Chapter Three

The walls of my castle are cracked, the shadows are many.

But come in. Feel yourself at home.

-Carlos Villarias

Breakfast the next morning was a lively affair.

Or maybe not. Clara wasn't sure. She didn't attend.

One dinner had been enough. Although she felt no need to eat solid food, it was torture to watch others savour the elegant flavours of grilled meats and spiced vegetables. Jealousy seemed to rear its ivy green head every time she caught a glimpse of someone taking a bite of the various meals on display. Her nose had prickled painfully at the smell of the blood that had dribbled out of Igor Karkaroff's medium rare steak, but she could easily ignore the temptation that had gnawed at her psyche.

Her luggage had been—as Albus had assured before he left her alone with her Guardian Portrait—placed neatly by the fireplace which illuminated the expansive parlour with a warm glow. Sitting upon her ancient, old-fashioned school trunk had been a thick parchment envelope addressed to one Clara Caine in a loopy script. She'd recognized the handwriting immediately and opened the envelope to discover her class schedule. Albus had taken the liberty of outlining every class she had, every day, every week. She would start with the fourth years on Monday, working her way down through the younger years in the same day, and then on Tuesday she would handle the upper years, as well as the foreign delegations whom had been signed up for her class by their Headmistress and Highmaster. The Monday group would attend her class again on Wednesday and Friday, and then would occupy the next week's Tuesday and Thursday. The two groups would rotate their every-other-day positions each week. After seeing it on paper and mapping it all out in her head, Clara had to concede that it was a very clean-cut system.

It was now an hour before classes began, and if one searched hard, they would find the newly instated Duelling Mistress seated upon her lush sofa in her parlour. Her elbows were rested on her knees, her hands supporting her head as she gazed absently into the fire. The flames were reflected in her glazed eyes, and it seemed as though she were a thousand miles away.

She sat stock still, her likeness to the marble statue of Cleopatra that stood by her bookshelves uncanny. She was relishing the oppressive silence of the dungeons for a few minutes more before she was forced to surface back to the cacophony that was civilization. Clara knew she had much to do today, such as instruct four different classes with no planning periods, in which she would teach her students the history of her subject and what it meant to be a dueller . She also had several modified Blood Replenishing potions to brew; for her own use, of course. She couldn't very well live off the dinner wines served at supper. Blood wasn't an option, absolutely not. Clara knew she might be the only person infected with vampirism that did not live on the vital liquid, and it served to help keep her control. Only once had she actually tasted blood, it had only been the blood of an animal, but it had taken her days to force her inner beast back into submission and regain her full sanity again. It had been tedious work. She had run around the countryside of West Berkshire for hours, her emotions torn between disgust at what she had degraded herself to, and complete exhilaration at the memory of the hunt; the newly ingested blood coursing through every artery, every vein, so unlike her own blood: thick, syrupy, and congealed to the point that it hardly flowed if she sliced her palm open. Her primal elation had been like a high, like how those Muggles felt when they shot themselves full of heroin.

Three days after her first taste of blood, Clara's sanity came back. She was shaky, weak—almost as if she were dehydrated. Knowing that she would no doubt lose what little rationality she had been able to regain if she holed herself up, Clara Apparated to Hogwarts, directly into the Headmaster's office.

Flashback

(Headmaster's office, Hogwarts. November of 1956)

A resounding 'pop' rang through the capacious, circular office; Clara Caine's thin form landing haphazardly on the plush, cerulean carpet. Slightly startled, Albus Dumbledore looked up from his paperwork, his wizened, seventy-five-year-old face breaking into a smile at the sight of his ex-student and old friend.

"Clara! My dear! How have you be-?" He broke off, staring at the trembling woman in concern. She had not risen from the position she first arrived in, only curled in on herself slightly.

"Clara?" Dumbledore ventured softly. The newly instated headmaster rose from his desk, slowly rounding the massive piece of furniture. The quiet rustling of his magenta robes over carpet made Clara aware of his approach. As he started to kneel, hand outstretched to touch her shoulder, she flinched violently, uncoiling herself, standing, and stepping away within a millisecond. Of course, Dumbledore was quite used to her speedy movements by now, having known her long before she contracted her vampirism, but he was still slightly caught off guard. She had never moved away from his touches before, always embracing him warmly, kissing him on the cheek in greetings and farewells, patting his arms or shoulders in gestures of comfort and support, or smacking his hand away from the multiple jars of sweets upon his desk, laughingly warning him about a curious new disease that Muggles called 'diabetes'.

Something was terribly wrong.

"Don't! No…t-touch…please. Dangerous…k-killed…blood everywhere!" Her words were punctured with habitual breaths, her violent trembling making her stutter—another way Dumbledore knew she was not herself. Clara was always confident, whether it be in movement, thought, or voice. She never stuttered.

The graying man stepped forward slowly, only to pause when she took a quick step back.

"Dear girl, it is only Albus. I shan't harm you, child", Dumbledore cooed soothingly, speaking to the erratic woman in front of him as if she was his eleven-year-old Transfiguration student again.

It seemed to work. Her breathing gradually became more controlled, though still broken up by restrained sobs, as if she was beating back her emotions, struggling to regain control. After a minute or two, Clara blinked, her vandyke-brown eyes focusing on the office in front of her—taking in the pale silver paisley wallpaper, the cracked bay window, the rising sun, and the spindle-legged tables adorned with aberrant objects, all whirring and emitting teeny puffs of white smoke.

Still speaking calmly, as if addressing a frightened cat, Dumbledore continued. "Clara…? What happened, child? What has made you so upset?"

Seeming to have gotten a bit of a hold on herself, the witch twitched slightly and then moved to sit on the chintz armchair situated in front of the hearth. Her movements were jerky and spasmodic, not containing her usual fluidity and gracefulness. She sat heavily and threaded her long fingers through her hair. It was lank and terribly greasy, as if she hadn't showered in days. This was further proved when the older man sat beside her—keeping space between them, for her comfort—and caught her scent. It smelled animalistic and unclean.

Taking deep breaths, Clara began to speak in a hoarse, halting voice. "Three—three days ago…I had…I had an accident. It was grey out…morning…I remember walking through the woods…ingredients for a potion. Looking for boomslang skin. I…I found a deer…just a small ways off the path. It was hu-hurt. B-bleeding. Bad. So—so much…so much blood!"

She paused then, her petite body racked with dry sobs. She was holding her head tightly, and Albus was quite afraid that her untrimmed nails might pierce her scalp. Slowly, he pulled her into his arms, ignoring the small flinch she gave, and hugged her tightly. Speaking slow, soothing, nonsensical words in the murmuring tone she had once told him her mother used, the old headmaster rocked one of his oldest friends.

After a few minutes, Dumbledore released her and forced her to look at him. The look in her eyes made his aging heart lurch. They were so pained, so full of both self-loathing, and the desperation of wanting him to just understand. She looked so lost, so much like she did on the night she came to him all those years ago, having realized what she had become. Clara had begged him to come back with her, she couldn't face the bodies of her family alone, she said. The way they had been murdered—she had felt then as if she was the one to have taken their lives.

"Tell me, Clara. You will feel better in the end. Get this out, free your conscious of the guilt".

Forcing back her own hysteria, Clara bowed her head. As she began to speak for a second time, Dumbledore found himself gently carding his friend's hair, twining his usually steepled fingers through the lifeless strands.

"I tried so hard Albus! I tried to fight it. The blood…so red…it smelled s-so good! I-I couldn't fight it", she stopped momentarily, the thought of her drinking the blood making her gag forcefully, so differently from the desperate way she had consumed it. "I drank it, a-all of it", she whispered. "The animal was dead within seconds. It would have died regardless…too much…blood.

"I-I felt…so…so wonderful! My mind was wiped completely blank. I was utterly gone. I couldn't think, couldn't reason. A small part of myself, the part that was so buried beneath that ecstasy, felt disgusted, horrified at myself for what I'd done…for becoming the very thing I swore I would never become.

"Three days. I was gone for three days. Empty…a thoughtless predator. I remember…running. I just wanted to get away". Clara looked up at him sadly, her almond eyes rimmed with red, but containing no tears.

"When I could finally think again…I was so appalled at what I'd let myself do-"

"No."

Dumbledore's eyes were no longer twinkling merrily. They stared at her, practically through her, over the tops of half-moon spectacles. His voice was stern as he spoke:

"You did not let yourself lose control, Clara. It was instinct. You fought so hard…forgive yourself, child."

"But-"

"You are not at fault!"

A ringing silence followed his words. The past headmasters and headmistresses were all awake, nodding violently within their various frames. Vehement 'Not your fault's, and calls of 'Poor dear', were heard in murmuring tones throughout the room. After a long moment of just staring, Clara finally nodded, albeit a bit hesitantly, but she did so nonetheless.

Dumbledore smiled kindly, his crystal blue eyes regaining the playful 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' spark as he helped her up and led her over to a wooden door that sat behind an old, fourteenth century, woven tapestry of Angers Apocalypse. Ignoring the occupants' grumpy protests, the wizard pushed it aside and opened the door and gave Clara a small shove into his private living quarters.

"Second door on the right, dear. Towels are under the washing basin."

When Clara reentered the office, she no longer smelled of forests, but of peaches. When she'd found a corked decanter of peach scented soap in the washroom of the great Albus Dumbledore, she couldn't help the small fit of shaky, hysterical laughter that bubbled up and had her doubled over by the sink.

She'd changed into one of her old friend's dark linen robes, seeing as he tended to favour bright and lively colours over dark ones. They were quite large on her. Though Albus was a slim man, he was frighteningly tall, where as she was thin and a good head shorter than him.

Dumbledore smiled from behind his desk as Clara reappeared in the room. Her previously dirt-smudged face was scrubbed clean, making her thin porcelain face shine in the afternoon light that streamed through the curtains of the bay window. He noted that she looked marginally calmer and much more composed. Her movement still wasn't as fluid as it could have been, but it was graceful, albeit acute. She sat gently in one of the two cushioned leather chairs that sat in front of Dumbledore's desk, usually reserved for misbehaved students.

"I've been in this chair before", Clara observed, obviously thinking along the same line as him.

The headmaster chuckled good-naturedly, fishing in the pockets of his robes, searching for a new candy he had recently discovered—lemon drops, they were called. He succeeded, popping one into his mouth before offering Clara one. "They are delightfully tart!"

She took it and sat the round, canary yellow sweet on her tongue, sucking thoughtfully and waiting for the glazed coating to melt. Soon, her enhanced taste buds were twanging painfully, the sour candy jolting every bud, making the poor things raw. Dumbledore began to laugh heartily at the faces she pulled and the way her left eye twitched.

As they experimented with several more sweets—Clara only ate the ones that could be sucked on—they talked, catching up on the goings-on and missed events.

"So I hear you're on Chocolate Frog cards now, yes, or was that just a rumor?"

"Ah", the wizard smiled. "My greatest achievement! I find that it has far more worth than inventing uses for the blood of an overgrown lizard."

Clara grinned. "And your newest professor?" she inquired, taking the proffered acid pop as she recalled The Daily Prophet headline. Now that Albus had become Hogwarts' current headmaster, both the increased workload and staggering responsibility of his position would not allow him to continue teaching Transfiguration, forcing him to find a new teacher to fill the empty post.

Dumbledore spat out a Bertie Bott bean with a muttered oath of 'Earwax!'. "Ah, yes. Professor Minerva McGonagall is quite the prodigy. From what I've learned, she is fair, patient, and stern—good qualities for a professor of that subject. She also seems to take pleasure in scaring her first years. Sits on her desk as a cat and catches the late-comers red-handed!"

"McGonagall? She wouldn't happen to be related to Ignatius McGonagall, would she?" Ignatius McGonagall was a famous wizard who excelled in the subject of Transfiguration. He was the first dragon Animagus and discovered the few exceptions to Gamp's Law. He was a man that Clara respected greatly, her apprenticeship years earlier having forced her to research his achievements in-depth.

Albus stroked his grey, auburn-freckled beard thoughtfully. "If I am not mistaken, I believe that Minerva is Ignatius' daughter", he answered.

Clara raised a brow. "That certainly seems to be the cause of her exceptional ability of teaching that particular subject. She was practically raised to do it. She breathes it."

The sky was beginning to darken by the time the two friends had run out of things to talk about. Clara stood to take her leave, Dumbledore following her lead. She felt much better than she had when she arrived, one of the reasons she always chose to go to Albus when something was wrong. He knew her so well he often finished her sentences, and he would never express pity towards her, as he well knew how she abhorred that sentiment.

"I fear I've kept you from your duties long enough, I should be taking my leave", Clara told him. " Besides, I hear someone approaching that gaudy staircase of yours".

The headmaster smiled at her. She was truly a remarkable person, despite all the awful things that had happened to her.

"One more thing, Clara, love", he said. "I want to tell you how very proud I am of you. You are the only person I know who constantly chooses to do what is right, over doing what is easy. Be proud of that fact, and be proud of yourself as well".

The slight vampire stared at him impassively for a moment before smiling benignly and nodding. Whether she really believed him and took his words to heart or not, at least she now knew what he thought of her.

Clara took a small step forward and turned on the spot, disappearing with a sharp 'crack'. As Dumbledore sat back down at his desk, the cool autumn air swirled in through the window and twisted around his body. A small smile thinned his lips as he heard the soft, barely-there "Thank you, Albus", that traveled with the wind.

A loud knock interrupted his thoughts. "Enter".

His office door opened, emitting Minerva McGonagall. The stern yet vivacious thirty-one-year-old looked at him oddly, head cocked to the side.

"Who were you talking to, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore chuckled, grinning mischievously. "Just Armando, my dear. He thinks it is quite improper for the head of a school as prestigious as ours to spend his time sampling sweets". He gestured the multitude of candy wrappers upon his desk.

The portrait of said ex-headmaster Armando Dippet snorted, struggling to smother his painted smirk. Minerva seemed to accept this explanation without further question, and as she informed him of a Transfiguration mishap, he almost swore that he could hear faint, ghostly laughter.