Dumbledore, ever the meticulous planner, carefully attached a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor accident statistics table to the appointment letter, placed it on his desk, and slid it toward Dracula.
Dracula picked up the long list, his eyes flickering with an unsettling curiosity as he read:
"Accident statistics for Defense Against the Dark Arts professors: being trampled by a wild boar, accidentally obliterating themselves with their own spell, starving after becoming hopelessly lost in the castle, tripping with their left foot, striking their right foot on the platform, and falling to their doom..."
A low chuckle escaped Dracula's lips, his eyes gleaming as he flashed two sharp, gleaming fangs.
"Hehehe… not many manage to leave this position alive," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement.
"Ahem."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, his voice cutting through Dracula's laughter with a polite but firm reminder. He cleared his throat twice and, with a slight gesture, pointed to the "cause of death" section further down the list.
Dracula's smile faltered as his eyes slid down the parchment. His amusement waned, and the room grew still.
"Cause of death: Listening to students' jokes, laughing to death for half an hour, and then succumbing to the very laughter that killed them."
"..." Dracula placed the list aside, his fingers lingering on the edge for just a moment longer than necessary. With an air of indifference, he held the appointment letter before him, signing his name with a casual flourish.
"Very well," he said, his tone now cool and collected. "Aside from the rather… peculiar causes of death, is there anything else I should know as a professor?"
Dumbledore, practically buzzing with enthusiasm, wasted no time in rising from his seat. "Since you've agreed to apply, we're colleagues now, Count Dracula!" His voice was almost too eager, too cheerful. He took Dracula's hand with a warm, if slightly desperate, shake. "All preparations are outlined in the appointment letter. Once that's sorted, the content of your lessons will be entirely your responsibility."
Dracula raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. "I assume, then, that the legendary Count Dracula is quite… proficient at 'defense' against dark magic?" Dumbledore's tone carried an almost unspoken emphasis on the word "defense," as if to make it abundantly clear that this was about defending against the Dark Arts, not embracing them.
"Don't worry, Mr. Principal," Dracula replied, his voice smooth and unfazed, as though the conversation were of little consequence. He turned toward the Principal's office window with an almost casual air.
After a few steps, he paused, then turned back, his eyes gleaming with some unknown thought.
He reached for the bloody lollipop in Dumbledore's hand, without a word, then made his way to the window. Without a second glance, he leapt out.
Dumbledore blinked, staring at the now-empty window. He sighed, spreading his hands in mild resignation.
A moment passed before Dumbledore's gaze returned to the appointment letter on his desk. A wide grin slowly spread across his face, almost too pleased for someone who had just hired the legendary Count Dracula as a professor.
"Nicolas," he whispered to himself, "thanks to you, Hogwarts has finally secured a… reliable Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this time."
Dumbledore, still smiling, retrieved a phoenix relief mirror—strikingly similar to Dracula's bronze mirror—and spoke softly into its surface.
Meanwhile, the resume of one Quilinas Chilo, which still lay forgotten on the corner of his desk, remained unnoticed.
---
London, Diagon Alley.
Dracula, the blood-flavored lollipop dangling from his lips, lazily flicked through the list of items accompanying his appointment letter, his crimson eyes narrowing with boredom.
"Being a professor is such a hassle… and now I need to prepare a wand?" he muttered.
Yet, despite his complaints, Dracula found himself reluctantly heading toward Ollivander's Wand Shop, deep within the heart of Diagon Alley, the very place where wands of legend were crafted.
Diagon Alley, as always, felt unchanged. The slow march of time seemed to have little effect on its narrow, cobblestone streets. A few shops had come and gone, signs had faded with age, but the structure of the place felt like it had frozen a century ago.
Ollivanders was, as ever, the finest wand shop in all of wizardry. The reputation of its ancient walls whispered tales of powerful wands forged in the heart of magic itself. However, on this particular day, Diagon Alley seemed a little more alive than usual.
Crowds of wizards swarmed, their attention fixated on something ahead. Dracula's wine-red eyes followed their movements, narrowing in curiosity. A group of wizards surrounded a child, ragged and thin, his round eyes gleaming with uncertainty. The child was overwhelmed, trying to smile and shake hands with each of the eager, bowing wizards as if he were some kind of puppet—a thing to be admired, but not understood.
Dracula's interest quickly soured. With a flick of his cloak, he turned and headed toward Ollivander's.
The old shop, with its dusty shelves and cobwebbed corners, greeted him with an unsettling silence. The faint jingling of the doorbell was the only sound as Dracula entered, and as he did, a chill seemed to settle over the room.
Behind the counter, an old man with pale, almost translucent eyes slowly emerged from the shadows. His gaze lingered on Dracula for a moment, his expression shifting into one of confusion.
"Good afternoon," he murmured softly.
Dracula's eyes flicked to the man, and then, with an air of impatience, he crossed his arms and met the old wizard's gaze directly.
Ollivander blinked, his voice faltering. "Strange... very strange..."
A ripple of dark power shimmered in the air, a quiet but unmistakable presence. The red and black of Dracula's cloak shifted unnaturally, as though stirred by a wind that didn't exist.
Ollivander stiffened, his pale hands trembling ever so slightly as he took a step back. "I remember every wand I've ever sold," he stammered. "Every one. But I… I don't remember selling a wand to you. Perhaps… perhaps it was another wandmaker?"
Dracula's eyes narrowed. His voice was calm, almost amused. "No, I haven't bought a wand yet. This will be my first."
The old man looked shocked, his pale brows knitting together. "You've never used a wand before?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
Dracula's expression grew colder, his gaze unwavering. "I've used one… but I don't find them necessary."
A brief flicker of a smile crossed his lips as he recalled his long history of magic—spellcasting without wands, relying instead on his own ancient vampire powers. Wand-making had only been perfected in the last few centuries, and Dracula had never bothered with such trivialities.
But now, for the sake of teaching, he would need one.
Ollivander, ever the enthusiast, couldn't hide his fascination. "Ah, but you've missed one of the greatest arts in the world," he said, his voice filled with wonder. He quickly grabbed a wand from the shelf and thrust it into Dracula's hand. "Straight-grained pine, unicorn tail hair, fourteen inches..."
Before Ollivander could finish his enthusiastic description, Dracula barely glanced at the wand before he felt the tremors pass through it. The old man's hands shook with panic as he snatched the wand back.
"How... how is this possible?" Ollivander muttered to himself, as if unable to comprehend what he had just felt. "The wand... it trembled..."
Dracula shrugged. The dark magic that swirled around him was simply too much for the delicate fibers of unicorn hair. Vampires and unicorns were like fire and water—an impossible pairing.
Ollivander, clearly unnerved, moved to try other wands: dragon heartstring, phoenix feather, but each was met with the same response. None of the wands could match Dracula's power, none of them felt right in his hands.
"Enough," Dracula finally said, his voice tinged with boredom. "This is pointless."
Ollivander began to turn toward the back of the shop to fetch more wands. But Dracula wasn't done.
With a dramatic bang, a thick black wooden board crashed to the ground of Ollivander's Wand Shop, sending dust flying and causing a few nearby shelves to rattle. The sound echoed through the shop, as if announcing that something serious (or rather, ridiculous) was about to happen.
"Use this wood and build me a new wand!" Dracula said, holding up his coffin board like it was the most normal thing in the world.
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