Don't own the characters, though this is going to be thin on the canon ground in many places.

Someone pointed out to me that I have a few Adam!Vlad one shots and stories now, but almost solely focused on my Vlad/Ingrid ship love. This is designed to be something more. It's likely to end up as an Adam!Vlad/Ingrid story eventually, but not immediately and probably not for a while - this starts before Ingrid and the Count move to Stokely so they won't even be in it for a while.

For quick reference - Adam Giles (Vlad if he hadn't been adopted by the Count at birth) was according to Young Dracula Wikia conceived September of 1995, so I'm guessing his date of birth to be June 1996 (though I believe it's April in the show).

Guessing at Georgina Giles (George) being around four to five years his junior, for the purpose of my story she was born August 2000 and is four years Adam's junior.

Michael Giles is my made up character as there is no information on George's dad other than that he's dead.

And now I've bored you all so much you won't make it to the story, on we go!

-ASYD-

Adam's Diary 23rd May 2009

People tell me I can't possibly remember it, I was only a baby. But I do. In my dreams I hear it, my mum crying and begging. Begging for me.

"I can't do it mum, he's my son. I've loved him since I first knew I was pregnant, and I can't give him up!"

The first time I asked my mum if I'd been adopted, I was only 5 and she'd cried and told me to go to my room. I wouldn't have asked again. The next day she sat me down and explained. I had almost been adopted, she was only 18 when she got pregnant with me, young and single and scared. I told her about the dream I kept having, and she looked at me in surprise when I repeated back the exact words she'd said when I was only a month old. I was a sickly child, pale and skinny with a barely-there pulse and struggling to breathe. I wasn't premature, I spent the full nine months incubating in there but apparently I was a runty baby regardless (according to my gran). They weren't sure I'd make it, telling my mum to prepare for the worst.

Somehow I made it through, my health improving by the day and by a month old, I was old enough to be released home. That was when my grandmother had said it was time I was put up for adoption. My mother was only 18 when she got pregnant, 19 when I came whimpering into this too-bright world and struggled for life. My mum had fought for me, and won. My gran has always made it clear she thought I should have been given up regardless, and we don't see much of mums parents at all now. They came when my sister was born, though of course she was more acceptable - her father was in the picture.

Michael Giles was a wonderful man who never failed to treat me like I was his own son, though my mum had been honest with me and said he wasn't my biological father. My little sister Georgina, or George for short, adored her father and all four of us spent many happy weekends down at the beach, going horseback riding, sailing, rock climbing and building tree houses in our back garden. My mum is mad about art, and recycling. She could make art out of what other people called a pile of rubbish. One summer, we even spent a month in South America. This led to George deciding she wanted to grow up to be an archeologist - at only six years old! No matter how much time we spent in the sun, I never quite managed to tan and George would tease me mercilessly about needing high factor sun cream so my ghostly skin wouldn't fry.

We used to live near to Whitby (I was conceived at Whitby Goth Festival, according to an awkward and strained conversation with my still-fuming grandmother), but now we're packing up home and moving to a little place called Stokely in Wales. Mum can't bring herself to stay here, not in the house Michael died in. Three men had broken into our house and Michael, the man who raised me as his own son, he locked me and George and mum in their room and told us to call the police while he went to try and stop them. There were screams and shouts and breaking glass. I had to hold George back from charging out there with him, and mum was crying into the phone and begging the police to hurry.

There was a bang, then more shouts, and then silence broken only by the cries and whimpers of my mother and sister. I felt cold, numb but I had to keep watch over them. I didn't let them out of the room, not until the police knocked on our locked door. They didn't have to tell us what had happened, the solemn looks on their faces telling the story already. Michael was dead. He died protecting all of us, but the ghosts haunted the house. So I cleaned up the blood, fighting tears and nausea but not wishing such a thing on my mother. We packed up our lives, and mum sold the house. Saying goodbye to our childhood memories, I picked up George and she clung tightly to me. Carrying my nine-year-old sister out to the moving van, I strapped her small and fragile body into her seat. I was thirteen years old now, and I had to square up and be 'the man of the house'. Climbing out of the van, I helped mum up into the drivers seat, checked the removal men had gotten everything and cast one last look at the home I'd watched my baby sister grow up in. Swallowing back tears around a lump in my throat, I climbed up into the van.

I'm Adam Giles, and this is how life goes on.

-ASYD-

Horribly cliche ending, I know!

Also, the rest of the story won't be first person from here on (I HATE writing in first person), this is just a diary entry to summarise the beginning of the story.