Written for: QLFC practice round, "Write about the cliché of Creature Inheritance/Mate."

Word Count: 993

Harry woke to the smell of blood, and instantly thought to himself, It had better not be the blood of my friends, or else Voldemort is going to have some explaining to do. Had they not made an agreement scheduling all epic battle scenes and acts of defiance for the ends of school years? It was summer, damn it!

Harry's nose twitched involuntarily, trying to pinpoint the scent. Then a wave of nausea overcome him as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes, positioned his glasses on his face, and saw the room more clearly.

Blood covered the walls.

The blood wasn't just trickling down the walls, or spattered on a few surfaces, oh no. It had been painstakingly painted on by someone with waaaay too much time on their hands.

The sight of blood wasn't really a shock, seeing as it was all he could smell at the moment, but it was a bit surprising to see what appeared to be the life force of a human being coating every available surface.

Wait, how did he know it was human blood?

Harry shook his head. This was ridiculous. He would go back to sleep, and when he woke for real, this messed-up dream would be over. Content, he flopped back onto the mattress and scooted under layers of blankets. He had just begun to doze off again, when-

Drip... Drip... Drip...

"Ron, s'it raining? Quidditch'll be cancelled for sur-" he murmured. He blinked, then noticed the drops of too-red blood falling from the ceiling onto his face.

"Again?!" he moaned, rolling over once-and-a-half times until he was cocooned inside sheets and couldn't see the blood anymore. But there was a new problem. A few of the drops on his cheek had migrated to the crease by his lips, and when he breathed one of them had got in. Harry realized, with the appropriate maniacal laughter, that he had just drunk human blood.

It tasted good, too. There were a few off-notes, but those could be corrected by salt and pepper, so he didn't worry about that. Mostly, that one drop of blood tasted like orange juice and steak and marmalade and pudding - everything worth eating or drinking.

But when Harry imagined those foods, he grimaced at the thought of enjoying them. Why indulge in such typical foods when better nourishment was to be had right here on his walls?

That was when Harry, accustomed to a certain level of weirdness and no more, started to panic.

Why was he having these thoughts?

Why was he okay with drinking blood?

What kind of person would have such a messed up dream, be aware of it, and have it not go away?!

Harry leapt up after a brief struggle with the bed, and tiptoed around ever-growing puddles of blood until he reached the room's body-length mirror. He stared at himself, dressed haphazardly in gray pajamas soaked and red. Eww. His eyes shifted upwards to his face, where dark circles were usually present.

Instead, his face was perfectly smooth, as pale as Luna Lovegood's, and there were triangles of bright white sticking out of the corners of his mouth.

"That's it. I'm done."

Harry raised his hands in a sign of defeat, flopping backwards onto the bed. Even though he read less than Hermione, he generally knew more than Ron, and even Ron would know what Harry's symptoms meant.

He was a vampire.

As Harry contemplated this, he tried to work out how his condition was even possible. Was it genetic? A chance mutation? Had he been bitten in his sleep? ...Or was that only for werewolves?

Every monster movie Dudey had ever watched as a kid came back to Harry, inspiring him to to track down those responsible for the blood on his walls and the fangs in his mouth.

He performed complicated calculus equations and other complex maths, conducted a nationwide survey, and googled the search term "vampire, how become" on his uncle's computer. Thirty minutes later, he came to the highly enlightening conclusion that he was a vampire.

"Huh. That was enlightening," said Harry. "Although I already knew that."

He had been awake for an hour or so, but it was just past dawn, the prime time for morning owl post to be delivered. Right on cue, two tawny owls appeared by his window and promptly hit the glass.

Harry heard the dismayed hoots, so he pulled at the window latch. Once the owls had peeled themselves off the ground, then flew inside and dropped a stack of letters on him. They fell onto the floor, causing one envelope to burst open and start singing shrilly:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO Y-"

Harry stomped on it until it stopped singing, although the card inside continued to mutter to itself about killjoys.

"Now I've got flashbacks to Ginny's Valentine's Day card in second year," said Harry mournfully. But finally the words the card had been shouting registered in his mind. "It's my birthday..."

Suddenly it all made sense. It was his birthday, the day - according to Hermione - when meaningful wizarding events usually happened. There must have been a vampire in his family, because he, Harry, had come into his blood inheritance.

There was a knock at the door. Harry didn't bother hiding the bloodstains, owls, or the fangs sticking out from between his lips.

"What is it?" he called out to Vernon, Petunia, Dudley, or Voldemort - he didn't see much of a difference, personally.

Vernon slammed the door open.

"What are you doing, boy?!" he growled, ready to yell at Harry for sleeping in. His chins dropped, and his mouth opened wider than Harry ever wanted to see. Vernon fainted, his eyes still reflecting the gory scene in Harry's bedroom.

Harry walked over to where his uncle lay peacefully. His stomach rumbled.

"I'd better wake him up first," Harry said thoughtfully. "I want to hear him scream as I devour him."