"Is this… gloomy wood?" Ollivander leaned forward, his pale eyes widening as he examined the wooden plank Dracula had presented. "This is one of the rarest materials for necromancy and dark magic ever recorded!"
He scratched his chin, tilting his head as he muttered to himself, "But… as far as I know, this type of wood has been extinct for centuries."
Ollivander's gaze shifted back to the plank, his expression shifting to unease as he noticed its peculiar, coffin-sized dimensions. Slowly, he looked at Dracula, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face.
"You didn't… by any chance… lift this from someone's coffin, did you?"
Dracula's expression darkened, his crimson eyes glinting dangerously.
"Stop talking nonsense," he said, his tone sharp as steel. "Just tell me—will you make the wand or not?"
"Of course, of course!" Ollivander replied hastily, excitement blooming on his face as his earlier concern melted away. "How could I refuse such a unique material? A wand made from this wood… Fascinating!"
He turned to his shelves, mumbling as he reached for his tools. "Now, for the wand core. Should we go with dragon heartstrings? Or perhaps phoenix feathers? Unicorn tail hair is entirely out of the question—it's far too… uh, pure for someone like you."
Dracula raised an elegant hand to stop the old man's rambling.
"I have no interest in the standard cores," he said flatly. "Do you have anything… less conventional?"
Ollivander straightened up, a look of professional pride crossing his face.
"I must tell you, after decades of experimentation, the three standard cores—unicorn tail hair, dragon heartstrings, and phoenix feathers—are unmatched in stability and power. I don't use anything else for wandmaking. It's a matter of principle."
Dracula's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile.
"Principles," he said softly, "can be adjusted."
Before Ollivander could respond, Dracula calmly extended his right hand. With a chilling crack, he bent and detached his own little finger.
Ollivander froze, staring in stunned silence as Dracula's severed bone gleamed with an eerie, otherworldly light. The pale phalanx was smooth, flawless, and unnaturally pristine—almost as though it had been forged rather than grown.
Dracula handed the finger bone to Ollivander, his movements calm and deliberate.
As Ollivander stared, horrified and fascinated in equal measure, the Count's severed finger began to regrow with unnatural speed, returning to its original, elegant state in the blink of an eye.
"You… you're—" Ollivander's voice faltered as understanding dawned in his eyes.
"Watch your words," Dracula said, his tone deceptively gentle, though his crimson eyes gleamed with warning.
"No, no, I simply meant—what excellent judgment you have!" Ollivander quickly backtracked, a nervous smile spreading across his face.
Without hesitation, he snatched up the coffin plank and finger bone, cradling them like priceless artifacts.
"Spooky wood paired with such a rare, powerful core… what a masterpiece this wand will be!" he gushed. "Count Dracula, you have my word—the wand I craft for you will be unrivaled!"
Before Dracula could respond, the soft tinkle of the shop's bell interrupted them.
Ollivander immediately straightened, his earlier enthusiasm vanishing as he adopted his usual unreadable expression.
Dracula turned toward the entrance, his curiosity piqued.
Through the doorway stepped two figures, one small and frail, as if he hadn't been fed properly for years, the other massive, almost like two strong men combined. His size nearly crushed Ollivander's door frame as they walked in. They hesitated in the narrow shop, their silhouettes framed by the faint glow of Diagon Alley.
Dracula's lips twitched in amusement as he observed the newcomers. Whatever brought them here, it seemed this visit to Ollivander's would turn out to be far more eventful than he'd anticipated.
The smaller boy stepped forward, hesitantly clutching a shopping list. "Good afternoon," Ollivander said softly, his gaze flicking to the boy's face. "Ah, yes, yes... I expected to see you soon, Harry Potter. Your eyes..."
Before he could fully immerse himself in his dramatic moment, Dracula interrupted.
"Hey, aren't you the kid everyone was crowding around earlier?" he asked, tilting his head as he studied the boy with faint amusement.
The boy looked surprised. "You don't know who I am?"
"Should I?" Dracula raised an eyebrow.
Before Harry could respond, the towering figure next to him bellowed, "What? You don't know Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived?!"
His voice was so loud it nearly shook the entire shop, causing several wand boxes to teeter precariously on the shelves.
Dracula wrinkled his nose in distaste as dust puffed into the air. With a casual flick of his sleeve, he summoned a small breeze to sweep the grime out of the shop.
He stepped closer to the boy, examining the lightning-shaped scar partially hidden under messy hair. "So, you're the so-called savior? Interesting... You don't look the part," he said, glancing at Harry's thin frame and ill-fitted clothes.
Harry shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, but Dracula's tone grew lighter. "If nothing else happens, I should be your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor after you enroll. Call me Professor Dracula," he said with a faint smirk. "We'll have plenty of time to study how you managed to defeat Voldemort."
At the mention of the Dark Lord's name, both Hagrid and Ollivander flinched, their faces pale. But Harry was transfixed.
In the magical world, every adult he'd met had avoided saying Voldemort's name, always opting for "You-Know-Who" or "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." Yet here was Dracula, speaking the name as if it were no more intimidating than "Smith."
Dracula's boldness made an impression. To Harry, this was someone who didn't just exude power—he owned it.
"Professor," Harry asked tentatively, "but in the Leaky Cauldron earlier, Professor Quirrell said he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Are there two professors?"
Dracula's expression darkened instantly.
"Oh? Someone claimed my position?" Dracula sneered, and the temperature in the shop dropped a few degrees. "No one steals something I find amusing."
With a casual wave to Ollivander and Harry, Dracula turned and walked out of the shop, heading straight for the Leaky Cauldron.
The three left behind in the shop—Harry, Hagrid, and Ollivander—exhaled a collective sigh of relief.
"Where did Dumbledore find such a terrifying professor?" Hagrid muttered, rubbing his neck awkwardly.
Ollivander, now regaining his composure, picked up where he had left off. He looked at Harry and said in his usual mystic tone, "Your eyes... They're just like your mother's. I remember when she came here to buy her first wand. It feels like yesterday..."
But Harry wasn't listening. His mind was already far away, filled with images of Professor Dracula and the upcoming Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
"Compared to stuttering Professor Quirrell and his odd turban, Professor Dracula looks much more... capable," Harry thought, a faint spark of excitement flickering in his chest.
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