bound with rough ropes. Yes, the ropes were deliberately rough to cause pain, although he suspected that the boy was too numb to feel the unpleasant chafing anymore. What was a little unpleasantness in comparison to the boy's pain and humiliation? Nothing, nothing at all.

He ran his clawed forefinger down the boy's torso, sensing the shudder. Was it a shudder of fear or of shameful excitement? Both, he supposed, smiling delightedly as he grazed his pointed teeth at the over-sensitised flesh on the boy's neck. He hooked his fangs on his victim's skin and started to pull, hard. Downward... downward.... His teeth left a long, bloody, scalpel-like wound on the boy's white body. The wheezing of pain was like music to his ears, the taste of blood was divine.

Each time he tortured the victim he could swear the blood tasted better. Every single emotion seemed to colour the blood differently. He couldn't quite put a finger on it; those emotions were ephemeral things that couldn't be contained even in blood. How desperately he longed to grasp them!

Finally he reached the boy's groin. The body was taut with horror, and yet his sensitive and practiced nose could sense anticipation. Shameful anticipation....

Shame. It had to be the emotion that was making the blood so different today. The boy had squeezed his eyes shut to avoid seeing the person bound to the chair next to the table while thrashing his head in pain. Yes, it had been a marvellous idea to bring his mother here. Her own pain and desperation and sense of failure were almost leaking out through her eyes. Her blood would be exceptional.

The boy emitted an exhausted sob as the sharp teeth sunk in his nether regions.

"Don't worry, my pet," Tutmosis said comfortingly. "I won't kill you just yet. I'll let you rest when I taste your mother... then you will have my undivided attention again. We can go on like this forever... or at least I can. Until I discover the meaning of Life. And the meaning of Death."

The Blood Child gasped and pressed its hands to its temples. Tutmosis couldn't actually see it, since he had no sight anymore, but he did have an access to the Blood Child's mind now. All the shields were down. He couldn't let such an opportunity pass by, could he? He plunged deep into the dimmest recesses of this mind. The memories flowed like a river. It was a river of fear and despair and guilt with occasional whirpools of hatred and humiliation. There were so many of them Tutmosis didn't know what to bring forth first. Then he noted something that he could watch with a slight pang of nostalgic fondness.

It was taking place on the top of one of the city's tallest skyscrapers. The streetlights below were no competition for the full moon so the stone altar in the middle of the rooftop was well illuminated. The dozen figures cast long shadows in the bright moonlight. Noting how transculent the skin of his companions looked and comparing his own carnation to theirs, Severus thought nobody would mistake him for a vampire now, not in the presence of the real ones. It was a reflection designed to take his mind off the present, the creepy ambience that was thickening around him every second.

Severus was used to creepy things; it wasn't easy to make him shiver. But this gathering was more than creepy. It was downright terrifying.

He surveyed the faces of the Kindred gathered around the ritual stone altar. He was afraid to breathe lest they would feel his pulse. There were so many of them, watching him with their pale glowing eyes, straing holes in his veins, licking their red lips, baring their pointed teeth. He knew they wouldn't dare to bite him because Severia was standing right beside him and she would decapitate them at the mere suspicion that they intended to sully the magical powers of her prized possession. Severus was accustomed to the calculating and hungry gazes of the members of the Giovanni Clan, but this was not a Clan meeting. It was a gathering of some of the most depraved vampires in existence and they terrified him beyond measure. Thankful to his wizarding mentors who taught him the art of Occlumency, he hoped it would be enough to seal off his thoughts.

He ought to be honoured by standing in the presence those ancient and powerful creatures. He ought to appreciate the fact that he was allowed to listen and watch their holy rite and live to tell the story. Not that he would ever tell it to anybody; he knew his place too well.

"Watch and learn," Severia whispered, placing her ice-cold hand on his shoulder and making him shudder.

There was anticipation on her face Severus has never seen before. It was more than enough a reason to be afraid. One would expect that being raised in a Kindred-owned household would make him immune to the sight of the practices of the immortal race. However, he was only seventeen years old and the older Kindred never neglected to remind him that he hadn't seen anything yet. It looked like he would see something truly important tonight.

One of the Kindred, wearing a perfectly ordinary Muggle outfit of a brown leather coat, stepped into the centre of the circle and approached the altar. Unhurriedly, he shook the coat off his shoulders, letting it slide down his naked figure. Then he jumped onto the altar in one predatory movement, presenting himself to his brethren.

Severus couldn't withold a gasp. The unearthly beautiful face of the vampire was framed by long lavender hair and accompanied by delicately elongated limbs and lack of any sexual distinctions. His was a perfectly androgynous form that didn't look very human. Severus was impressed even though he was familiar with the existence of Animagi and Metamorphomagi. But even they never went as far as to redefine the very basics of their species.

"A body-sculptor?" Severus whispered to Severia. "Tzimisce?"

Body sculptors of the Tzimisce Clan were infamous for their perverted tastes when it came to performing their 'art'. Usually they were happiest to twist the bodies of their victims beyond recognition, creating grisly forms of what was neither human nor animal. Dark Wizards could learn a lot about cruelty from the Tzimisce.

Severia nodded at his question. "His name is Vasil. Vasil of the Tzimisce Clan."

He frowned at Severia's apparently undisturbed tone. It was not like her to sound so respectful, awed even, about anyone, much less a member of a clan as monstrous as the Tzimisce. What was this ceremony that it transcended the clan differences?

Vasil stood still for a moment, his face tense in concentration. Then he started to turn around his own axis, slowly at first, hypnotisigly, like a dancing dervish. A hush fell over the Kindred. They all had the same expression of anticipation as Severia. When Vasil's rotation sped up, their eyes began to glow uncontrollably, as if they were in a trance. Suddenly, he came to a halt, spreading his hands widely.

"Give. Me. Blood," he rasped.

A shiver of apprehension went down Severus' spine. Vasil, with his oddly shaped bony hands outstretched and bright eyes blazing madly was looking down at him, demanding. Just before he had time to shake his head in horrified dismissal, the boy felt Severia's fingers tighten, claw into his shoulder painfully. She pushed him forward. He lost his balance and fell to his knees right in front of the altar. Immediately, he jumped back to his feet.

"Severia? My Lady, what--?"

Severia's yellowish eyes were more excited than ever, but still they glimmered with a ruthless decision she had made long time ago. "Don't resist, Severus. This is one of the things you were born for."

He wanted to back away from her, a wanting that had seemed inconceivable before. She had always been one of the pillars his life rested on, his teacher and protector and almost a surrogate mother.

"But you always protected me from being bitten! You fed my parents your own blood and you've claimed me for your Blood Child even before I was even born! Only you can Embrace me and you said you'd never would! You can't want me Embraced into Tzimisce now, I'm a Giovanni!"

The excitement in Severia's eyes gave way to slight irritation. Severus realised the only thing that mattered to her right now was the delay of the ritual and that he was the obstacle causing the delay. The low hisses of other Kindred reeked of venom. The circle of the dark figures with bared pointed teeth started to close on him and he was forced to take a few steps back until he leaned against the stone altar. Breath catching in his throat, he looked up to see the aetheral face of Vasil grinning at him.

"No," Severus whispered and the agonizing fear prompted his brain to work. Wasn't he a wizard? Didn't he know the spells? Didn't he know how to defend himself? It was hopeless, and he knew it. A wizard couldn't defend himself against the undead. The magic didn't work on them. "No!"

Vasil sank to his knees gracefully, his face levelling with Severus'. His eyes were so bright it almost hurt to watch. A soft, joyous smile curved the creature's lips as he slid his arms around Severus and closed him in a tight hold. The lavender hair tickled Severus's neck as the vampire caressed his head with his delicate fingers.

"You won't be Embraced, my dear, dear human child," the creature whispered hoarsely into his ear. "You will not die.... You will be free to go back to your Blood Mother, to her Clan.... I just want a little of your warm blood, your magical blood, so full of life.... I will have a piece of you for all eternity, as you will have a piece of me.... Aren't you happy?"

He tried to wriggle out of the creature's hold, he honestly did. But the gentle grasp was unyielding, imprisoning him better than any magical restraints.

"You will only hold me during my transformation, while my brethren will help me reach the Enlightenment. This piece of me will be my gift to you for your help... you will see... You wizards are so close to the Dementors that our bond will be exceptional...."

Dementors.

Severus felt the blood curdle in his veins.

Dementors.

"No," he managed to choke out once again, feverishly. "No, no...."

Vasil's breath ruffled his hair a little before moving down to the base of his throat. The soft flick of the tongue could be pleasurable if it were not so cold. It didn't hurt at all when the vampire sank his teeth in his neck, although the force of the bite made Severus' breathing stop and his legs give in under him. Vasil was holding him too tightly to let him fall and after a moment the boy felt that he was being dragged up onto the altar.

He still couldn't breathe, and his chest was starting to burn.... He could see stars on the black sky, right above Vasil's lavender head.... The vampires around watched the two of them in silence, but their accelerated breathing betrayed their elation. The feeling in Severia's eyes, bordering on happiness....

The life was leaking out of him....

And suddenly his lungs were able to take in some air again, the vice on his neck released. Vasil's head went up several inches, staring blankly ahead. Then he gazed down on Severus again and caressed his cheek in a maternal gesture. He softly kissed him on the lips, letting Severus taste his own blood. Next, he repositioned himself, placing his head on Severus' chest, above his heart, his hands catching Severus' hands and forcing the boy to enfold him. They lay on the altar without motion, both looking at stars but not seeing them.

Severus was too exhausted to move; he barely registered that the rest of the vampires closed on them in a circle, their eyes hungry, hungry for something much more than blood. The haze that appeared before his eyes sometime during Vasil's feeding thickened and changed its colour from white to red.

Would they kill him now? Drink his blood? Devour his flesh? Make him one of them? Would they?

They were close... closer... every second closer.

But they didn't reach for him; they reached for Vasil. In the tangle of limbs that Vasil and Severus were, they glued themselves to the vampire's naked body like giant leeches and started to feed on the blood of one of their own. The intention to suck Vasil dry was obvious in the sheer ferocity of their movements, in the absolute focus on their task. They would absorb him.... Through the fog that filled his brain Severus remembered that absorbing all blood of a fellow Kindred was called Diabolism and was considered the gravest crime by most of the Clans. It meant the stealing the victim's power, talents, experience.

But then, these were not the regular vampires. They probably have been Diabolists for a time longer than they cared to remember, like this ghoulish Vasil. Their unlife consisted of absorbing other Kindred and it was all too little; they wanted more.

They wanted souls.

And his Blood Mother was one of those creatures, now sucking greedily on Vasil's arm, black-looking liquid trickling down her face.

Vasil's eyes started to flutter and Severus couldn't help but notice that they were not bright anymore. They were turning black, sinking. He made a vain effort to free himself from underneath Vasils dead weight, but the vampire was still clutching his hands so tightly that there was no escaping. Besides, his head was swimming. The world was tilted on its axis and the stars seemed to be everywhere, not just on he sky.

Severia paused in her feeding and licked her lips. The other vampires followed her suit.

"Your turn, Severus," she said. "Just one drop."

He didn't move.

"It's a part of the ritual, my child," she smiled pleasantly. "If you don't do it, you will die from the loss of blood Vasil had taken from you."

One drop was all it would take, he'd always known that. One drop from an undead and he would become one of them. For all his bizarre family situation and uncommon living arrangements, he'd never thought he would be turned into a vampire. He'd never wanted to become one. It meant giving up the freedom of living in the daylight and, more importantly, it meant giving up magic. He'd rather be dead.

"You promised, Severia!" he croaked. "You promised I'd never be Embraced!"

"This is not an Embrace, foolish child," his Blood Mother chided him. "It's merely a ritual of Enlightenment. It won't change anything for you. Unless you are stubborn and bleed to death within minutes. You don't want to die, do you?"

He didn't want to die. There had been times when he had felt used, abandoned and desolate, times that had made him consider suicide. But, he realised now, he didn't want to die. There was so much do see, so much to do. There were Potter and Black to take revenge on. There was Occlumency to master. There were myriad of Potions to discover. There was Atlantis, deep underwater, waiting to be visited. A House Cup to be won for Slytherin. His baby sister Augusta to be taken care of in that nest of bloodsuckers they both lived.

"Just one drop," Severia said and brought Vasil's wrist -- she had to release Severus' hand from Vasil's grasp first -- up to his mouth. The wound made by some other vampire was still bleeding a little. "One drop."

Weakly, he licked the wound.

Judging by the rapture of the gathered Kindred, the blood should be sweet and intoxicating beyond anything. He expected some divine taste that would take his mind to the hights like the strongest of drugs. After all, Severia's dreamy expression indicated that much.

He judged wrong. Vasil's blood was thick and bitter and scalded his tongue, then his throat, then spread on his insides. Gods, it hurt. It hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He'd been under Cruciatus several times, courtesy of his father, but this was worse. The pain ripped not only through his bones and muscles but also through his mind. Not his brain, the organ that was associated with experiencing the physical pain, but his mind -- bare and vulnerable and entangled with the mind of the most horrible creature to walk the Earth.

Vasil's hollow eyes were staring at him, unblinking, blank. The eyeballs were starting to ooze some thick liquid and Severus would have felt as if he was holding a corpse if the creature wasn't in the middle of raping his mind, distorting his thoughts and twisting his emotions. The conviction that the most pleasurable thing in the world was killing didn't want to leave him. The joy at becoming a demon able to feed on feelings was as good as his. The sense of power that surged through his veins at the prospect of having all minds and hearts open to him was....

Was what made him fight with the ferocity of a soul struggling against eternal damnation.

Severus Snape has never wanted to be an empath or a telepath. His innate sensitivity had sometimes caused him to be assaulted by alien thoughts and emotions to a point he didn't know which were his. When controlled, the ability promised to turn out useful, but when left unsupervised, it threatened to blur his own identity. That was why Occlumency was so important.

And this, this... this newly born Dementor was the personification of his fears. If this creature still possessed its own identity, that of Vasil of the Clan of Tzimisce, he wouldn't retain that awarness for long. He desired to prey on the experiences of others. His thirst was for others' painful thoughts, dark emotions, souls.

Because he had abandoned his own.

With his last ounce of will, Severus rolled to the side, away from the convulsing form of Vasil and from the still silhouettes of the Kindred. With their heads thrown back, they were locked in the throes of ecstasy upon feeling the birth of what they longed to become. They didn't pay any notice Severus who struggled for every breath in agony, clinging desperately to every thin thread of thought that he could claim as his own.

Tutmosis couldn't help but feel unreasonable rage that he couldn't feed on this human. So much of... everything. Its memories were horrific and the emotions attached to them would satisfy the hunger for months, even years. He tore savagely through the unprotected brain, slashing the memories into shreds in his attempt to milk the feelings from them. They were there, tantalising, ripe, and he couldn't harvest them!

Tutmosis was pursuing an exercise in futility and soon that became apparent as the Blood Child started to fight. It started to push him out, close its mind off, regain control over itself. Tutmosis felt the blood coursing through the human's veins and that soothed his fury a little. This Blood Child was strong. If it was Embraced and managed to survive, it might become worthy of Enlightenment in a millennium or two. Particularly if Severia had it under her tutelage.

Tutmosis made an effort to forget about the hunger that had been stimulated by the attack on the Blood Child and the unsatisfactory harvesting on the human fledgling.

"You don't like us, the Enlightened," he noted. "Even though you know us so very well. Why? We are the most perfect form of life, the last step of evolution."

"The most perfect form of life? You are an aberration in whatever deity's creation! Abhorrent parasites that are antihtesis to everything that's human. No human could like you."

"You're not entirely human either. The blood Severia fed your parents permeated your father's seed, as it did your mother's womb during her pregnancy.... You were born from the life-essence of an Ascendant."

"Blood Children are still humans!" the man's thoughts cried, making Tutmosis ache in hunger for the pain in them.

"As I once was.... All Enlightened had been humans once."

The Blood Child shook it's head, not answering. It wasn't shocked like all other humans who had learned the truth, but it resented this knowledge. However, the fact still remained: the Enlightened, Dementors as wizards called them, were the end of the road that started with the birth of a mortal fledgling. One had to be Embraced by immortality and darkness first, to become an Ascendant and cast away all humanity. Few were strong enough or determined enough to reach the Enlightement. Few had what it takes: the curiosity, the desire for darkness, the sheer willpower of having world at their feet and the ability to sacrifice their past, present and future for the purpose of attaining perfection and ultimate understanding. Few had the hunger....

The Blood Child had already passed the first step: it was aware of the possibility and it had forsaken its humanity for its own selfish goal once. Although it had turned from that path long time ago and had regretted it bitterly -- ah, its regret would make such a wonderful feast! -- the potential was there. But, it wasn't up to Tutmosis or any other Enlightened to sway the Blood Child to their side, with the possible exception of Severia who was the only one in power to truly Embrace it.

And it was becoming less and less entertaining to stand there, taunting Severus Snape but not being able to reap the fruits of the taunting.

"What did you come here for?"

The man blinked and the guard on his mind became even tighter. "To stop you from harvesting further. You are here to catch a criminal, Sirius Black. Harvesting on children is not allowed."

"Allowed? We are getting tired of what the wizardkind allows and what it does not."

Exhaustion emanated from it as though it had just undergone the most painful of tortures. "The deal's a deal. We, wizards, have ways of defeating you."

Tutmosis felt almost physical pain at the memory of the magic that had been once used against him. To be attacked by a controlled positive emotion was nothing his kind longed for. The fact that few wizards were able to stand up against a Dementor was a small consolation when left starving but too weak to go hunting. Odd that the Blood Child didn't employ this anti-Dementor magic against him. It was strong enough to evoke it... Or wasn't it? Did it have enough positive emotion to conjure a protective spirit for itself? Or was it too bonded with the Enlightened and couldn't do them any harm?

Another riddle to be solved. If it was, maybe he'd be able to feed on the Blood Child? He was hungry.

"I will cease, for now," he projected and resumed his guard at the gates of Hogwarts. He only needed to feed himself more carefully. More caution from now on and the wizards wouldn't recognize whether the depression of their fledglings was caused be a Dementor or by the general unrest inside the castle.

The Blood Child nodded and after several seconds of vigilant watch decided it was safe to go back.

"I will remember you. And I am sure Vasil will be delighted to meet you once he finishes his trasformation," Tutmosis promised as the human retreated onto the grounds of the castle, where it was impossible to reach it. "Till we meet again, Blood Child."

All in all it was a strange occurrence. But then again, Tutmosis was just a fledgling, he had time to see all the wonders of the universe. He would learn all the secrets the world was hiding. Hadn't he discovered the secret he wished to know most? The meaning of life and death? He knew the answer now.

Hunger was the key.