On the morning of the second day of school, Harry finally had his long-awaited first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson.
Determined not to repeat the mistake of almost being late for Transfiguration class the day before, Harry woke Ron up early. They carefully made their way through the hallway, avoiding the disappearing steps, and were the first to arrive at the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
"Harry, why are we here so early?" Ron groaned, leaning his head on the desk with a yawn. "We could've slept in a little longer."
"Fred and George told me that Defense Against the Dark Arts professors only last a year, no matter who they are," Ron explained. "So, as long as we survive the year, we'll be fine. No need to worry about them causing trouble."
"That's not true, Ron!" Harry countered. "I met Professor Dracula when I bought my wand at Ollivanders. He's tall, handsome, and the best part is—he's not afraid of Voldemort. He must be one powerful wizard!"
Hearing the name "Voldemort," Ron shuddered, and his sleepiness was instantly gone.
"I can't believe that besides you—who defeated You-Know-Who—there are other wizards who aren't afraid of him!" Ron said, his eyes wide with astonishment.
At that moment, another little wizard walked into the room, carrying a stack of books.
"Harry Potter, Ron Weasley?" She looked surprised to see them there so early. "Why are you here?"
"Are you saying we can't show up early, Granger?" Ron frowned, sounding a bit defensive, as if coming to class early was his idea.
"Oh, no, that's not what I meant," Hermione said, setting her heavy stack of books down on the nearest table. "I was just.... a little surprised. You were a bit late to Transfiguration yesterday."
Ron felt his face flush. "We were lost! Do you get it? We really got lost!"
Harry quickly pulled him away from the conversation. Then, both of them noticed a strange-looking wizard entering the room. He wore a purple turban and had a pale, sickly face.
"Is this the tall, handsome, and powerful Professor Dracula you mentioned? Why does he look so weak..." Ron muttered quietly to Harry.
"I think that's Professor Quirrell," Harry whispered, eyeing Quirrell's nervous behavior. "But I'm not sure why he's teaching us instead of Professor Dracula."
Ron stared at Quirrell for a moment, then scrunched up his nose. "Harry, do you smell that? It's like someone spilled an entire bottle of perfume on him!"
"I do," Harry said, scrunching his nose. "It's the same scent my uncle wears when he meets his clients. But Quirrell smells way stronger!"
"Why would anyone wear so much of it? I feel like I'm choking!" Ron rolled his eyes, pulling a face of disgust. He moved his books to the back of the room, hoping the scent would disappear—or at least fade into something less... overwhelming.
"Maybe... it's for men who need a bit more... 'confidence'?" Harry said, finally breathing easier, but his eyes still watering from the scent.
"..." Ron didn't respond, just looking slightly amused.
As more students trickled into the room, the bell rang, signaling the start of class. Quirrell nervously approached the front of the room and began to unroll his lesson plan.
"Good morning, everyone," Quirrell stammered, his voice shaky. "I am Professor Quirrell. Today, I'll be in charge of teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Harry, still enduring the overwhelming scent of perfume, raised his hand.
"Mr... Potter?" Quirrell asked, startled.
"Professor Quirrell, I want to know why Professor Dracula isn't teaching us," Harry asked in one breath, his nerves apparent as he tried to keep his voice steady.
The other students turned to look at Quirrell, especially the girls who had been excited about Professor Dracula's arrival.
"Professor Dracula?" Quirrell blinked, momentarily thrown off. "He... after his lesson yesterday, he... was dissatisfied with the teaching methods here. So... he asked me to teach for a few days instead."
A murmur rippled through the classroom at this unexpected explanation, but Quirrell didn't seem to mind and continued the lesson.
But Instead of confidently explaining the material, Quirrell fumbled through the textbooks and lesson plans, his voice cracking like a nervous teenager. Every time a student shifted in their seat or cleared their throat, Quirrell flinched
By the end of the class, it was clear to everyone that Quirrell had unknowingly turned into the afternoon's comedy show..
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At this moment, Dracula who allowed his teaching assistant to have some fun at Hogwarts, was far from the castle.
In Paris, at the opulent Opéra Garnier, the audience was completely absorbed in the performance, their eyes fixed on the stage. From time to time, knowing smiles flickered across their faces.
The show had just started when, beside an elderly man with white hair, several patrons hastily stood and left, as though something urgent had crossed their minds.
No one in the theater noticed, however, that a dark moon, accompanied by the fleeting shadows of bats, had suddenly appeared in the space they vacated.
As the moon faded, a silver-haired figure casually draped himself over a plush chair, crossing his legs with effortless elegance. He sat down next to the old man, his gaze cool and slightly amused.
"Oh, Dracula," the old man remarked, turning his head with a disapproving glance, "those people paid good money to watch the performance. Why the Muggle expulsion spell? Really?"
"Whether they paid or not has nothing to do with me," Dracula smirked, his voice dripping with a mix of amusement and indifference. "I'm not like you, Nico. I didn't develop any fondness for theater over the years."
He leaned back in the chair, letting the silence stretch for a moment before straightening up. His eyes narrowed, and his tone shifted to one of sudden, piercing seriousness. "I came here to ask you something, Nico. Are you...hiding anything from me?"
Nico raised an eyebrow, his face an impassive mask. "Hiding? From you? What on earth would I be hiding from you?"
Dracula's gaze deepened, his voice growing more dangerous. "The magic stones, Nico. All the ones you borrowed to keep yourself alive. You didn't think I'd notice, did you?"
For a brief moment, Nico's expression faltered, and a flicker of hesitation crossed his features. Then, with a resigned sigh, he flicked his wrist, casting a soundproof charm around them. "Albus was right... You really are annoyingly perceptive."
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