HP: Vampire Professor

The next day at noon, a frantic owl arrived at the Hogwarts Headmaster's office, bearing an urgent summons from the Ministry of Magic.

A knowing smile touched Dumbledore's lips as he read the letter. He then turned to the grand fireplace, preparing to Floo to London. Before stepping into the emerald flames, he looked at Fawkes, his expression serious. "When there is movement in that bathroom," he instructed softly, "take this letter to Harry."

Fawkes nodded, his intelligent eyes glancing at the desk. A single letter sat there, addressed in elegant, looping script: Mr. Harry Potter. Beside it lay a small hand mirror, its surface shimmering with a familiar, eye-shaped rune. The mirror's reflection was not of the office but of the derelict girls' lavatory, showing a row of grimy taps, one of which was conspicuously missing its handle.

"If Professor Dracula knew I was spying on a girls' bathroom," Dumbledore mused with a self-deprecating shake of his head, "he would never let me hear the end of it." With that, he stepped into the roaring green fire and was gone.

Meanwhile, the very professor Dumbledore was worried about was, in fact, doing the exact same thing.

From his own vantage point, Dracula observed the situation in the bathroom, a sense of anticipation building within him. Today, the very air of the castle felt charged with significance. Dumbledore had been lured away by a contrived emergency, and just minutes later, Professor Quirrell had conveniently come down with a sudden "cold," asking for the day off. To top it all off, Dracula had two consecutive Defense Against the Dark Arts classes that afternoon, tying him to the classroom.

The events were all plausible on their own, but when woven together, the tapestry of coincidence revealed a clear and deliberate design.

Voldemort was making his move.

The two classes, however, proved to be no obstacle at all. Voldemort had clearly, and foolishly, overestimated Dracula's professional ethics.

"This class is self-study," Dracula announced to the room of fifth-years, his voice flat with boredom. "The class prefect will maintain order. Do not bother me with your questions; I have no intention of answering them. What? No prefect? Then you," he said, pointing a languid finger at a handsome Hufflepuff boy. "Diggory. You're in charge."

Having delegated his duties, Dracula leaned back against the blackboard, his eyes closing. But his senses were far away, seeing through the eyes—or rather, the ears—of a bat. The small creature he had left behind was constantly emitting ultrasonic pulses, its sensitive ears receiving the echoes and painting a perfect, detailed map of the lavatory in his mind's eye, a map far more accurate than any visual could provide.

Neither Dracula nor Fawkes had to wait long.

Halfway through the class, a furtive figure in a purple turban slipped into the girls' lavatory, making a beeline for the row of sinks.

A chilling, sibilant hiss echoed from beneath Quirrell's turban.

Instantly, the broken tap began to glow with a brilliant white light. It spun rapidly, and with a grinding of stone on stone, the entire sink began to descend into the floor, revealing the dark, gaping maw of a massive pipe, wide enough for a man to crawl through.

In the Headmaster's office, Fawkes's eyes widened. This was the "movement" Dumbledore had spoken of. With a swift, graceful motion, he snatched the letter from the desk and, in a flash of golden-red light, vanished.

In the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Dracula's eyes snapped open, a daunting, predatory light within them.

"Continue your studies," he announced, his voice a low, serious rumble. "I will be out for a while. Diggory, maintain order."

A slow, intrigued smile spread across his face, a sight that sent a shiver down the spines of the Weasley twins, who had been whispering about their detention plans.

"What's with the professor?" George muttered nervously. "That smile is terrifying."

"Terrifyingly brilliant," Fred corrected, a grin dawning on his own face. "The professor is gone! Time to liven things up, wouldn't you say?"

Cedric Diggory stood up, attempting to instill some order, but his noble efforts were quickly drowned out by the rising tide of Gryffindor chaos.

In the Gryffindor common room, Harry and Ron were locked in a tense game of wizard's chess. Hermione sat nearby, her face buried in a mountain of books.

"Check," Ron declared, a smug grin spreading across his face as his queen ruthlessly dispatched another of Harry's pieces. "Just admit defeat, Harry!"

"Not yet," Harry grunted, sweat beading on his forehead as he desperately searched for a move. "I can still hold on."

Just then, a flash of golden-red light filled the common room for a fraction of a second.

"Ron, did you see that?" Harry asked, looking up from the board. "A flash of red light."

"Nice try, Harry," Ron scoffed, his eyes glued to the board. "Fred and George wore that trick out years ago. Now, are you going to move, or are you going to surrender like a man?"

But Harry's attention was no longer on the game. "Ron," he said, a note of confusion in his voice as he pointed to a small table behind them. "When did that letter get there?"

Ron, thinking it was just another distraction, sighed and leaned over to look. "Someone probably left it. It's got nothing to do with us. Now, come on, I'm about to win! Don't you dare try to cheat!"

Ignoring him, Harry walked over and picked up the letter.

"To Mr. Harry Potter..."

"It's for me," he said, a sense of unease creeping over him as he tore open the envelope.

Inside was a single sheet of parchment, filled with elegant, familiar handwriting.

"Harry, if you are careful, you may recognize this writing style. Yes, it was I who sent you the Invisibility Cloak..."

***

(End of Chapter)

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