Here you have it, another chapter of Heir of Dracula! In this chapter, we finish the first year! I hope you'll like it. If you don't... well, that kinda sucks...
–
Harold stood tall, his head held high, as he looked around the dark and dank Slytherin common room, a dungeon-like room with greenish lamps and chairs. This dungeon seemed to extend partway under the lake, giving the light in the room a green tinge. The common room had lots of low-backed black and dark green leather sofas with buttons, skulls, and dark wood cupboards. It had quite a grand atmosphere, but also quite a cold one. It was perfect.
Harold seemed to have done something against someone's expectations, as he was right now the focus of every single student in the common room. The bigger students were glaring at him threateningly, while the younger ones were simply staring at him in disbelief.
"Lookie here, guys," a tall, and relatively muscular boy with large teeth, shifty gray eyes, and coarse black hair said. He looked to be in his sixth year, and looked incredibly stupid. "Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived himself, here in Slytherin."
The older students behind the muscular boy started chuckling stupidly, and Harold raised an elegant eyebrow.
"I must ask you, peon, that you never call me by that name again. My name is Harold Dracula."
"What did you call me?" the boy growled out, taking a threatening step forward.
"I called you a peon, you peon," Harold said simply, a hint of a smirk making its way onto his face. "Now, kneel and beg for forgiveness for calling me Harry Potter."
"Like-"
"I said, kneel," Harold said forcefully. The boy's eyes widened as it looked as though the weight of the world suddenly appeared on his shoulders, and he was forced to kneel before Harold, much to the surprise of the students in the common room. "That's better. Now, apologize. Apologize to your Lord."
"I'm..." the boy gritted out reluctantly through gritted teeth. It looked like he was trying to force himself not to speak. "I'm... sorry... my Lord..."
"Good," Harold said, a dark smirk on his face. "You may stand."
Immediately, the boy shot to his feet, stumbling back into his friends behind him.
"What did you do?" the boy demanded.
"I merely gave you a command, and you obeyed, like a good little puppet," Harold said with an eerie calm in his voice. He looked over the other students, from first-years to seventh-years. "I am in charge around here, is that perfectly clear to everyone?"
Immediately, the older students started protesting, but Harold just sighed, and gave them all sharp looks.
"All of you, kneel!" he ordered, and immediately, the entire Slytherin common room was kneeling at Harold's feet. Harold smirked. "That's better. Was that so hard?"
"I can't move!" a first-year girl exclaimed in a panic, stuck in a kneeling position.
"Of course," Harold said simply. "I haven't given you permission to rise." He stood in silence for a while, looking over the students. Then, he smirked again. "You may rise."
The students shot to their feet immediately, and Harold pushed his way through the crowd, making his way to the first-year dormitory.
Once in the dormitory, which was just as dark as the common room, with five ebony four-poster beds that had emerald green, velvety curtains, Harold moved to the bed that had his trunk at the foot of it, and undressed, getting dressed in his blood red silk pajamas.
Just as Harold sat down on his bed, the door opened, and in came Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin first-year boys, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Theodore Nott.
"How did you do that?" Malfoy asked immediately as he plopped down on the bed next to Harold's. "I couldn't even move!"
"It's simple," Harold said. "When a lesser animal faces a greater predator, the animal, out of self-preservation, by instinct does what it can to appease the predator, in order to not get eaten."
"I've heard stories about you," Malfoy said, leaning forward. "They say you're a descendant of Dracula, the wild berserker, who impaled people and roasted them, boiled their heads in a kettle, skinned them alive, hacked them to pieces, and then drank their blood..."
"You heard right," Harold said with a smirk. "Does that scare you?"
"Is it true that you live forever? Normal vampires don't live forever, despite what those silly Muggle stories say, but Dracula... he was said to be special... Was it true? Was he immortal?"
"No one is immortal," Harold said simply. Then, he smirked wider. "However, some are better at escaping death than others."
Draco Malfoy gave a grin that held untold amounts of greed.
"I think you and I are going to enjoy a long and profitable friendship, Count Dracula," he said, extending his hand, which Harold slowly reached out to shake.
"So do I, Mr. Malfoy... So do I."
–
"There, look."
"Where?"
"Next to the kid with the blond hair."
"Wearing the cape?"
"Did you see his face?"
"Did you see his scar?"
Whispers followed Harold from the moment he left his dormitory the next day. Rumors seemed to already have spread about his amazing powers, about how he made the entire Slytherin House bow to him on the very first day of school. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tip-toe to get a look at him, or double back to pass him in the corridors again, staring.
The staircases of Hogwarts, most all hundred and forty-two of them, were very annoying to him. Some led somewhere different on a Friday, some had a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump, and then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. Harold was used to the last one, as he had that in his castle, but the rest... He'd gladly take the monsters of Castle Dracula over Hogwarts any day.
Peeves the Poltergeist had been annoying the first few days, but he was quick to avoid Harold whenever he approached ever since Harold gave him a scar on the cheek. He was now terrified of the only person who had ever been capable of harming him. The other ghosts were also a bit scared of Harold because of that incident. Because if he could do that to a poltergeist, what could he do to them? None of them wanted to find out.
Worst of all by far was the caretaker, the hideous Argus Filch. Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamp-like eyes just like Filch's. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of the school better than anyone (except perhaps the annoying Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick.
The classes were all too easy to Harold, who aced his first lessons in Charms, Transfiguration, Astronomy, Herbology, and even History of Magic. In Transfiguration, Harold was the only one other than Hermione from Gryffindor to have made any changes to his match, which he was to transfigure into a needle.
The class that most of the students, save for the Slytherins, had been looking forward to, Defense Against the Dark Arts, turned out to be a joke. Quirrell's classroom smelled strongly of garlic, something Harold couldn't stand, which everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania, and was afraid would be coming back to get him one of these days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but Harold didn't believe the story for a second. If the zombies around the rest of the world were the same as the zombies in his castle, there was no way Quirrell could have defeated it.
On Friday, Harold, who had discovered a secret passageway straight into to Honeydukes basement in Hogsmeade, was sucking on a blood-flavored lollipop and asked Draco what interesting classes they had that day.
"Double Potions with the Gryffindors," Draco said, looking over their schedule. "That's great. Snape hates the Gryffindors with a passion and always favors us. He's also my godfather, so we're likely to get extra special treatment."
"Speaking of Snape, it has never looked like he particularly favors me," Harold said, nodding toward the staff table. Draco looked up just in time for Snape to turn his head to look at Harold, giving the boy a particularly venomous look.
"That's weird..." Draco said. Then, he shrugged. "Well, my Father told me that Snape and your father hated each other when they were at school, so that might be it."
Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons, it was cold and creepy, with pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls, just the way Harold liked it.
Snape, like Professor Flitwick in Charms, paused at Harold's name as he took the roll call, calling Harold by his proper name, instead of Harry Potter. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black, and were cold and empty, making you think of dark tunnels.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word. Snape seemed to have the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death... if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
More silence followed this little speech.
"Weasley!" Snape said suddenly to Ronald Weasley, who jumped in his seat. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Ron looked stumped, while Hermione's hand shot into the air.
"I-I don't know, sir," Weasley stuttered.
Snape's lip curled into a sneer, while Draco nudged Harold with his elbow and shot him a wink. Snape ignored Hermione's hand.
"Let's try again. Weasley, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat. Harold and Draco were shaking with silent laughter at Weasley's embarrassment.
"I don't know, sir..." Weasley muttered, turning red.
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Weasley?"
Snape was still ignoring Hermione's quivering hand.
"What is the difference, Weasley, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling.
"I don't know," Weasley said quietly. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"
A few people laughed. Snape, however, was not pleased.
"Sit down," he snapped at Hermione. "Dracula!"
Harold's elegant eyebrow rose as he turned his head toward Snape, whose eyes bored into his.
"Your answer, Dracula?"
"Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death," Harold answered, having already memorized his course books. "A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, that is a trick question, as they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite."
Snape looked momentarily stunned by the proper answer. Then, he nodded.
"Twenty points to Slytherin, Dracula, and five points will be taken from Gryffindor for your cheek, Weasley."
Draco nudged Harold with his elbow again and gave him a smirk. Snape looked over the class.
"Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"
There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment as Snape gave Harold a strange look, not quite as hateful as the ones he usually gave him.
–
"What, we're not going down to the feast?" Draco asked on Halloween, and Harold shook his head, sucking on a bloodpop.
"I'm not hungry, and you had more than enough to eat at the Three Broomsticks," he said imperiously, and Draco was quick to fall in line next to him, not saying a word of protest.
The Slytherins had really gotten comfortable with Harold as their unofficial Head of House. He ruled the Slytherins with an iron fist. Everything they did, he knew about, and if they stepped one toe out of line, the older students were sent to discipline the younger ones, usually with beatings or humiliating tasks.
Sobs were heard coming from one of the doors they passed, a girls' bathroom. Harold, completely ignoring the sign, pushed open the door, following the noises, with Draco trailing into the bathroom behind him, looking uncomfortable.
Harold pushed open the door to one of the stalls, to find none other than Hermione sitting on the toilet, sobbing into her hands.
"Well, well," Draco said suddenly, sneering down at Hermione, who jumped in surprise, looking outraged that two boys would enter a girls' bathroom, "if it isn't Big Bunny Granger."
"Now, now, Draco, don't be like that. Remember what I said."
Harold had given Draco a severe talking-to regarding blood purity, about how there was no pure and unpure, but only the powerful and the weaklings. Hermione was definitely no weakling.
"Sorry," Draco said with a shrug. "Old habits, you know. You're telling me this girl is powerful?"
"Of course," Harold said, ignoring Hermione's shocked face. "Have you not seen her in class? She's second only to me, after all. Now, Hermione, tell me, why are you sitting here, crying, and why are you not at the feast?"
Hermione sobbed, looking down at the floor.
"It's stupid..." she mumbled, and Harold smiled softly.
"Come on, my dear, you can tell me."
"I corrected Ronald Weasley in class today," Hermione muttered. "And he said some really mean things about me behind my back."
"There you see the jealousy of the weak, Draco," Harold told Draco, gesturing for Hermione. "He was so jealous, and so weak that he couldn't even insult the girl to her face. Now, come on, Hermione, let's get you out of that stall and you can come with us. We are going exploring a bit."
Harold held out a hand to Hermione, who blushed rather brightly as she reached out, taking it and allowing Harold to pull her to her feet. Draco suddenly gave a rather large sniff.
"Excuse you?"
Harold smelled it too. Something smelled like a mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean. Hermione seemed to smell it too, as she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Then they heard it, a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Draco turned and gasped, pointing. Hermione gave a small shriek.
Having just squeezed through the doorway was a twelve feet tall troll, with dull, granite skin, a great lumpy body like a boulder, a small bald head perched on top of it like a coconut, short legs thick as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was incredible. It was holding a huge woden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.
The troll saw the three children, and locked eyes with Harold. Then, it gave a roar as it took a step forward and raised its club.
Draco and Hermione both screamed as the club came swinging down toward them, but Harold's hand shot up in a flash.
"Stop."
The club stopped about an inch away from Harold's head, and the troll looked a bit confused. Then, it roared and raised its club again. Harold was as calm as ever.
"Stop."
Once more, the club stopped an inch away from Harold's head. The troll slowly retracted the club, then tilted its head to the side, probably wondering how that puny little creature could stop it.
"I don't remember giving you permission to swing that club around," Harold said, and with a crash, the club dropped out of the troll's hand. "Neither do I remember giving you permission to breathe."
The troll's eyes suddenly widened, and it opened its mouth in an attempt to roar, but no sound came out. It grasped at its throat and started staggering around, swinging its long arms around widely.
Slowly, the troll's eyelids drifted shut as its eyes rolled up into the back of its head, and it swayed of the spot, before falling flat on its face, with a thud that made the whole room tremble.
It was Hermione who spoke first.
"Is it... dead?"
"Most every creature needs to breathe to live, so yes," Harold said simply, adjusting his tie. For once, he had decided to wear his Slytherin tie, green and silver.
"H-How did you do that?" Hermione asked, and Harold shrugged.
"I suppose it was so intimidated by my presence that it felt a need to comply with my orders."
"Is that how you made us kneel that first night?"
"That's right. It's all instinct," Harold said simply.
A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the three of them look up. A moment later, McGonagall had come bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.
Snape bent over the troll. McGonagall was looking at the three students. Harold had never seen her so angry. Her lips were completely white.
"What on earth were you thinking of?" she said, with cold fury in her voice. "You're lucky you weren't killed! Why aren't you in your dormitory?"
"Because, madam, we were here comforting Hermione, who had been rudely insulted by Ronald Weasley," Harold said simply. "We had no idea there was a troll in this castle until it entered this room."
"And how did you kill it?" Snape asked, now rising from his kneeling position by the troll's head.
"I told it to stop breathing, and it did," Harold said simply.
"Do you expect us to believe that, Dracula?" McGonagall asked, and Harold nodded, before gesturing for the troll.
"Can you see a wound, Professor?"
McGonagall looked to the troll, and couldn't see a wound anywhere on its body.
"Well then, I suppose I will have to handle the disciplining of these two," Snape said silkily, gesturing for Harold and Draco. "Professor McGonagall, you should take Miss Granger back to Gryffindor Tower."
"Yes..." McGonagall said, eying Harold suspiciously. "Yes, of course... Come along, Miss Granger."
Hermione and McGonagall left.
"Come," Snape told the two Slytherins, and they followed Snape out of the bathroom, heading for the dungeons. "I have heard of the impressive commanding presence of Count Vlad Dracula," he said to Harold as they walked. "I trust that you haven't been using any of the abilities you used on the troll on any of your fellow students?"
"Not at all, Professor," Harold lied flawlessly. Snape gave him a suspicious look, then looked to Draco, who shook his head.
"He hasn't, sir."
"Good. Now, I believe fifty points should be awarded to you, Dracula, for so skillfully slaying a full-grown troll. Go off to finish the feast in the common room. I must inform the headmaster of this."
"Yes, sir," both Harold and Draco said, before walking off, parting ways with Snape.
"Fifty points!" Draco said happily once they reached the dungeons. "I don't think Snape has ever awarded that many points before!"
"He must have warmed up to me," Harold said with a smirk, fishing another bloodpop out of his pocket and taking off the wrapper, before putting it in his mouth.
–
"Harold, we really shouldn't be here..." Hermione whispered. "We could get into a lot of trouble..."
"You have no sense of adventure, Granger," Draco said, shaking his head as Harold tapped his wand against the door leading to the corridor on the third floor. With a click, the door opened, and the three of them made their way inside.
"I would like to see what's so special about this corridor, and what it is that could possibly be a threat to our... lives..." Harold trailed off as the corridor was lit up.
They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that filled up the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes, three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction, and three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.
"That's a Cerberus," Harold said, and all three heads started growling. "I've always wanted one of those."
He held up a hand, locking eyes with the Cerberus, and immediately, the growling stopped, while Draco and Hermione, quivering, inched closer to him.
"Hi there," Harold said, slowly moving toward the Cerberus, still holding up his hand and staring it straight in the eyes of the middle head.
The dog leaned down, and all three heads sniffed the hand, then growled as Harold kept staring it in the eyes.
"Harold, what are you doing?" Hermione hissed, sounding quite scared.
"Look at what it's standing on," Harold said, not looking away from the dog, who he was currently establishing his dominance over. Finally, the dog gave a whine as it backed off, and Harold nodded, lowering his hand. The dog backed off even more, allowing them to see that it had been standing on a trapdoor. Harold walked over and opened it, peering into the darkness.
"What can you see?" Draco asked as he and Hermione also took their eyes off the dog to look down the trapdoor.
"Everything," Harold said, his pupils almost shining like a wolf's as he stared down into the shadows. "There's some sort of plant down there. Let's investigate it later."
The trio closed the trapdoor and left the corridor, deciding to come back some other time.
The next morning, Weasley had apparently decided to try to bully Hermione again, as when Harold and Draco made their way out of the Great Hall after breakfast, they found Weasley, flanked by Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, confronting Hermione.
"Why have you been hanging out with the Slytherins, Granger?" Weasley asked, and Hermione clicked her tongue and gave Weasley a very Slytherin look, as if Weasley was an ant that wasn't even worth stepping on.
"Maybe because they treat me properly, Weasley?" she said. "You ever consider that?"
"They're evil, Granger! Stay away from them, or else...!"
"Or else what, Weasley?" Draco drawled suddenly, making Weasley jump and spin around to look at them, immediately flinching when he looked into Harold's eyes. "Tell me, what were you planning on doing to Hermione?"
"That's none of your business, Malfoy!" Weasley barked with a glare, but Draco just crossed his arms, smirking.
"Then again, Weasley does tend to cause devastation with even the simplest spells," he said, insulting Weasley's magical skills which, frankly, were severely lacking.
"Or maybe he'll even try to kiss her," Harold said. "I know I would die from shame if I let someone that hideous kiss me. That truly is a face only a mother could love."
Weasley lunged at Harold, whose hand wrapped around Weasley's throat and choke-slammed him into the floor.
"Dracula!" came Snape's voice as the Potions master swept out of the Great Hall to see Harold holding Weasley down, while Finnigan and Thomas had pulled their wands. "What's going on here?"
"Weasley attacked Harold, Professor," Hermione said immediately, eager to please a teacher. Harold would have to purge that from her personality at some point.
"Is this true?" Snape asked Draco, who nodded.
"He insulted me!" Weasley spat as Harold rose to his feet, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.
"I see no proof of such a thing," Snape said silkily. "Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn't more. Fighting is prohibited. Off you go now, all of you."
Harold and Draco moved over to Hermione and walked off with her, throwing gleeful looks back at Weasley and the others.
"I hate them..." Hermione muttered. "I hate being in Gryffindor. They all hate me for both being a bookworm and for being friends with you. The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, but I guess it chose Gryffindor instead because my blood isn't pure..."
"But what you lack in magical blood, you more than make up for in magical ability," Draco said. He had really warmed up to Hermione since the troll incident, which Harold was pleased to see, as he didn't want his two closest friends arguing.
Soon enough, Christmas arrived. Draco and Hermione went home over the holidays, leaving Harold quite alone in the castle. The Great Hall, he had to admit, looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and mistletoe hung all around the walls, and no less than twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering with hundreds of candles.
When Harold awoke on Christmas Day, he found a very large pile of packages at the foot of his bed. He tilted his head to the side curiously and found that the first one was from none other than Marcus Flint, the sixth year he had forced to kneel on September the first. It contained a very beautiful chess set that looked very expensive. Accompanying it was a note.
Requesting permission to cheat on the Transfiguration test after the holidays.
Harold chuckled. So, these were all bribes, eh?
He opened all the Christmas presents, and soon found himself with a large supply of bloodpops, silk shirts, a pair of handmade leather riding boots with an intricate design carved into the leather (courtesy of Pansy Parkinson, who Harold suspected had a crush on him), and a whole bunch of other useless things. He was nonetheless grateful that the students felt they needed to pay him off in order to break the rules.
The last parcel was very light. He unwrapped it, and something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor, where it lay in gleaming folds. An Invisibility Cloak. Harold picked it up, and a note fell out of it. He seized the note and written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen before were the following words:
Your father left this in my possession before
he died. It is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.
A Very Happy Christmas to you.
There was no signature. Harold stared at the note.
"Use it well..." he repeated to himself, and no one was there to think him crazy, as almost all the Slytherins had gone home for the holidays.
So, wearing his new and, admittedly, beautiful riding boots, Harold made his way into the common room, where he found a few students sitting here and there, and they all looked up when he entered the common room, greeting him with the respect he deserved.
That night, Harold sneaked out of the common room, wearing his Invisibility Cloak. It was an amazing feeling, being invisible. It was quite different from turning into mist, an ability he hadn't quite mastered yet, as he was solid and could touch things.
After a while of wandering, Harold ended up in an unused classrooms. Th dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket, but propped against the wall facing him was something that didn't look as if it belonged there, something that looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it out of the way.
It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Harold stepped in front of the mirror, a bit solemnly, as he had never been able to see his reflection.
He had stop himself from flinching. He whirled around, the classroom looking the same as ever. Then, he looked back into the mirror.
There he stood, reflected in it, but he was wearing something different. He was wearing his ancestor's old, black overcoat, with red trim, a high, overturned collar and wide lapels that had several gold buttons on them. He also wore, instead of a tie, a white cravat. Over all this, he wore his usual high-collared cloak.
Around him was what looked like a battlefield. It was covered in people impaled on pikes, and the sky was blood red. The Harold in the mirror stared back at him. Then, he reared his head back and laughed. No sound came from the mirror, but Harold could almost hear the cold, high laughter.
Harold went to visit the mirror the next night, and the night after that. On that third night, however, as he stood watching himself tearing into his enemies with his teeth, all of them faceless, a voice reached his ears.
"So... back again, Harold?"
Harold blinked, then slowly turned to look behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harold must have walked straight past him, so desperate to get to the mirror he hadn't noticed him.
"I didn't see you, Professor," Harold said, looking back to the mirror, wondering if Dumbledore could see what he was seeing. He decided that he couldn't. If Dumbledore had seen it, he would no doubt have done something to Harold, expel him or send him to prison.
"Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," Dumbledore said, smiling. "So," he said, slipping off the desk to walk over to Harold, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."
"I didn't know it was called that."
"But I expect you have realized by now what it does? Can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?"
"It shows us are deepest, innermost desires of our hearts," Harold guessed, and Dumbledore looked delighted.
"Oho, how did you guess that?"
Harold pointed to the inscription on the mirror. "'I show not your face, but your heart's desire,'" he read backwards, and Dumbledore clapped his hands gently.
"Bravo, Harold. Yes, the happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is."
"But he would at least see himself," Harold said, looking back at the mirror, where his reflection was currently holding a torn off head high in the air above his open mouth, drinking the blood that dripped from it. He smirked. "I have never seen my reflection before."
"Tell me, Harold, what do you see in that mirror?"
"I can ask you the same question, Professor. How personal does that feel?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Quite right. Our innermost desires are usually best kept to ourselves. But now, Harold, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible. The mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harold, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, who don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"
"Nocturnal, Professor," Harold said, and Dumbledore chuckled again.
"I forgot, Harold. Well, get off to your common room, at least."
"Yes, sir."
–
"I wonder what I would have seen," Draco mumbled the day after the holidays were over, and Harold had explained what he saw in the Mirror of Erised, and what it did. "By the way, you didn't happen to see me in that mirror, did you?"
"Don't worry, Draco," Harold said with a smirk. "The people I tore apart in the mirror were all faceless."
"Oh, good... Good..." Draco mumbled, but he still looked a bit nervous.
"Draco, you and Hermione are my only real friends," Harold said with an exasperated sigh. "Why would I ever want to kill you?"
"That's true, I suppose."
The months passed, and Harold grew increasingly more bored. It wasn't until June that Harold suddenly remembered the trapdoor. He had been so caught up in thinking about the Mirror of Erised that he hadn't even considered the trapdoor. And now, he wanted to know what was beneath it.
As the door to the third floor corridor creaked open, Harold, followed by Draco and Hermione, immediately noticed a harp at the feet of the Cerberus, who growled when they entered, but immediately whined an apology when it saw Harold.
"Looks like someone has already been here..." Harold muttered. Shaking his head, he made his way to the trapdoor. They could feel the dog's hot, smelly breath as they approached the giant heads.
"How do we get down?" Hermione asked once they'd opened the trapdoor. "Do you see any way to climb?"
Harold shook his head, then immediately looked behind him as the Cerberus had approached, his mouth open as if to bite him.
"Sit!" he ordered, and with a thud that shook the corridor, the dog's hind quarters connected with the floor. Harold nodded as the dog whined, and then gestured for the hole. "Who goes first?"
When neither of the two answered, Harold gestured for the Cerberus.
"You know, I don't think he would be very friendly if I left."
Immediately, Draco approached the hole.
"I'll go."
With that, he lowered himself through the hole until he was hanging on by his fingertips. Taking a deep, calming breath, he let go. Then, Hermione also lowered herself into the hole, dropping into the darkness.
"I'll see you around," Harold told the Cerberus, before jumping into the hole. Cold, damp air rushed past him as he fell down, down, down, and...
Flump! With a funny, muffled sort of thump, he landed on the soft plant at the bottom, between Hermione and Draco.
"We must be miles under the school," Hermione said.
"Lucky this plant thing's here, really," Draco said.
"Lucky!" Hermione shrieked. "Look at you both!"
She leapt up and struggled toward a damp wall. She had to struggle because the moment she had landed, the plant had started to twist snakelike tendrils around her ankles. As for Harold and Draco, their legs had already been bound tightly in long creepers without their noticing.
Hermione had managed to free herself before the plant got a firm grip on her. Now she watched in horror as the two boys fought to pull the plant off them. Harold managed to tear it to pieces, but the more Draco struggled against it, the tighter and faster the plant wound around him.
"Stop moving!" Hermione ordered them. "I know what this is... it's Devil's Snare!"
"Oh, I'm so happy our walking library has a name for the thing trying to kill us!" Draco snarled. Harold ripped off a tendril that had snaked its way around his neck.
"If you don't have anything helpful to say, Draco, don't say anything."
He hated to admit it, but this plant was producing new tendrils to wrap around him faster than he could tear them apart.
"Oh, what did Professor Sprout say? It likes the dark and the damp..."
"So light a bloody fire!" Draco choked out.
"Yes, of course! But there's no wood!" Hermione cried, wringing her hands.
"ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT, YOU STINKING MUDBLOOD?" Draco roared.
"Oh, right!" Hermione said, and she whipped out her wand, waved it, muttered something, and sent a jet of bluebell flames at the plant. In a matter of seconds, the two boys felt it loosening its grip as it cringed away from the light and warmth. Wriggling and flailing, it unraveled itself from their bodies, and they were able to pull free.
As the two boys joined Hermione by the wall, Harold's hand shot out, grabbing Draco's collar and pulling him close to Harold, who glared at him.
"That... was not courteous..."
"What did that mean, mudblood?" Hermione asked, and Harold looked at her.
"Dirty, tainted blood. A word blood purists use to describe Muggle-borns."
"Well, you have to admit, she had it coming, for that brain fart," Draco said. Harold thought about it for a second. Then, he shrugged and nodded.
"True."
"Harold!"
"Let's just keep moving, shall we?" Harold suggested, pointing down a stony passageway, which was the only way forward.
All they could hear apart from their footsteps was the gentle drip of water trickling down the walls. The passageway sloped downward.
"Can you hear something?" Draco whispered, and Harold nodded.
A soft rustling and clinking noise was coming from up ahead.
"Do you think it's a ghost?"
"Sounds like bats," Harold said, listening intently. "Wings, at the very least."
"There's light ahead... I can see something moving."
They reached the end of the passageway and saw before them a brilliantly lit chamber, its ceiling arching high above them. It was full of small, jewel-bright birds, fluttering and tumbling all around the room. On the opposite side of the chamber was a heavy wooden door.
"Do you think they'll attack us if we cross the room?" Draco asked.
"Maybe. There's only one way to find out."
And before Draco or Hermione could stop him, Harold sprinted across the room with amazing speed. Nothing happened. He reached the door and pulled the handle, but it was locked.
The other two followed him. Even with Harold's great vampire strength, he couldn't get the door open, not even when Hermione tried the Alohomora Charm.
"Now what?" Draco asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"These birds... they can't be here just for decoration," Hermione said, and Harold looked up. Only now did his sharp vampire eyes see it.
"They're not birds," he said, pointing up. "They're keys. Winged keys, look carefully. So that must mean..." he looked around the chamber while the other two squinted up at the flock of keys. "...yes, look. Broomsticks. We've got to catch the key to the door."
"But there are hundreds of them!"
Draco examined the lock on the door.
"We're looking for a big, old-fashioned one, probably silver, like the handle."
They each seized a broomstick and kicked off into the air, soaring into the midst of the cloud of keys. They grabbed and snatched, but the bewitched keys darted and dived so quickly it was almost impossible to catch one.
After about a minute's weaving about through the whirl of rainbow feathers, Harold noticed a large silver key that had a bent wing, as if it had already been caught and stuffed roughly into the keyhole.
"That one," he told the others. "That big one, there... no, there... with bright blue wings, the feathers are all crumpled on one side."
Draco went speeding in the direction that Harold was pointing, crashed into the ceiling, and nearly fell off his broom.
"We've got to close in on it," Harold spoke, feeling rather silly as he sat on the broomstick. He'd always preferred thestrals and hippogriffs over broomsticks. "Draco, you come at it from above... Hermione, stay below and stop it from going down, and I'll try and catch it. Ready? Now!"
Draco dived, Hermione rocketed upward, the key dodged them both, and Harold streaked after it. It sped toward the wall, Harry leaned forward and with a nasty, crunching noise, pinned it against the stone with one hand.
They landed quickly, and Harold ran to the door, the key struggling in his hand. He rammed it into the lock and turned... it worked. The moment the lock had clicked open, the key took flight again, looking very battered now that it had been caught twice.
"Ready?" Harold asked the other two, his hand on the door handle. They nodded. He pulled the door open.
The next chamber was incredibly dark, but Harry saw immediately what it was in there. He was about to explain, when they stepped into the chamber, and light suddenly flooded the room to reveal an astonishing sight.
They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, behind the black chessmen, which were all taller than they were and carved from what looked like black stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were the white pieves.
"Now what do we do?" Hermione whispered anxiously.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Draco asked. "We've got to play our way across the room."
Behind the white pieces, they could see another door.
"How?"
"I think," Draco said, "we're going to have to be chessmen."
–
"You," Harold said in surprise.
In the last chamber stood none other than Quirrell, who smiled. His face wasn't twitching at all.
"Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter."
Harold's face twitched in anger.
"My name is Dracula, Count Harold Dracula, you peon..." he hissed.
Quirrell gave a cruel chuckle.
"That's right, I forgot. You despise your given name, don't you, boy?" he asked, smirking. "Now, I suppose you were expecting someone more along the lines of Snape? He certainly fits the part."
"I was honestly not expecting anyone down here until I saw that you left the harp behind with my Cerberus," Harold admitted. "Neither do I care why you're here. I merely came here to see what was down here. Blame it on a child's curiosity."
"So, you don't know what is down here?" Quirrell asked, and Harold could tell this surprised him. "You honestly haven't been snooping around like Dumbledore thought you would?"
"I have not," Harold said. "What is down here?"
Quirrell smirked again, wider this time.
"The Philosopher's Stone."
Harold's eyebrows rose. "A Philosopher's Stone? Nicolas Flamel's prized possession, here at Hogwarts?"
"It was once in Gringotts, but when Dumbledore learned that my Master, or at least I, coveted the Stone, he had it transferred here," Quirrell explained. He snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harold.
Only now did Harold realize what was standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised.
"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this... but he's in London... I'll be far away by the time he gets back..."
A snapping sound was heard, and Quirrell spun around to find himself facing a free Harold Dracula, who tilted his head to the side.
"Let me speak to him..." a voice spoke, seeming to come from Quirrell himself. "...face-to-face..."
"Master, you are not strong enough!" Quirrell spoke.
"I have strength enough... for this..."
Harold watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. The turban fell away, and Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then, he slowly turned on the spot.
Harold's eyebrow rose. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the ugliest face Harold had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.
"Harry Potter... or Harold Dracula, as you go by these days..." it whispered. Only now did Harold realize who it was.
"Lord Voldemort," he greeted with a bow of his head. He had always been one to respect power, and Voldemort had a lot of it, to be able to avoid even death.
"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own... Now... why don't you stand in front of the mirror, and tell me what you see?"
Harold moved down the steps to stand in front of the mirror. There he stood, once more dressed in his ancestor's outfit, slaughtering his enemies. Then, his reflection dropped the body whose neck he'd been biting, and looked straight into Harold's eyes. Then, the reflection patted his pocket, and immediately Harold felt a weight appear in his pocket.
"Well?" the face hissed. "How about you give me the Stone in your pocket?"
"I think not," Harold said, turning to face Voldemort, a hint of a grin on his face. "Looking into that mirror... it always gets my blood rushing, and right now, I'm feeling a bit peckish..."
With that, Harold lunged, baring his fangs, and sank his teeth into Quirrell's neck. Quirrell and Voldemort both screamed in pain as the bite would started sizzling, while Harold greedily drank the man's blood. His scar seared like crazy, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Human blood, after so long...
Harold pulled back, allowing the now dead Quirrell to drop like a puppet with its strings cut. A smokey vapor rose from the body and charged out of the chamber, and Harold exhaled slowly. He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, wiping the blood off his mouth.
It was such a delightful feeling. His blood was pumping, his senses flared, and he felt so alive! Harold leaned his had back and closed his eyes as he took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Then, he grabbed Quirrell and left the chamber, heading back to the room with the keys, where he grabbed a broom and flew all the way back up to the Cerberus' corridor. Once there, he landed and dropped the body to the floor.
"Dinner," he told the dog, then exited the corridor, intent on meeting Draco and Hermione in the Great Hall, where he had sent them to wait.
"Harold," Draco said as Harold sat down next to him at the Slytherin table, waving at Hermione, who waved back. "What was it down there?"
"I'll tell you later."
"Want something to eat?" Draco asked, only to be given a rather feral grin from Harold.
"No, thank you, I already ate."
–
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