Dark Deals: The Vampire Who Owns Hogwarts

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Harry stood alone at the final challenge, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His heart still pounded from the trials he had just overcome—Ron's sacrifice at the enchanted chessboard, Hermione's desperate decision to turn back and send for help, the eerie riddle of the potions.

Now, he was truly alone.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the smallest bottle, the one that would allow him to pass through the black flames. He could already feel the heat of the dark fire ahead, flickering ominously, blocking his way forward.

Taking a deep breath, he whispered to himself, "I have to do this."

Without another thought, he lifted the vial to his lips and drank.

A piercing cold shot through him instantly, as if ice had replaced his blood. It wasn't just a chill on his skin—it reached deep into his bones, numbing every inch of his body. His breath came out in small gasps, misty and faint in the dimly lit chamber.

The bottle slipped from his fingers, clattering softly onto the stone floor.

Gritting his teeth, Harry stepped forward.

The black flames leapt up around him, licking at his robes, twisting like living shadows—but he felt nothing. The fire neither burned nor harmed him. It was as if he had stepped into a void.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sensation vanished. He was through.

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The chamber beyond was vast and dimly lit, its stone walls stretching high above, disappearing into darkness. At the very center stood the Mirror of Erised, its gilded frame glowing faintly in the torchlight.

And standing before it, his back turned, was Quirrell.

Harry froze, barely daring to breathe.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor stood unnaturally still, his hands clasped behind him. He was staring into the mirror, utterly absorbed in whatever he saw.

Harry's grip on his invisibility cloak tightened. Maybe, if he moved carefully enough, he could slip past Quirrell, reach the mirror first, and take the Stone before he even noticed—

Then, a voice shattered the silence.

"I can feel him... he's here... Harry Potter... The Boy Who Lived..."

The words slithered through the air, low and hoarse, sending a shiver down Harry's spine.

But Quirrell hadn't spoken.

Harry's blood ran cold. He had heard that voice—but he had not seen anyone say it.

A sickening sense of dread filled his stomach.

Quirrell suddenly turned.

"Incarcerous!"

Before Harry could react, ropes materialized from thin air, lashing out across the room. He gasped as they coiled around him, pinning his arms tightly to his sides. The invisibility cloak slipped from his shoulders, pooling uselessly at his feet.

Quirrell smirked as he stepped closer.

"An invisibility cloak," he mused, plucking it from the ground. "What a rare and precious thing."

His voice was smooth, confident—completely unlike the nervous, stammering professor Harry had known all year. The change in his demeanor was chilling.

Harry glared at him. "Hermione was right," he said bitterly. "You've been pretending all along."

Quirrell chuckled, shaking his head. "So disappointing. I thought I played my part well." He sighed, though there was no real regret in his voice. "But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Even Dumbledore and Dracula had their suspicions. And if a first-year could begin to put the pieces together..."

Harry's eyes widened. "Dumbledore and Professor Dracula suspected you?"

"Of course," Quirrell sneered. "They have suspected me since the beginning. But they are far too arrogant—they thought they could use me to draw my master out."

His smirk widened. "Unfortunately for them, I am not so easily played. I have outmaneuvered them both. Dumbledore is currently chasing shadows at the Ministry, sent there by my deception. And Dracula? Well..." He let out a cruel chuckle. "If he were truly a threat, he would have revealed himself by now."

Harry's pulse quickened.

Dumbledore might have been tricked, but Dracula wasn't in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Quirrell was wrong about him.

Which meant—

A surge of hope shot through Harry's chest. Maybe there was still a chance.

---

In the darkest corner of the chamber, a small, elegant bat hung upside down, its eyes gleaming with amusement.

Dracula had been here all along.

In fact, he had arrived long before Quirrell had even entered the chamber. He had watched, entertained, as the three students braved the obstacles, as they struggled and fought their way through.

Now, he observed the unfolding scene with keen interest, resisting the urge to pull out a lollipop—a habit he had developed to curb his boredom. But as he was in his bat form, the thought only irritated him.

Still, he did not move.

Not yet.

---

Quirrell snapped his fingers. The ropes around Harry vanished, but before he could react, the professor shoved him roughly toward the Mirror of Erised.

"Tell me," Quirrell commanded. "What do you see?"

Harry's heart raced. He knew this was a trap. He couldn't let Quirrell realize—

Then something strange happened.

In the mirror, he saw himself—his reflection smiled back, reached into its pocket, and pulled out a small, blood-red stone.

And then—

Something heavy landed in Harry's real pocket.

His fingers curled around it instinctively.

He had the Philosopher's Stone.

Harry fought to keep his expression neutral.

"I see myself..." He paused, forcing a smile. "Winning the House Cup for Gryffindor."

Quirrell's eyes darkened. He knew Harry was lying.

Then, with a single, decisive motion, he reached up and ripped off his turban.

Harry recoiled.

On the back of Quirrell's head, where there should have been only skin, was instead a face—ghastly pale, with slitted nostrils and burning red eyes.

"Harry Potter..."

The voice sent a chill down his spine.

"Give me the Philosopher's Stone," Voldemort whispered. "Do not let your mother's sacrifice be in vain..."

Harry's jaw clenched. "Never."

Without thinking, he turned and ran toward the door—

"SEIZE HIM!"

Quirrell lunged—his fingers wrapped around Harry's wrist—

And immediately, he screamed in agony.

Harry gasped. Quirrell's flesh blistered and burned where they touched.

"M-Master, I can't—"

"THEN KILL HIM, FOOL!"

Quirrell lifted both hands—

Harry acted on instinct.

He grabbed Quirrell's face.

The professor let out an inhuman scream as his entire body convulsed, his skin blackening and peeling away.

Whatever happened was too horrible and confusing for Harry to comprehend. The sudden events took a heavy toll on him.

He felt like the entire world was spinning. He started to lose his balance.

The last thing Harry saw before collapsing was a wraith-like shadow ripping free from Quirrell's corpse—

And, through the black flames, a figure in a flowing black cloak stepping forward.

Then, everything went black.