Disclaimer: World of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. For Season 2 of the Quidditch League Competition.

Round 12
Team: Falmouth Falcons
Position: Chaster 2

Prompts: (word) bleeding: (word) hate; (quote) "God doesn't need to punish us. He just grants us long enough life to punish ourselves." -Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible.

Word Count of Story: 3, 267

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Blood Pops And The Swan

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"God doesn't need to punish us. He just grants us long enough life to punish ourselves."

-Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible.

~ Prologue ~

Vanity: 1) Excessive pride or admiration in one's own appearance or achievements, 2) the quality of being worthless or futile. From Latin, Vanitas meaning vanity, emptiness, futility.

I'd never thought of myself as vain, in spite of a typical obsession of the plain that I was... imperfect, un-pretty and because of that, even worthless.

I wasn't un-pretty, in spite of my numerous imperfections; my stooping posture, my small breast, my skinny almost curveless figure; the nose that always seemed to me just slightly too large; the black hair and black eyes that seemed were boring and uninspiring; fingers that were slightly crooked, nails chewed to the quick; toes that seemed bit too long on feet skinny enough to almost appear skeletal; my uneven skin tone that was marred in my early to mid teens with mild acne, predominantly in my face.

A feeling of being hideous, that was not helped by my anti-social nature or the lack of admiration from the opposite sex. But then having two sisters, each pettier than I could ever hope to be, and an overly critical mother, are probably the most to blame for such self-consciousness and feelings of low self-worth.

But if I could not be the beautiful one, and knowing no amount of primping could ever make me beautiful, I decided I should try to be the smart one.

So I excelled, in all my studies. And was even, a very talented and cunning witch. I even made Prefect, and went on to become Head Girl.

But I never had friends. And boyfriends or admirers totaled in zero.

When the bite of loneliness would sink it's unforgiving teeth into me, I blamed it on my uncomely appearance.

I suppose that changed, when I turned nineteen. When you can say the ugly duckling, turned into a swan.

If there is a god... I thought perhaps this was punishment for my vanity... for always allowing myself to be plagued by displeasure at my appearance. But I've learned since then. I had no one to blame but myself... I was careless.

And then I was dead.

My skin turned is now pale as snow, and unmarred and touched by time or any human ailment. My lips, colored red whenever the unholy thirst is satiated.

I became beautiful in death. My features somehow softening, and the once boring darkness of my hair and eye, only became intense and alluring, contrasting against the pallor of my skin.

I could have been Snow White in appearance... but I never bit of the apple. No, rather more like I was the apple... the bitten.

~ I ~

Ophelia stood, leaning against a wall in the back, trying to make herself inconspicuous as possible with a blood pop jammed into her cherry-red lips. Her pale, cool hands were stuffed into the pockets of her pale silver robes; it was the only color that didn't make it easily apparent how unnaturally pale her skin was as every other color provided too sharp a contrast and white robes practically blended with her skin, which was just as shocking.

Not for the first time, Ophelia wondered what she was doing there, before reminding herself that she had nothing better to do. Her life, such as it was- short as it was- was over before it ever really began.

Becoming the social pariah that she'd become... banished even by her own family... there was nothing for the young vampire to lose, by joining Dumbledore's Order.

How they hated her, Ophelia thought, dark eyes watching the humans milling about, talking to one another, barely noticing her. Perhaps not these people, they didn't know yet what she was... but her family... and anyone that knew of her condition, her curse... deplored her. Saw nothing but a monster disguised as perfect beauty.

Swiveling the blood pop in her mouth, Ophelia tried to sink even deeper into her veil of anonymity. One of the perks of vampirism along with enhanced strength, speed and senses. The ability to make herself unnoticed, as if under notice-me-not charm.

Of course, it also came with its many disadvantages- sensitivity to sunlight that bordered on mortal peril, like a deadly allergic reaction; the inability to sleep, much less dream, only able to enter a trance like state when in need of rest; enhanced senses which could be dizzying in intensity; telepathy, up to and including sometimes being able to listen to the surface thoughts of those withing my hearing range; and of course... the insatiable and addicting, even obsessive desire for blood...

Not that Ophelia ever partook. It was extremely difficult to curb the desire... to make yourself stop, once you only had one drop, inevitably leaving your victim bloodless and dead.

Of course, it was possible to control that, but Ophelia was too afraid to try. After all, she'd only been a vampire now for about seven years.

Which was the reason she carried on her person at all times, up to 200 blood pops, stuffed into the various pockets of her robes.

It took at least fifty blood pops a day to curb the desire and even then, they were never quite nutritious or satisfying.

But... it helped. At least if she could look herself in the mirror (an impossibility since her change), she wouldn't have to see herself as a complete monster. It helped her... to not hate herself quite so much.

~ II ~

It had taken Severus a while, to recognize the exceedingly young and beautiful woman, standing and leaning against a wall that the meeting was almost over.

Her beauty, he felt, should have stood out in his memory, for it was so striking that it was impossible to forget.

Perfect skin, so pale that it was almost luminescent like the moon. Dark eyes framed flatteringly by long, thick and curling lashes that were blacker than night, and matched the silk of her long hair, which fanned about her and fell to her slender waist. A pair of ruby red lips, were wrapped around the end of a lollipop.

He wasn't sure why he had such difficulty placing her face. Given her youth, and the fact that his instincts told him that she'd once been his student, he surmised that she couldn't have left Hogwarts more than two years ago and that she should therefore still linger in his memory. But as much as he tortured his mind, he could not locate the girl.

"I see you've noticed Miss Somers, I think you're the only one, apart from Remus... and he's predisposed to be very uneasy around her, even more than the rest of us," Dumbledore stated, coming to stand next to him and stirring him from the thoughts.

The meeting had just concluded, but the Order was still milling about, socializing. Except for Miss Somers, who hadn't moved. In fact, Severus was unsure she'd moved since he'd first seen her. She was eerily still, much like a statue.

"Somers," Severus stated and upon saying the name, a memory popped into his mind.

Ophelia Somers, a skinny and gawky youth with marginally oily skin, and hair and eyes so dark, that they rivaled the blackest night in darkness.

Severus was unsure if he'd ever met a female that reminded him so much of himself... of course, not quite so unattractive. He was quite sure that once Ophelia Somers gained confidence, and grew out of her teenage hormones, that she would become quite pretty. Perhaps not the beauty that her older sister Cordelia and her younger sister Desdemona had, but certainly with more than enough loveliness to call her own.

He frowned, as he stared at the unmoving girl, who seemed to be watching and listening with an intensity that was remarkable.

"She looks... almost like a different person," Severus observed slowly with a slight frown. His subconscious telling him that he was staring something right in the face, and missing it's vitality.

"Surely you've figured it out by now Severus?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling.

Severus gave his mentor a glare, not enjoying having his intelligence underestimated, even as he struggled to connect the dots about what it was that he was supposed to be seeing.

Turning back to the girl, thinking of the clues that Dumbledore had already given him... implying humans should be disturbed by her presence... Remus more so because of his condition? The unnatural pallor of her skin. The preternatural beauty. The redness of her plump lips.

But it wasn't until Ophelia Somers moved at alarming speed, pulling the white stick form her mouth and just as swiftly replacing it with a new, blood-red lollipop that Severus understood.

"She's a vampire."

~ III ~

Ophelia wasn't certain why she was sticking around. After all, she had no real intention of revealing herself to the Order members. And yet, the throbbing loneliness within her kept her rooted to the spot.

Though, how could anyone approach her if she didn't drop the veil that shrouded her from all eyes? But alas, the ambivalence towards company was rooted into her very soul, for almost as long as she could remember.

"Miss Somers," Ophelia almost jumped as she turned and looked at the man beside her, eyes wide and almost inhaling the blood pop in her mouth. Practically spitting it out, she turned her full attention to the man towering over her.

"Professor Snape," she stated when she got over her shock, in deadpan; she almost flinched when she realized how even that sounded sultry and sensual.

She bitterly lamented how her every word, against her wishes, came out a seduction in and of itself.

She really shouldn't be surprised that Snape would be able to see through the veil. It took a very powerful and special sort of wizard to do so, one capable of mind-magic.

"How interesting to see you here," he stated in searching tones, his eyes penetratingly locked on her own dark eyes.

Ophelia wondered if that was because apart from himself, she was likely the only other Slytherin.

"Well, I have nothing better to do with my immortality," Ophelia responded with a shrug of her shoulders. As a student, she'd never quite been so bold, usually incapable of speaking more than a few words to the man. Partly due to intimidation, partly due to idolizing adoration and infatuation.

But... having nothing to live for, had a way of putting things into perspective.

~ IV ~

"I miss drinking," Ophelia lamented in late September, lounging across from Snape after depositing a bottle of Ogden's on his large worktable.

Ophelia felt exhausted, and she wasn't quite sure if that was because of the fast approach of dawn, or because of her failure.

Her duty in the order was fairly simple: find vampire covens and convince them of joining the light.

Unfortunately, there were no covens in England, and it was damn difficult, in spite of her special abilities, to locate the covens in Ireland and the very few known to be scattered in Scotland and Wales.

She felt she'd have a much easier time of it, heading towards Eastern Europe, but Dumbledore wanted her to work on the covens closest first. But at this rate, she was sure she wouldn't be heading for Eastern Europe in the coming months or even year.

Snape looked up from the Potion he was working on, Wolfbane from the smell of it, and arched a brow while Ophelia wrinkled her nose at the overpowering smell.

Pulling a blood pop from her robe's pocket, Ophelia placed it into her mouth and crossed her legs, unknowingly making herself look regal and seductive without any intention. Though the lollipop did detract a little from her regal repose.

Ophelia wasn't sure why Snape tolerated her presence, more than anyone else in the order, in spite of his misanthropic tendencies. Why he didn't look at her with suspicion and discontent, like Moody and Black, or steer clear of her as Lupin and the Weasley parental-unit politely tried to do, but she wasn't going to look a gift Hippogriff in the mouth.

She hadn't known how desperate she was for company, until she'd started spending time with her ex Head of House.

She guessed that his own willingness to spend time near her was part scholarly curiosity, part Slytherin solidarity.

"You drank before your metamorphosis?" Snape asked, flitting his gaze back to his potion and moving with precise and elegant movements. Momentarily, Ophelia was transported to a time before her 'metamorphosis' as Snape put it. She didn't think it was possible to count, how often she'd been memorized by his movements during Potions, which probably accounted for her mixed grades in his class.

"Such a poetic way of putting it. But in this case, the caterpillar did not become a butterfly. The ugly duckling, didn't become a beautiful swan. I merely became a beautiful monster, but a monster nonetheless," Ophelia responded wryly, almost sneering bitterly. "But yes. In fact, Cordelia and Desdemona and I partook of underage drinking quite a bit. Of course, with our mother... the pressure could be a bit much, more so for Desdemona and myself. Cordy was always mother's perfect child. And of course, myself more than Mona."

"I've wondered... your names... they are quite unique."

"My father was a muggle, and a Literature Professor. We were named for female characters in his favorite Shakespearean tragedies. Cordelia, from King Lear. Ophelia, from Hamlet. Desdemona, from Othello."

"And you benefited from your father's muggle, literary background," Snape observed to which Ophelia merely blinked.

"How did you-"

"Your vocabulary, terms you use, references you make."

"He used to read to us, when we were younger. I was his favorite," Ophelia whispered softly, a blood colored tear sitting at the edge of her left eye. She wiped it away and briefly looked up, feeling almost bashful as she saw the dark eyes staring at her almost hawkishly, a question in his grave expression. "He died... when I was nine."

Snape didn't say anything, neither offering condolences, nor apologizing, but Ophelia didn't mind. It was so long ago, and she didn't think she could stand it if he did.

"I was always a swan in his eyes, never the ugly duckling."

~ V ~

"Are you really incapable of imbibing alcohol?" Snape asked, after his third glass of Ogden's. It was Halloween and Ophelia had been startled when she'd seen Snape's eyes... they seemed slightly unfocused, putting her on her guard.

"It tasted like vomit and has no effect. I've always wondered if perhaps drinking the blood of someone inebriated might provide intoxicating aftereffects, but I've never drank from a human. In extremely dire circumstances, I've drunk from animals, but it is equivalent to drinking weak tea when you want a steak," Ophelia replied, watching Snape carefully as she sat across from him in his office.

Apparently alcohol gave his curiosity rein over his tongue. "And you can never look yourself in a mirror?"

"No, as I have no reflection," Ophelia answered, wondering if Snape had been curious about the details of what she was since they met again... vampires were widely unexplored as an academic study, though Ophelia didn't understand why. Wizards were fully capable of protecting themselves. But she supposed it had to do with the fact that most vampires belonged in covens, and there was strength in numbers. Vampire society could be nigh impregnable as she was finding.

"Do you not know what you look like then?"

"I know that I barely look like myself," Ophelia replied and at his questioning look, elaborated. "I was once painted by a very talented and accurate painter. He was entranced by my beauty and wished for me to model for him. I did, not out of vanity but curiosity of how I looked since my change. I'm hardly the girl I was... lost my sense of self. It's funny... that I always wished to be beautiful and now that I am, I would have preferred to have died, if it meant I could still be me. "

"Your appearance doesn't define who you are," Snape stated in a detached voice.

Ophelia scoffed. "You don't believe that. You know better."

Snape's silence, was answer enough.

~ VI ~

Ophelia knew something as wrong, the moment she entered his dungeon office. The smell of alcohol was almost overpowering the other scents of the bottled potions ingredients, which along with glass, littered the ground.

It was April, and though she'd been spending a lot of time abroad, the tentative friendship she felt she was building with Snape, had not waned. In fact, they almost had their own routine, which was why Ophelia was startled when she stepped into his office.

She held her breath the moment the overpowering and dizzying scent of blood hit her. It was so strong, and the burn in her throat so sudden and painful.

Frantically she searched for a blood pop on her person, and felt horror when she realized she hadn't restocked.

Unconsciously, she raised a hand to rub her burning throat while her other hand flew to cover her mouth and nose.

Snape, upon noticing her presence, blearily glared in confusion before looking down at his hand in contemplation. The pale and dexterous hand was bleeding profusely, shards of glass embedded in the the wound. The ruby red of his blood, shining to her like a beacon of light in the dungeon's darkness.

Recklessly, Snape extended a hand to her, his gaze challenging. But beyond that, Ophelia could see the shards of the broken man.

Ophelia shook her head.

"Is even my blood so unpalatable, that even you and your nature, can't abide it?" Snape almost snarled.

"You mistake me," Ophelia replied, but unsure how to explain the bond that would be created if she took a drink, even if she could trust herself to do so. The mental connection that would be forged. But the temptation was very strong, and Snape had not retracted his hand. The blood was overrunning his hand, dripping onto the floor.

Snape didn't say anything, merely extending his hand.

"You trust me to stop?" Ophelia asked breathlessly and archly.

"I trust nothing," he replied cooly.

Ophelia bit into her red lip, her sharp fangs almost cutting into the cold flesh. But she could no longer stop herself. In the blink of an eye, she was tenderly taking his warm hand and bringing closer. Carefully, she removed the shards of glass while her mind spun and whirled.

She wondered in the space of a moment, if this was punishment as well as sin, not merely temptation.

She could not seem to resist, but she wondered if she could stop once she tasted.

Any guilt she might feel at forging this mental connection without Snape's knowing consent, was assuaged by the knowledge that Snape was a Legillimens.

His taste was divine, but his life was precious.

She drank enough, to clean and heal the wound. And pulled away, at the sight of his beautiful but tortured soul. At the memories that twisted and forged his being.

But to her, there was beauty in his soul... in his pain, in his redemption.

"You're the swan."

~FIN~

A/n: Vampire theme in honor of Halloween and because I'm going through a craving for gothic vampire stories. Written listening to 52 Evanescence songs, apparently.