Dark Deals: The Vampire Who Owns Hogwarts

Read up to 15 chapters ahead on Patreon - patreon.com/Rez540

Drop reviews or stones for Bonus chapters.(every 100 stones or 10 reviews)

-----

"I almost forgot, Professor Dracula," Dumbledore said with a faint smile, "you are not only a vampire but also a true count."

Dracula leaned back casually, crossing his arms as his crimson eyes gleamed with amusement. "And what do these noble spirits demand? Shall I treat women and children with preferential mercy?"

"In your era, nobility stood for grace, dignity, and responsibility," Dumbledore responded lightly, his eyes twinkling with a knowing warmth.

Dracula's smile faded into a cold, sharp expression. "Even if I no longer care for those so-called noble ideals, it does not mean I would stoop to placing such a burden on a mere child who has only just entered school."

Dumbledore's gaze turned toward Harry, who stood transfixed before the Mirror of Erised. His blue eyes shimmered with a hint of melancholy as he watched the boy.

"Professor Dracula," Dumbledore said softly, his tone growing serious, "you must not underestimate Voldemort's strength. No one has survived the Killing Curse—except for two people: Voldemort and Harry."

Dracula raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself.

"But Harry did not survive through sheer power," Dumbledore continued. "His mother, Lily, cast powerful guardian magic through the strength of her love for him. It rebounded Voldemort's Killing Curse, striking him instead. The true victim of that curse was Voldemort himself."

For a moment, Dracula said nothing. Then, a cold smirk twisted his lips. "Are you telling me, Mr. Headmaster, that Harry's mother—a wizard of no particular renown—managed to repel the most feared dark wizard of this age using nothing but the emotion of love?" His voice dripped with skepticism. "Surely you don't expect me to believe such sentimental nonsense."

"Do not underestimate the power of bonds, Professor Dracula," Dumbledore replied evenly, his eyes steady. "The potential of a human being is limitless, especially when driven by love. In the face of desperation, people often discover strength they never knew they possessed."

Dracula looked at Dumbledore's serious expression and felt an absurd sensation welling up within him.

Was it Dumbledore who had grown old and confused, or had Dracula's century-long slumber left him out of touch with the times? Since when had a wizard's potential grown so great that their emotions could dictate the strength of their magic?

If such a notion were true, then wouldn't passionate couples and affectionate parents wield enough power to rival the might of great wizards?

The idea was utterly preposterous. Dracula, after all, knew the stark reality of magic: the gap between wizards was often as insurmountable as a chasm. No amount of sentiment could bridge such a divide.

For that reason, Dracula rejected Dumbledore's explanation for Harry's survival of the Killing Curse. He preferred to seek the answer himself.

"Let's skip this topic," Dracula said disapprovingly, his tone tinged with disdain. "I'm not interested in dissecting the emotional lives of your wizards. Instead, tell me why you believe Voldemort survived his own Death Curse."

Dumbledore sighed, a hint of helplessness in his expression.

"At first, I truly believed Voldemort was dead," he admitted. "For a time, I allowed myself to feel relieved. But then, I noticed something troubling—the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position remained unbroken. You must understand, Professor Dracula, that such a curse can only persist if its caster is still alive."

Dumbledore's face grew more solemn as he continued. "A series of events confirmed my suspicions—Quirrell's arrival at Hogwarts, his peculiar behavior, and, most damningly, his obsession with the Philosopher's Stone. All these pointed to one conclusion: Voldemort never truly left. He has been waiting for the right moment to return."

Dracula's crimson eyes narrowed. "So, you orchestrated this elaborate situation with the Philosopher's Stone, all to lure Voldemort out and use him to shape Potter?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied without hesitation. "Voldemort is extraordinarily weak right now, so much so that he can only act through proxies. Were he not so feeble, he would never have relied on someone like Quirrell, nor would he have risked attempting to steal the Philosopher's Stone himself."

Dracula's expression turned cold. "You do realize the Philosopher's Stone is Nico's lifeline? If Voldemort were at full strength, Nico would have had no chance of survival. The continuation of his elixir of life would have been impossible."

"Your scheme placed Nico in grave danger. He may not value his own life, but do you, Headmaster?"

"Rest assured, Professor Dracula," Dumbledore said with a calm smile, his tone soothing. "There was no real risk involved. The Philosopher's Stone kept in Gringotts was always a decoy. The genuine article has been safely hidden here, at Hogwarts, all along."

Dracula's surprise flickered briefly across his face. He nodded slightly, impressed despite himself.

"Nico told me of the conversation you had at the Opera Garnier," Dumbledore continued, his voice warm with gentle understanding. "He no longer desires immortality. Once this ordeal is over, he intends to entrust the Philosopher's Stone to me—and I will, in turn, hand it over to you."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with quiet satisfaction. "Professor Dracula, surely you have not entirely forsaken the bonds of humanity? Friendship, too, holds a power of its own."

Dracula scoffed, averting his gaze. "I've already told you—I have no interest in your theories about bonds." With a practiced ease, he shifted the conversation. "You still haven't explained how you think Voldemort survived the Death Curse."

Dumbledore's expression darkened, his voice lowering as he fixed Dracula with a penetrating stare.

"Professor Dracula," he said gravely, "have you ever heard of a most evil and forbidden branch of black magic—Horcruxes?"

----

A Horcrux pulsed with dark energy, hidden within the confines of Hogwarts.

In the shadowy depths of the Forbidden Forest, the young, spectral form of Lord Voldemort—Tom Riddle, brought forth from the cursed diary—prowled like a predator. His translucent figure shimmered as he moved, an eerie echo of his once-living self.

Spotting a hare darting through the underbrush, Riddle extended a ghostly hand. His fingers curled around the small creature, halting it mid-leap. The hare struggled wildly, its hind legs kicking in vain against an invisible grip.

A dark, malevolent energy seeped from Riddle's form, coiling around the animal. The hare's frantic movements slowed, then ceased entirely. Its body withered, the life drained away until it became a husk, lifeless and shriveled.

For a fleeting moment, Riddle's ethereal body gained a semblance of solidity. But the effect was fleeting, unsatisfactory.

He frowned, irritation flashing across his spectral face as he pulled out the diary—the Horcrux that had resurrected this fragment of his soul. Opening its blank pages, he watched as elegant lines of ink scrawled themselves onto the parchment.

"It's useless to merely drain the life energy of animals. What you need is the life force of a wizard."

The ink glistened on the page, taunting him with its quiet command.

"Of course, I know that." Riddle snapped, his voice sharp with impatience. "I don't need you to remind me. But how am I to achieve that? Dumbledore and Dracula are still preoccupied with Quirrell and are suspicious of me. Their vigilance leaves me no opportunity to approach a wizard."

The diary responded, its ink rearranging with an almost mocking elegance.

"Give me to any student, and I can deceive them into offering their life force willingly."

A cold smile twisted Riddle's lips. "Oh, I see your plan. You want me to abandon the diary, don't you?" he sneered. "Don't forget your place. You're merely a fragment of my soul, a memory of who I once was. You exist only to serve me—and my main soul!"

With a sharp snap, Riddle slammed the diary shut, cutting off its silent voice. Without another glance at its cover, he moved deeper into the forest, his steps light yet purposeful.

The Forbidden Forest seemed to hold its breath as he approached a clearing. A serene stream meandered through the trees, its waters catching the moonlight. Kneeling by the edge of the stream was a unicorn—a creature of unearthly beauty, its silvery coat glowing faintly in the darkness.

Its head bowed gracefully as it drank from the crystal-clear waters, unaware of the danger lurking nearby.

Riddle's red-tinged eyes narrowed, his hand raising with an unnatural swiftness. His voice hissed through the still air, cold and merciless.

"Avada Kedavra."

---

---