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"Dracula, what's with that expression on your face?"
The question hung in the thick, oppressive air, but the answer was already clear in the piercing, crimson eyes of the vampire lord. Dracula's face, usually graced with a sardonic smirk or an air of detached amusement, was now devoid of any trace of patience. His features, sharp and cold as marble, were set in an expression of absolute indifference—an eerie calm that foreshadowed merciless retribution.
Voldemort, despite his arrogance and power, felt a rare pang of panic. The dark wizard, who prided himself on fearlessness, now found himself desperately clawing at survival. Transformed into a swirling mass of black smoke, he hurled himself against the blood-colored water prison that entrapped him. Again and again, he rammed into the walls of liquid crimson, each collision sending ripples through the cage. The corrosive blood-water sizzled upon contact, gnawing away at his very essence, but Voldemort no longer cared about pain. Fear had consumed him entirely. His only thought was escape—escape from the clutches of this ancient, otherworldly predator.
Dracula watched the futile struggle with a detached gaze, as if observing a moth repeatedly flinging itself against an unforgiving flame. His crimson eyes glinted with a cruel amusement, though his lips never curled into a smile. Slowly, deliberately, his slender fingers began to close.
The water prison responded immediately.
The shimmering walls of crimson tightened, constricting around the dark smoke like an enormous serpent crushing its prey. Voldemort's essence was compressed mercilessly, the blood-water gnawing, eroding, and annihilating his spectral form inch by inch. A faint, desperate voice echoed through the tightening prison, filled with disbelief and helplessness.
"I just don't believe that I have any interest in eternal life!"
Voldemort's cry echoed hollowly, laced with despair as the walls of his prison closed in. His greatest temptation—immortality—was always his ultimate bargaining chip. Yet here stood a being who seemed entirely unfazed by it.
Dracula's wings spread gracefully, and he floated closer, hovering effortlessly above the blood-red cage. His voice, soft yet cutting, resonated through the air.
"Would you like to open your eyes and see who you are trying to discuss immortality with?"
The question was not a taunt, nor a challenge. It was a cold reminder. The faint glow of the dark moon, still lingering behind him, cast his tall figure into a long, spectral silhouette. His form appeared as an ethereal shadow, with only two wine-red eyes shimmering through the darkness and the glint of sharp fangs peeking from beneath his pale lips—a flash of cold, cruel brilliance.
Realization dawned upon Voldemort like a death knell. His spectral form, trembling under the pressure of Dracula's magic, seemed to freeze for a moment.
Everything fell into place—the mysterious appearance of an immensely powerful wizard in the magical world, a figure steeped in darkness; Dumbledore's sudden decision to leave Quirrell behind and hire a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor; the strange ability to apparate within Hogwarts without being hindered by its counter-curses…
"The legendary vampire..…" Voldemort's voice, weak and fading, echoed one last time from the blood prison.
The crimson liquid surged in response to Dracula's silent command. In an instant, the walls of the water prison collapsed inward, drowning out all sound and leaving no space for resistance. The black smoke that was Voldemort was swallowed whole, devoured by the blood-water, annihilated without a trace.
The dark moon's glow faded at last, and the sky above the Forbidden Forest returned to its usual tranquility. A profound silence enveloped the ancient woods, broken only by the distant cries of deer and the occasional flutter of wings in the trees.
Dracula, his expression unreadable, waved his hand. The river of blood vanished into the void, and he hovered silently, lost in thought. The night breeze ruffled his dark cloak as he contemplated the outcome of his encounter.
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Returning to the fourth-floor restricted area of Hogwarts Castle, Dracula was greeted by chaos. The usually serene corridor was now a flurry of hurried movements and worried voices.
Madam Pomfrey, the ever-diligent healer of Hogwarts, guided a stretcher with her wand. Harry Potter, unconscious and pale, lay upon it. His glasses were askew, and his forehead, marked by the infamous lightning scar, was beaded with sweat. Hermione Granger, her face streaked with tears, followed closely, sobbing quietly with every step.
Nearby, Hagrid—half-giant and gamekeeper—was overcome with grief. The massive man cradled Fluffy, the enormous three-headed dog, in his arms. Tears streamed down his broad face as he rocked the beast gently, his loud, heart-wrenching sobs echoing through the corridor.
Professor Sprout, short and stout with a kind face, stood on her tiptoes trying to examine Fluffy's wide, vacant eyes. Her brow furrowed in concern as she searched for the right herbs to counter the dark curse that afflicted the creature.
"Relax, Hagrid, it's not dead yet," she reassured, though she had to raise her voice over Hagrid's loud cries. "Generally, curses like this that change physical states can be treated with mandrake restorative potion. Just… a lot of it."
Dracula, unfazed by the scene, stepped around them silently and approached the trap door leading below. Without hesitation, he leapt into the darkness.
The landing below, once softened by Professor Sprout's Devil's Snare, was now a hard, unforgiving floor. The plant had been removed, leaving a bare stone surface.
'If Potter, Weasley, and Granger tried jumping in now, they'd probably break every bone before even reaching the next challenge,' Dracula mused idly, his descent as graceful as a feather falling through the air.
He moved forward effortlessly, passing the remnants of challenges set by Hogwarts' finest professors. The room of winged keys, arranged by Professor Flitwick, was now devoid of its chaotic fluttering as the Charms professor packed them away meticulously. Nearby, the ruined pieces of an enormous enchanted chessboard, created by Professor McGonagall's expert Transfiguration, were being cleared one by one.
Dracula exchanged a brief nod with Professor Flitwick, acknowledging the work done, and proceeded further.
He stepped over the lifeless bodies of trolls that had been dealt with by Quirrell, passed through extinguished flames that once blocked the path, and finally reached the last room—the room of the Mirror of Erised.
Inside, tension filled the air.
"Albus, did you already know that Voldemort's soul was lurking in our school?!"
Professor McGonagall's stern voice, filled with barely restrained fury, cut through the silence like a sharp blade. Her lips were pursed tightly, her expression a mixture of anger and concern. She glared at Dumbledore, who, despite his usual calm demeanor, looked almost sheepish.
Caught like a student in trouble, Dumbledore avoided her gaze, his hands clasped behind his back. His twinkling eyes darted around nervously, seeking refuge from the verbal barrage.
When Dracula entered, Dumbledore seized the opportunity eagerly, his face lighting up with relief as if salvation had arrived in the form of a centuries-old vampire.
"Ah, Professor Dracula! Wonderful timing," Dumbledore greeted, his voice unusually cheerful. "Tell me, how did your encounter with Voldemort go?"
Professor McGonagall, still stern and unrelenting, turned her gaze to Dracula, awaiting his response with evident concern.
"Theoretically, it's resolved," Dracula replied, his tone as calm and unbothered as ever. "His soul was completely wiped out… not even ashes left behind."
"Then why say 'theoretically'?" McGonagall pressed, her sharp eyes narrowing in confusion.
Dracula's crimson gaze flickered. "Because I can still feel him. Even now. He's out there somewhere. This… this was not his end."
Understanding dawned in Dumbledore's eyes, and the two old souls exchanged a silent glance, their thoughts aligned.
Horcrux.
Both knew the ancient and terrible magic that tethered a wizard's soul to the mortal realm through dark objects. No matter how thoroughly Voldemort's current form was destroyed, as long as even one Horcrux existed, he could return.
The air grew heavier.
Dumbledore fell into silent contemplation, considering how to annihilate Voldemort's soul entirely. McGonagall, visibly distressed, thought of her students and the school's safety. Dracula, ever curious, pondered the unique properties of a soul split into pieces—how fascinating it would be to study such a phenomenon firsthand.
A sudden, loud voice shattered the silence.
"Albus! Give me a hand with this little cutie, will you? I want to keep it in the Forbidden Forest!" Professor Kettleburn's gruff shout echoed through the room. Balancing precariously atop a massive, coiled basilisk, the half-limbed Care of Magical Creatures professor waved cheerfully.
Dumbledore, faced with the enormous serpent, blinked in disbelief. His lips twitched as he silently questioned Kettleburn's definition of "cutie."