Why am I here?  Why am I walking down this road with you, Louis, you, my love? 

Is it because I fear to be elsewhere?  Or is it my curiousity that took me here, with you.  Because surely, I am prone to curiousity as mortals are, and you are.  As we are, together, walking down a road made of smooth black pebbles, framed by warped stone and wooden shops, all small and homely.  I show my face and the people here, they barely bat an eyelash, as they say.  And each pebble on the ground is different; each shaped perfectly in its own way.  Such a reflection on humanity – each individual stone so different yet able to fit.  If I was one, I’d be the greatest of all. 

And I seem to have proved myself to have mortal vanity.  Louis, the most mortal vampire of all, tell me, do you find me egotistical?  For I must be, to think myself in such a way. 

“I think, Lestat, that you are very egotistical.” 

And why did you answer me then?  Was it to satisfy my mortal curiousity that I cannot seem to be released from, even when I look so white my reflection glows on the glass of that… what is that…? Quid… ditch… store.  Ah, they sell brooms. 

“I answered to stop you from staring at the ground.  And could you please stop talking in my head?” 

You want me to stop talking to you like this? 

“I don’t like it.” 

I’ll stop talking like this if you stop speaking in French. 

“Fine.” 

“Good.” 

We enter a book store then, you and I.  It is a maze of books of all shapes and sizes, colours and ages.  Crowded, this little town is; full of the British and their grey skies. 

My egotism allows me to strut down the small isles as I browse, not touching a thing.  But my egotism is waning; for not once while walking down this street did a person stare in horror, or a child cry, or a priest shout out that a demon has entered.  I am the devil, and in no disguise.  How could this be? 

But truly I know, from the random images from these mortals.  They know about us, they know we exist and it is no surprise to them that we walk down their street. 

You’re reading a book.  You don’t go fast, like an Ancient would; like I had caught Armand doing eerily once, before he kissed me and used me.  Your neck arches over the text, hair falling away a bit to reveal the soft skin.  Ah, and now that hunger, I feel it again, I want blood.  But oh so kind these people, oh so kind. 

There is a book keeper, sitting at the purchase counter, reading.  He knows we are present, but will not disturb our peace. 

I come up behind you; the man with the shaggy brown hair is still in sight.  My fingers under your sweater a little, and I touch the warm preternatural skin of your belly.  I cannot now pretend that I do not lust after you.  You have my love, is that not enough?  And you will leave me soon. 

“The book keeper,” I murmur in your ear, lips grazing the lobe, “is a creature of darkness, like us.” 

It is then that you finally look up from your book, and put it back on the shelf.  I am still standing behind you, with my arm wound around your waist and my cold fingers grazing your skin. 

“He doesn’t look like a vampire,” you say in your strong French accent. 

“Not a vampire; something else, but still one of the Dark Ones.” 

It’s then that you turn around, and look at me with passionate brown eyes.  I have shown you your next path, your yellow brick road, your flower in the Savage Garden.  When you kiss me, I know it is goodbye. 

The sweet taste of your essence is still on my tongue as I leave the store.  It will be morning soon, but I walk a little ways, and follow the sound of loud music and mortal laughter.  Into Knockturn Alley, I go. 

It may be obvious now that this is my story, but I want to tell you, Louis, about your new lover, which no doubt the werewolf will be.  As he goes along I will send the images, thoughts and voices to you.  For now you may have your privacy with him. 

It’s a bar where the loud music is coming from.  I stand in the shadows as a group of wizards exit the door in a stumbling soup of laughter and numb limbs.  Tasty they seem, though I can smell the alcohol along with the salty pulsing of thick blood.  Two girls light a cigarette each, while their friend finds a male and kisses him, sloppily.  Two larger teenagers pick a fight with a gang of onlookers.  This is where their party of six split, and what is left is an angel. 

The darkness is wet and thick and threatens to overpower him, but he lifts his chin and watches the fight proceed with haughty eyes. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets, tells the girls that his is going to leave, and flicks his mussed silver hair out of his eyes as he steps off in my direction. 

A quick turn in the next direction and I am avoided.  But I follow this beauty. 

He takes out his magic wand.  His mind is clear to view, and when I realize he is about to leave through magic, I find myself right behind him, his arm in my grip. 

My beautiful prince, such love I have for you.  I wish you to come with me. 

He turns a little to glance into my eyes.  Though mine are bright, we have the same eye colour: the greyness of shadows passing over ice and Hell’s gate. 

“Oh just fabulous,” he suddenly exclaims sarcastically, which surprises me.  “A vampire!” 

My prince, you will not remember.  Sleep. 

He falls into my arms. 

I use my power to take us into the air.  Over the little town with its old style cottages and twisted walls, and I feel like it takes me back centuries to my mortal life. 

I am staying at an Inn just outside Diagon Alley. This is where I take my prince, Draco Malfoy, quietly sleeping in my arms, appearing pale and unmoving as if death has taken him already.  I want to wake him tomorrow when I myself awake to another haunting night. 

His head is lolling back, as I bend over to place him on the large bed in the room.  I came through the window of my hired room; a tight squeeze, but here I am still in the white furnished place.  Draco’s head hits the pillow, his silver hair catching onto the cotton and spreading over like the waves of the sea.  He is handsome like me, in that extreme way that makes people stare, and then quickly look away as if it’s God’s light he’s shedding, and respect prompts them to find love elsewhere.  Lips slightly parted, golden eyelashes spreading across his cheeks like raindrops glowing with rays from the sun.  His neck arches like a bridge from his jaw to his collar bone.  I lean down. 

I know not how long I’ve been staring, crouching over him, studying his milk white skin and hearing the slow beating of his pulse.  Blood gushing slowing through, rivers of red lust.  I wonder if a wizard’s blood tastes different?  It’s only now I realize I am pressing my lips to the warm skin of his neck.  Then I bare my fangs and push, push, pierce them into him.  Inside, then out. 

It comes thick and excited into my awaiting mouth and I feel I could die.  This moment – he tastes like everything in a wide space of nothing, a sweet dance of flavour in my mouth.  My body aches, oh how it aches for him.  More.  I suck harder and it’s like life has returned again, a rebirth, I can feel his magic!  It is within me, playing a song of hypnotic beats and coaxing me into warmth.  I feel I may explode and shatter into a million pieces at any moment.  I am floating over a field of fire and there are candles caught in the air.  When I land it is atop a mansion made of black stone; the roof has statues of gargoyles littered around its perimeter.  Draco kisses me and holds me as the wind tries to tear us away.  You are my curse, he whispers in my ear, I will not allow you to feed my suppressed loneliness. 

I come aware of something rather suddenly.  His heart beat is slowing.  Immediately I rip away and am consumed with absolute fear.  Perhaps it’s not his loneliness that will kill him, but I will be his death. 

So weak these mortals.  There is blood all over the bed.  I cut my wrist with a sharp nail, and let my blood drip over his wound to heal it. 

Sleep. 

I want to take him in my coffin with me, but I fear that he may suffocate, or worst still, I will crave his magical blood strongly.  Strangely enough it’s not him I dream of in my sleep. 

I gather images of you, Louis, and your new endeavor.  So now, I will tell you his story, like I promised. 

He leaves work at the book store at dawn.  His name is Remus Lupin and he thinks of you, as you have watched him for much of the night.  He knows you want to take him, and he welcomes it because loneliness is as familiar to him as an old friend.  He knows what you are.  He knows you know what he is.  Smart, this one. 

He uses magic to transport himself from the front of the store to his house near the Inn I am currently sleeping in.  He’s glad to be home, as he craves meat and soon he is feasting on cold chicken in front of the fire.  He thinks about you and your bright eyes and your cold skin, and he wants your lips to cool his own.  He thinks about summer and youth, swimming naked with his deceased lover in a lake where a giant octopus still lives.  Am I reading him right?  His mind is full of strange images, including a beautiful man who can turn into a dog and back again with just a simple thought. 

He wants this dog-man back again, I think, but feels hopeless.  This dog-man will never come back for him. 

He feels you will not come back for him either.  He wants you to visit him again tomorrow night and perhaps you can talk together.  He believes that if you do ever come back to find him, it will only be to kill him.  He wants to taste your skin, and he believes you want to taste him too, but dig deeper inside and drink his life until death knocks insistently on his door.  Despite his depression, he doesn’t want to die, and he doesn’t want you to kill him.  He wants you to come back and take him as a pet, look at him and love him and keep him by your side. 

He wonders if his blood can hurt you if you suck it away and take it into yourself.  He decides he should research that one day, although he believes it may be pointless to gain this knowledge.  Curiousity plagues this werewolf.  Would you take him on, Louis?  Would you be the one to kill him?  Or will you obey his desperate wish? 

I awake just after sunset.  I move around the small room and I find the telephone.  I dial the number for the room service, and order food and wine for my prince. 

When I return to his room he is moaning in a feverish sleep, tossing around, and his clothes are drenched in sweat. 

Wake, my love. 

When his eyes open they are grey and swirling smoky and hazy like dirty rain clouds.  He croaks out his words, his mouth dry:  “You sucked my blood, you bastard!  You sucked my magic away!” 

And a little pleadingly:  “Let me go!”  If he had more energy and less pride, I think he would cry. 

There is darkness all around and he seems to glow.  I lie down next to him and gather him in my arms.  “Shhh,” I coo.  “My prince, you will be alright.” 

He tries to push me away.  “Stay away.  Stay away.” 

“You and I, we are of the same breed.  Our love for breaking the rules, our aristocratic pedigree…”  I am trying to explain this to him, but he doesn’t want to understand.  “Lestat and Draco, Draco and Lestat; we are destined to rule this world together, your fate to be my successor.” 

Suddenly a thought pours into my mind of Magnus.  Magnus, with his cellar full of blonde, blue-eyed, young men.  Magnus wished for death as do I.  Am I turning into the crazed vampire that Magnus once was?  Surely my behaviour is a shadow of Magnus himself. 

There is a knock on the door and I get up.  It’s the food I’ve ordered.  Come into the living room, Draco. 

Draco staggers in and sits.  As soon as the food is on the little table he eats and drinks. 

“We are nothing alike,” Draco says suddenly through a mouthful of food, not looking at me.  “You are a fiend, a demon.  I am a wizard, I have magic, I control you.” 

I stare, though am I not shocked.  I am merely taken by his beautiful hair and face, and imposing nature. 

He takes a large gulp of wine straight from the bottle, the colour slowing coming back into his face.  He looks at me, sneering.  “And I know who you are, Lestat.” 

This however, does surprise me.  A mortal knows my name!  Oh, Draco, how I love you! 

“We learnt about you in school,” he continues.  “You are the Brat Prince of the vampires, the one whom every vampire both loves and hates, the lover of the old Queen of the Damned.  You told the world all about how vampires came into existence.”  He laughs suddenly, loudly, and stands up.  “The one who craves mortality so much you let a demon take your body.  You,” he takes a deep breath, “want me, don’t you?” 

I step up to him.  We are of the same build, same height.  I had a sudden sense of looking into a mirror and seeing my mortal self.  In one quick movement he is in my arms again.  He wraps his arms around my neck, and kisses me. 

“I will give you the choice I never had,” I whisper against his incredibly warm lips.  Once again I think of Magnus.  Am I really giving Draco a choice?  Perhaps I will not let him leave, after all. 

He threads his fingers through my long, thick hair, and his eyes burn straight into mine.  He pulls away a little, and then kisses me again. My hands on his waist tighten and he gasps.  “I will never,” he whispers, “never become your fledgling.” 

I am struck with absolute sorrow. 

He pulls away and I let him go.  “Lestat, I’m a wizard.  If I wanted to live forever, I could do it with magic, without the lust for blood, nor the constant walking in the night. 

“I’m nothing like you.  Nothing!” 

Magnus had given me a name.  Do you remember what it was?

Wolfkiller. 

Perhaps I will be the one to kill your lover. 

- Fin -

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