I can't remember exactly how this came about, but at some point while all the bright young things were submitting their UCAS forms, WerepuppyBlack and I decided to write fics about the blasted things. As if filling them in once (twice, in my case) wasn't enough. So, anyway... here's the fic I came out with. It's got a sequel which will go up sometime in September, I expect, because at least one of these fics may as well be time-appropriate. You should also check out WerepuppyBlack's 'The UCAS Form'.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

"Bertrand, old chap!" Jim Grant's annoyingly cheery voice boomed down the corridor to stop Bertrand in his tracks, forcing a polite nod as the other teacher approached. "Valerie still off sick, is she? If you're lucky, she'll be malingering until Andrea goes on maternity leave." Bertrand sincerely hoped that this wasn't all he'd been flagged down for.

"I'd never wish illness on a colleague, of course." Especially since Year 9 appeared to be on a mission to drive him mad before they all – hopefully – dropped History upon choosing their GCSEs.

Jim chuckled. "Of course, of course, but it's nice to have the work, I'll bet. Tutoring doesn't have quite the same dependable hours, does it? Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Vlad. He's in my form group, as you know, and I haven't had a UCAS form from him yet. Bright lad like him, I wouldn't want him to miss the deadline; perhaps you could check on his progress with it? Anyway, duty calls. I'll see you in the staffroom, no doubt!" And with that, the other man disappeared into his classroom to begin his lesson.

Bertrand made his way to Valerie's desk and took the register before surrendering to the anarchy for his traditional five minutes. In those five minutes, when it appeared that he'd forgotten that there was a lesson to teach, it was easy to spot the worst of the troublemakers. He also identified a student who'd changed class a few weeks ago, but had clearly had him for a lesson before. She was waiting patiently, sitting with her textbook open and her hands folded neatly on her desk, dividing her attention fairly equally between the book and the silent teacher.

This class was not subtle in its rebellion; he quickly identified three particularly loud, irreverent and – in the case of one of the boys – downright vulgar pupils he could reduce to quivering wrecks as an example to the others, but rather than setting to it straight away he took an extra minute to consider what Jim had been babbling on about.

Vlad was supposed to submit a UCAS form soon. He should have realised the deadlines were coming up, but he hadn't even considered that the school would be expecting the Chosen One to apply to university. He couldn't go; the idea was preposterous. For one thing, he didn't know of any university that housed all of its lessons and its accommodation in the same building, nor one that employed underground tunnels to get its students from A to B. Even if there was such a place, it wouldn't matter. Vlad was the Chosen One, soon to take his place as Grand High Vampire. It simply couldn't be done.

Yes, preposterous. Rather like the behaviour of his year nines. Less than two minutes later, one of the ringleaders was sniffling quietly behind his exercise book, and the entire class was giving Bertrand their rapt attention. "Right, then. Who can tell me what conditions were like in the trenches?" He was never quite sure if he enjoyed the trip down memory lane this part of the curriculum gave him, but he certainly couldn't be accused of making it dull.

He thought no more about what Jim had said until he knocked and walked into Vlad's room that evening, only to find the boy in question frantically stuffing glossy-looking books into his coffin and slamming the lid shut. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask what he'd interrupted. He suspected that he didn't want to know.

"Oh. Bertrand. It's you, I thought you were Dad. I want to show you something, actually." He opened the coffin again and Bertrand cringed.
"I really don't need to see- what's that?" It wasn't what he'd been expecting, at any rate.
"It's... well, it's a prospectus." Vlad looked confused for a few moments, as if he couldn't work out what else it would have been, but then his eyes darted across to the sofa and Bertrand made a private resolution never to dig behind the seat cushions.
"I see."

Vlad seemed unnerved by his lack of reaction and held it out, open at a dog-eared page, for Bertrand to take. He did so and scanned the page carefully while Vlad babbled at him.
"History at the University of Surrey. It's supposed to be a really good course, and, well, you always tell me I'm not terrible at History and I quite like it, so I thought maybe... they've got one that's Modern History and International Relations, too, I could brush up on my vampire leadership at the same time... or-" he leapt across the room to rummage in his coffin again, emerging with another prospectus, a train ticket marking the page he was most interested in. "Or Politics at the University of East Anglia. That looks pretty cool, and you can't say you wouldn't be thrilled if I got into politics. I think I've been doing OK so far, right?"

Bertrand didn't even bother to take the second book thrust his way, crossing instead to peer into Vlad's coffin. Jammed up against the end, where Vlad's feet would rest if he was lying in it, was a veritable library of glossy pamphlets advertising every university from Devon to Inverness.
"Vlad... you can't be serious." The teenager's expression turned defensive and he crossed his arms.
"Why not? I'm smart enough, all the teachers say so. And I can claim I'm UV-sensitive or allergic or something..."
"How would you get to lectures, then? And who'd run the Council in your absence?" Bertrand knew it was harsh, but there was no point sugar-coating it. Vlad's dreams of attending university were just that; dreams, and dreams that had no chance of ever becoming reality. The Chosen One crumpled.
"Bertrand, I just want to go to uni like any other teenager."
"You're not any other teenager. What did your father have to say about it?"
Vlad sank down onto the sofa, looking tired. "I wanted to talk to you about it first." He snorted mirthlessly, dropping the UEA prospectus to the floor. "Just as well, really, isn't it?"

"Morning, Bertrand. Still no application from Vlad." Bertrand sighed.
"I don't think he'll be going to university, actually."
Jim seemed horrified by the very idea. "Well, talk some sense into him, Bertrand, there's a good chap. He's an intelligent boy, he could rule the world, if he was properly encouraged!"

Bertrand started the lesson promptly, this class already afraid of him. "So, it's Germany. 1933. What can you tell me about this new Chancellor who's shaking things up?" They were hesitant at first, but Year 11 actually came out with some very astute observations and insights into a period of history that only one person in the room had ever lived through. And even he'd been in a different country at the time.

"Bertrand, I don't know what's got into your student. Only a week ago he looked just as interested in higher education as anyone in his form – I've never seen one boy with so many prospectuses – and now he claims it's not for him. It would be a terrible shame if he let all that potential go to waste."
"If he doesn't want to go, Jim, there's no law against i-"
"We owe him a duty, as educators, to give him the best opportunities in life. This is one of them. Talk to him!"

It came as some relief to Bertrand when he was told he'd be covering Mr Grant's lessons the next day. He breezed through an introduction to the Industrial Revolution, made it through a tedious lesson in which all the class seemed to want to contribute was "You don't know, man, you weren't there" – inaccurate; he'd spent a brief period of time in Vietnam during the conflict, draining the wounded – and suffered two screenings of 'Blackadder Goes Forth', which Jim seemed to regard as an adequate lesson on the trenches in his absence. Bertrand refused to let the class watch more than one episode, after which they all discussed the factual merits and inaccuracies of the comedy.

He was surprised to be stopped on his way out of the classroom by none other than Alex McCauley.
"Mr du Fortunesa. Do you have a moment?" He resigned himself to a trip to her office, settling uncomfortably in the seat in front of her desk and declining tea.
"It's Vlad Count. Jim Grant tells me he still hasn't had a UCAS application from him, and the deadline is approaching fast, as you know. You've spent more time with his family than anyone else on the staff, for whatever reason. Tell me, is there anything going on at home that might have provoked such a drastic change in his attitude?"
He shook his head. "Perhaps he's simply had a change of heart. As everyone keeps telling me, he's very intelligent; he may have simply settled on an ambition that doesn't require a degree."
"Don't you feel that a university education would benefit him, regardless?"
Bertrand frowned. "I believe he's destined for great things, no matter what he chooses to do now." He stood to leave, and the headmistress stood too.
"Is he being pressured in some way? His father, perhaps, doesn't want him to-?"

He glared at her. "The only pressure being applied over this issue is being applied to me. I can't just click my fingers and change his mind, and even if I could I wouldn't in this case."
"I appreciate that, but I really feel that it's in Vlad's best interest-"
"He's not going to university! He's staying here, where his family and I can protect him!"
He's staying with me.

Bertrand was fairly certain that he hadn't actually said that last sentence, but from the way Alex McCauley reacted he almost thought she must have heard it anyway. She took a moment to compose herself, then dismissed him with an assurance that he wouldn't be bothered about the subject again. He suspected he'd also just spared himself a few more hours of teaching History to the breathers.

It was almost a shame. He'd been starting to enjoy himself.

Vlad stormed in, glared at Bertrand, and headed straight to his room without a word. Well, that was how it would have appeared to an onlooker, but not to the vampire tutor himself.
Follow me, I need to talk to you.
The telepathic message came with a buzz of anger, and Bertrand didn't particularly relish the idea of the meeting. Still, he hurried to comply with Vlad's request, finding the Chosen One in his coffin room. The door was barely closed behind him when the questions began.

"What the hell did you say to Miss McCauley? She just took me aside to ask if anyone was pressuring me, and at first it seemed like she was talking about uni but then she started interrogating me about you. And our relationship."
Bertrand's mouth went dry. "Our... what?"
"Exactly. I think she believed me, but what did you say to her? And why do you really not want me to go to uni?" He didn't know how to answer that, so he waited for Vlad to continue. "Is she on the right track, Bertrand? Are you trying to keep me here because you want to keep me here?"

He hung his head, bringing his eyes up to meet Vlad's only when he was sure he was perfectly composed, the indifferent mask he'd spent centuries perfecting firmly in place.
"Of course not. You must realise how impossible it is. You're the Chosen One, and even if you weren't, you're still a vampire. Logistically, it just can't be done. My feelings on the subject don't enter into it."

Vlad eyed him suspiciously at that, then sighed. "I'm the Chosen One. That's all I ever hear. But do I ever get what I want? No. What's the flapping point of it all?"
Bertrand didn't answer for a moment, and Vlad threw himself down onto the sofa. "You can go, Bertrand. I want some time to think." As he left, his tutor noticed that the bin was completely full of shredded prospectuses.

A week later, Bertrand was taking a Year 12 revision class. Miss McCauley had, apparently, reconsidered her reaction to his words, and he suspected Vlad might have had something to do with remedying her misapprehension about his relationship with his student. As he made his way back to the Dracula quarters, he could see Erin dragging the young vampire towards the canteen, the boy looking like anything but the powerful leader Bertrand knew he could be.

Renfield handed him an envelope as he walked in; he barely glanced at it, knowing without opening it exactly what it contained. He made his way up into the sleeping quarters, stopping briefly to scribble a note on the front of it and cross out his own name before leaving it carefully in a safe place. Perhaps, if he was clever, he could fix things and Vlad would talk to him again.

When Vlad returned to his room that evening, he swung open his coffin to find an envelope at the bottom of it.
Vlad,
I took the liberty of ordering this for you. I know it's not exactly what you had in mind, but it's a compromise, and an apology. I hope it pleases you.
Bertrand.

The older vampire was leaning against the doorframe, watching, as Vlad gave into his curiosity and opened the letter, but the younger didn't mind; it would be more convenient for him to respond to whatever his tutor was plotting now, rather than later.

Open University – Prospectus 2012

The words leapt out at him from the glossy booklet Bertrand had sent off for on his behalf, and he flicked through it quickly, scanning the information about distance learning. He glanced up at his tutor with a smile, anger forgotten.
"I could still get a degree?"
"It might be hard to fit in around your official duties, but if anyone can manage it, it's you." His tutor nodded, blue eyes swimming with sincerity. "If you pick your courses right, there are no lectures, so no sunlight, and Politics or History should be quite possible-"

Vlad wrapped his arms around him in a gesture alarmingly like a hug. In fact, Bertrand was fairly certain that was what was happening. He was being hugged. If only McCauley could see them now, he thought bitterly, what would she think? The Chosen One pulled back suddenly, apparently realising what he was doing.
"Sorry. I just... thanks for caring."
Bertrand just nodded and left him to his reading.