A/n: This is my attempt at recreating the first month between young Integra and Alucard. It won't be very long, just a little story to keep the writer's block at bay. Plus, I've always felt that after everything Integra had to go through on that one night (her father's death, evil uncle, etc), she probably would've had some major issues to deal with in addition to Alucard.

Disclaimer: All Hellsing characters belong to Kouta Hirano.

A Girl and Her Monster

01.

At the beginning of December, Integra is an orphan. There is blood on the buckles of her shoes. She drags a monster from the dungeons.

"You were my dream," her father had said, gray and tattered and ending, "My little dream amongst nightmares."

She wonders now what those nightmares were about.

Integra feeds the thing—Alucard—with a small tub of sheep's blood. He scowls in distaste but drinks messily, bright red splashing down a cadaverous white face.

Nausea wrings her stomach and she hugs her knees on the floor next to him, trembling violently.

Her head feels feathery light, the air is too thick, too filled with the stench of blood. Her skin is clammy, clinging to her insides, save for the wound in her shoulder where (Uncle shot her) there is only scorching ache.

Integra's fingers dig into the sides of her calves. Something tight and painful is stuck in her chest, the pressure building. She doesn't know if she's going to cry or faint or maybe both.

In the end, Alucard makes the decision for her. He drops the tub, dry as a bone, licking his fingers. His tongue is pale purple and indescribably long.

"I want more," he says and these are the first words she's heard from anyone in the past two hours.

A small, hysterical laugh bubbles up in her throat. Integra stands on wobbling legs, barely feeling the floor beneath her.

"There is no more," she says and runs from the room.

Walter explains what he is. An instrument, a weapon. A darkness picked at and cut away until it fit into its chains. Abraham's legacy and her father's skeleton—too big for his closet.

And now her…

It was Abraham who gave him the name 'Alucard,' Walter tells her, though that is not his real name.

…Her…her what…her pet…her tool …her death…

She writes 'death' by accident on one of the financial reports she's still struggling just to read. The ink is blue and smears and no amount of white-out would work on it.

"Damn it!" she screams, cutting off Walter mid-sentence and hurls her father's favorite pen against the wall. It makes a sound eerily reminiscent of a bone snapping and for a moment, for that one moment, Integra feels viciously and childishly glad, like she has somehow made him pay for his lies.

But then Walter looks at her. He doesn't say a word, not even a frown over her language, but Integra suddenly feels ugly.

Walter walks over to the wall and picks up the pen. He deposits it gently back onto her fath—her—desk and apologizes for distracting her, that he'll be back after she's finished with work.

His hand is already on the doorknob when Integra speaks again.

"What's his actual name?"

She gazes at Walter with huge eyes, blue-pale, ill with a terrifying inkling she's had for a while now. The name wasn't new to her. She must have read it a dozen times with all the vampiric lore her father made her go through over the years.

It only ever sprang up in connection to one piece of fiction—one character. Every strand of hair is raised on Integra's arms and neck.

"Is he real?" she whispers.

Walter looks at her with barely concealed pity. He bows and exits without answering.

The next time she sees him, it's in the old laundry room, which leads to the dungeon staircase.

Integra pushes the door open, looking for her father's old coat and Alucard is there, half-seated on a table, a housemaid dangling in his arms.

She screams, the sound almost ripping itself from her throat. Part of her has been trying to forget he exists and has all but filed him away as a nightmare.

He jolts like a dog that's just been kicked in the ribs and drops his prize. The woman slumps onto the ground in front of her, unmoving. Integra distantly knows she should check for bitemarks or even a pulse, but her feet are frozen in place.

"What are you doing?" she asks dumbly.

Obvious question, even a fool could tell, but Alucard answers anyway. "I'm hungry."

His voice is devoid of all humanity. There's not a drop of remorse in that deep, clinical tone, though strangely there is no malice either. He is simply stating a fact.

Integra summons the courage to look at the woman, though she cannot bring herself to crouch down with Alucard only half a meter away. A vampire's favored biting spot is the neck, her father had said, though if he's bitten the housemaid there then he's hidden it well.

Desperately, she tries to recall what other symptoms vampiric bites cause, but she can feel white fear beginning to cloud those memories. Age has not yet given her the strength to send it away and it consumes her wholeheartedly. Eventually, nothing is being processed through her mind save for one thought.

He is hungry. The vampire is hungry.

She clenches her fists, hard enough her knuckles hurt. The laundry room has no weapons, but there is an old antique kettle sitting by the sink. It is her only chance; he's still drained—hair an unnatural shade of gray, skin papery white. If she could just get to it, the thing's made of pure silver…

In hindsight, she wonders if Alucard spoke then to spare her her naivety.

"I wasn't going to kill her."

It almost sounds like an excuse. Integra's eyes are wide and incredulous when she looks back at him, but his features barely shift. If anything he looks almost hesitant, like he doesn't know if he's said the right thing.

A monster is trying to explain itself to her. God. She can't think about it for long.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she finds herself asking, "Why didn't you ask for more?"

He blinks like she's just said something very odd.

"There is no more."

Silence.

Integra stares at him, but Alucard's gaze shifts down toward the woman again. Something wistful flashes by those red eyes and it suddenly, finally, occurs to her that it's been five days since that last shallow little pool of sheep's blood.

Her fingers twitch—he must be weaker than she thought—but she fails to move.

Five days, he's been waiting for her to feed him.

"There's more now. Sheep's blood, that is."

She swallows the lump in her throat when his eyes shoot up to meet hers again. Slowly to hide her tremble, she turns away, even as her brain screams at her not to expose her back.

"Come on, I'll show you." Integra's heart is in her mouth, pounding violently. God knows she can't do anything if he decides to ignore her and eat the maid after all. (she's not ready to console widows and orphans yet)

But Alucard drops soundlessly off the table, stepping over the woman's unconscious body. Integra doesn't wait until he gets close to start walking away, but she can hear him gliding after her.

What are you doing? Her own horrified voice echoes back at her.

Unlike Alucard, she has no answer for it.

"Who were the suppliers my father used?" she asks without explanation.

Walter replies without needing one, "St. George's Hospital."

"Do we still have a contract with them?"

"Yes, your father never cancelled it."

Integra nods and scribbles down a reminder to herself, intent on calling the dean later.

"I have to feed him," she says, though Walter has made no comment.

"Yes, my lady."

"He can't survive on sheep's blood."

Walter doesn't reply.

She shifts a few folders around until she has unearthed the book she'd been using as reference. The mission reports are generally simple to understand, having been written by soldiers (her soldiers now) and she's slowly growing accustomed to the jargon of the financial ones. Her feet swing as she finds her page.

"I have to keep him," she says again, more to herself than Walter, and waves her dismissal.

The butler bows and heads toward the door.

"Walter," she calls suddenly and he turns. Integra gestures to the gun on her desk.

"Could you take that somewhere else?" Her voice is small and soft.

He bows again and obeys.