Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (Challenges & Assignments) Triwizard Tournament (Task 3)

Prompt: Write about Vlad Drakul

Word Count: 850 (ish)

I'm sorry, I don't even know what happened here. It's a sassy misunderstood lonely Count Dracula.

P.S. For those of you who actually care about what I write I'm so sorry I haven't written anything for ages- my computer is broken and my phne is lost so I'm making do :/

I'm so misunderstood.

Honestly, stereotypical vampires are just that- stereotypes. We're not all sparkly blood lovers who go around ripping out people's throats. Sure, my son conformed to all those stereotypes (maybe not the sparkly thing) but there's a bad apple in every family tree.

I lived a solitary life, locked away in my fortress, happily living up to my reputation as the eccentric Count Drakul and hiding my fangs from the world. That is, until some idiot found out and wrote a book about me.

The book isn't even based off me, it's an account of my son's nasty habits but of course a Count makes a much better main character than his estranged son. Anyway, I wanted to get some things straight, so I figured I'd write this to let you know the real story. I apologise for the fact that it's not nearly as interesting as the legend that surrounds me.

I mean, I don't want you to think I'm boasting, but I have inspired a lot of talented people to write great things. I just wish it was for the stuff that deserves remembrance, and not for a load of rumours that aren't true. I spent years locked away in my secret laboratory, making incredible discoveries and trying to keep my secret concealed. The things I found out could alter the foundations of modern medicine but now no one will ever know. Since that stupid book was published I've lived the life of an outlaw, forging a new identity for myself. I never wanted to have children, I thought passing on this curse to my children would be more than I could bear and so I clothed myself in solitude. I didn't even know I had a son until he turned up on my doorstep a year later.

I always tried to hide what I was. I was only a boy when I was turned and I swiftly learnt to deal with my curse. I couldn't go out in the daylight and so I adapted my sleep patterns. I controlled the blood lust, hunting animals at night and refusing the urge to kill.

My son was always different. He didn't see the curse for what it is, he saw it instead as a gift. He was a half breed, half human an half monster and so he suffered the need for blood but with none of the restraints I faced. He was free to leave the house in the day so I could not control him and eventually the blood lust drove him to insanity.

He saw the things that set is apart from the humans; the fangs and pale skin, as blessings. He thought we were superior to them and that we had the right to hunt them. No matter how hard I tried to make him se what was right he was blind to all concepts of morality. He defied me and he stole hundreds of innocent lives.

He had to die. That's how I justify I to myself, even now. No one else could have done it, and even I feared that I was not strong enough. I couldn't let him destroy any more souls and so I had to stop him. We are monsters, and he was uncontrollable. And yet I ask myself- what kind of father could kill his own son?

No human could understand. They have strict codes of morality, family loyalty matters more than anything. When I was turned though, my family abandoned me. My sisters ran from me, too afraid to even look at my fanged face. Family was never a concept that held great meaning to me, and I suppose that I should never have tried to raise a child.

Perhaps I deserve my reputation. I didn't kill any I those humans it was claimed that I did, but I committed a far greater evil. I waited for my son to come home and I drove the stake through his heart.

He killed the woman I loved. The woman I sent away, because I was too afraid to be with her, too afraid that my curse would drive me to hurt her. I sent her away and didn't see her again until she left her son on my doorstep. He found her, years later, and I held her hand as the light in her eyes faded, blood staining my clothes. He blamed her for what he considered his 'weak side'. His occasional slips as his conscience wrestled with him were her fault, and he thought that if he destroyed her he would destroy that weakness.

I hope I see her again. Wherever it is that monsters go when they die I want to hold her one last time. I want to tell her how sorry I am