After the opening banquet, Professor Dumbledore stood up once more. The once lively auditorium gradually fell silent.
He began by sharing a few important rules for the students, reminding them to avoid venturing into the Forbidden Forest or casting spells in the corridors. His tone was light, and with his usual twinkle, it was clear that these reminders might not be taken too seriously.
Dracula, observing from his seat, noticed many Gryffindor students looking eager to test the boundaries, their eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Dumbledore's mood shifted as he continued, his face becoming more solemn. "Lastly," he said, voice firm, "Anyone who wishes to avoid a painful and untimely demise should avoid the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor."
A ripple of laughter spread through the room, as many students thought it was just another one of Dumbledore's playful jokes.
Curious, Dracula glanced at Professor Flitwick beside him and asked, "He doesn't seem like he's joking."
"Oh! It's true," Professor Flitwick replied with his usual sharp tone. "Albus seems intent on protecting something. Recently, he enlisted several of us professors to set up some... interesting defenses to prevent it from being stolen by thieves."
Dracula raised an eyebrow. "Interesting? Why wasn't I informed? Isn't Defense Against the Dark Arts supposed to be one of the main courses?"
Flitwick adjusted his mustache and replied, "Of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts is important! Though, I haven't exactly felt like it's the main focus in recent decades..." He smiled mischievously, then added, "But you wouldn't have known. You were away when Albus asked for help setting up the defenses, so he had Quirrell handle it for you."
"Ah, I see," Dracula nodded, still intrigued.
As the conversation continued, Dumbledore suddenly grew serious again. Standing before the students, he flicked his wand. A long golden ribbon flew out, coiling in the air above the tables, forming lines of text.
"Choose a tune that suits you," Dumbledore said, his voice cheerful. "Prepare to sing!"
Dracula's expression shifted to one of disbelief. "Wait a minute," he muttered, "A thousand years have passed, and Hogwarts still hasn't found someone to compose a proper tune for the school song?"
Amid the chaotic "singing" that sounded more like a chorus of quarrels, Dracula turned to Professor Flitwick beside him. "Is this really how it's always been?"
Flitwick, still happily singing, paused to answer. Standing on his chair, he replied, "Every headmaster thinks this is Hogwarts' tradition, and no one wants to change it!"
Dracula sighed, not quite sure how to respond. He remembered that Ravenclaw had written the lyrics to the school song long ago, during a time when British music was still in its infancy. The founders had hoped that future generations would find a talented wizard composer to create an appropriate tune.
Instead, each headmaster had continued the tradition of freeform singing, leaving the school song without a proper melody to this very day, a thousand years later...
---
After enduring the chaos called the school song, Dracula made his way back to his office. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office was located on the third floor, conveniently connected to the classroom below. With a side door and a short flight of stairs, the professor could easily step into the classroom whenever class was in session. Dracula couldn't help but wonder whether this layout had always been this way, or if Dumbledore had arranged it to accommodate his tendency to... exit through windows.
His office, decorated in a dark, gothic style, was where Dracula found his teaching assistant, Quirrell, awaiting him.
"So, you get rid of the smell of garlic by covering it up with something worse?" Dracula asked, raising an eyebrow.
Before Quirrell could answer, Dracula frowned and set up a dark barrier around the room, trapping Quirrell behind it.
"Professor Dracula, you must understand..." Quirrell stammered from behind the barrier. "I met... a vampire in Romania. And to stop him from coming after me, I had no choice but to use garlic."
Dracula's eyes flickered with interest. "You've met vampires in Romania?"
"Yes," Quirrell confirmed nervously.
"And how are they doing now?" Dracula asked, his tone becoming more serious. He sat up straight in his chair and fixed Quirrell with a piercing look. "Their habits, ways of doing things, mental outlook, and the state of their kind—tell me everything."
Quirrell hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, before mumbling, "They're... the same as always. Still brutal, blue-faced, ugly, and thin... when I saw one, it attacked me, wanting my blood. Of course, I fought back... used a spell to drive him away..."
Dracula's expression darkened as he listened. With each word, his patience wore thin, and by the end, he slammed his hand on the table and snapped, "Enough, that's all nonsense!"
The more Dracula listened to Quirrell's increasingly absurd story, the darker his expression became. Eventually, his patience snapped. With a swift motion, he threw open the door and unceremoniously slapped Quirrell out of the room.
"I don't care what excuses you have," Dracula growled. "Either get rid of that smell or I'll have no choice but to expel you. Your call."
Quirrell stumbled backward, falling into the corridor and hitting the back of his head against the stone pillar. He groaned, reaching for the sore spot, but before he could touch it, a sharp, malicious curse echoed in his mind, causing him to jerk his hand back.
Eyes wide with fear, Quirrell quickly scrambled to his feet, his spirit crushed, and he trudged off down the hall, dejected.
But before he could get far, an unseen force yanked him back toward the office. He was pulled into the air as if held by invisible hands.
"One more thing," Dracula's voice cut through the stillness. Once again, he set up a barrier to block the foul stench and, with a touch of curiosity, asked, "I heard you've set up a barrier for something Dumbledore wants to protect. Do you know what it is?"
Quirrell stiffened at the question, panic creeping into his voice. "I... I'm not sure. I'm only in charge of setting up the... levels," he said, cautiously.
Dracula raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. "I see. So you don't know what's being protected. What exactly is in the level, then?"
"A... a troll," Quirrell mumbled, his voice small.
Before Quirrell could say another word, Dracula threw him out of the office with a wave of his hand, causing him to crash into the same pillar—again.
Dracula grimaced, utterly repulsed. "So that's the smell! No wonder you stink! It's the troll's stench!" he said with a frown of disgust. "Go and throw that troll out of Hogwarts immediately. I'll handle the defense levels myself!"