Dark Deals: The Vampire Who Owns Hogwarts

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A dark, swirling mist drifted where Quirrell had stood moments before, his form dissolving into nothing but black smoke. Yet, from within that darkness, a shadow emerged—a tall, poised figure stepping forward with a presence colder than death itself.

The mist dissipated, revealing the outline of a young man—strikingly handsome, yet unnervingly lifeless. His obsidian-black hair framed a face devoid of warmth, and his piercing gaze carried a weight of malice.

His fingers opened slightly, and Quirrell's fallen wand lifted from the ground, gliding effortlessly into his waiting palm. He turned it over once before smoothly raising it, the tip glowing with sinister intent as he pointed it toward the unconscious boy sprawled across the stone floor.

At that moment, a rustling sound broke the eerie silence.

A tall figure swept through the black flames guarding the entrance, his dark robes billowing like a storm. With sharp, calculating eyes, Severus Snape stepped forward, positioning himself between the boy and the threat before him.

His heart pounded. He knew—he felt—who this was. But he had to hear it. He had to see it.

"Who are you?" Snape's voice was low and guarded, though a rare tremor laced his words.

The young man tilted his head, an amused smirk curling at his lips.

"Severus," he murmured, as if savoring the name. "Long time no see."

Snape's breath hitched. The voice, though younger, was unmistakable.

The air around them grew colder as the young man's elegant features began to distort—his high cheekbones twisting, his smooth skin paling into something unnaturally waxen. His ebony locks lost their luster, fading, receding… until nothing remained but a smooth, deathly pale scalp.

Then, at last, the transformation was complete.

Snape found himself staring into the scarlet eyes of Lord Voldemort.

A cold shiver crept down his spine, but he did not flinch. Instead, he bent at the waist, lowering his head in a deep, calculated bow.

His expression, unseen by Voldemort, was frozen in carefully controlled neutrality. But inside—inside, his mind was a raging storm.

This was it. The moment.

"Master," he murmured, his voice laced with something between reverence and relief. "I have waited for you… for eleven years."

He lifted his head slowly, allowing a glimmer of sorrow, longing, and conviction to shine in his dark eyes.

"I never believed you were gone," he continued. "I knew—knew—that you would return, that you would rise again to lead us. And so, I did what I had to do… to ensure my place when that day came."

Voldemort's snake-like eyes scrutinized him with chilling intensity.

The silence stretched between them like a blade, taut and poised to cut.

Then—

"You have waited for me?" Voldemort's voice was soft, yet it coiled with something unreadable. "Yet you thrived under Dumbledore's wing. You served as his trusted confidant, his prized professor. And you never once sought me out."

Snape's heart clenched, but his expression remained unfaltering.

"Master," he said carefully, lowering his voice to something almost conspiratorial, "I did what was necessary. Dumbledore needed to believe in me. He needed to trust me."

Voldemort's thin lips curled slightly, his gaze flickering with dark amusement.

"Trust," he mused. "Yes, he does trust you, doesn't he? Dean of Slytherin… Hogwarts' most loyal servant."

Snape did not react.

Voldemort took a slow step forward.

"You say you have remained faithful to me," he continued. "Yet, when I was gone, when my followers were scattered, you did nothing to find me. Nothing to avenge me."

Snape knew this was a test. A careful, methodical probing of his loyalty.

He had prepared for this moment for years.

"I had to be patient, Master," Snape said, his tone smooth as silk. "With so many of our ranks imprisoned or dead, I was one of the few left with influence. I used that influence to remain close to Dumbledore. To be of use to you."

Voldemort's red eyes locked onto his, searching, dissecting.

Then—

"Very good, Severus."

The Dark Lord smiled—a slow, sinister thing.

"You have done well to remain in the enemy's camp," he said, his voice slithering through the air. "And now, I have one final test for you."

He raised his wand—Quirrell's wand—ever so slightly, then pointed to the unconscious boy at Snape's feet.

"Kill him."

Snape's throat went dry.

Voldemort's expression darkened.

"Kill the boy," he repeated, his voice colder, sharper. "And prove your loyalty to me once and for all."

Snape felt a slow, suffocating dread coil around his chest.

He could hear his own heartbeat, steady and deliberate, as he willed his body to remain composed.

He turned, his black eyes settling on the boy's motionless form.

James Potter's face stared back at him, peaceful in unconsciousness.

He loathed that face.

But beneath the messy black hair, hidden behind closed lids, were eyes.

Her eyes.

Lily's eyes.

A lifetime of carefully maintained control teetered on the edge of collapse.

His fingers twitched. His wand hand trembled ever so slightly, but his grip was firm. He could feel Voldemort's presence looming behind him, expectant, watching.

There was no escape.

And then—

A voice.

Soft, yet unshakable. Smooth, yet brimming with unspoken power.

"Do what you have to do… and leave the rest to me."

Snape's eyes flickered ever so slightly.

He knew that voice.

It was Dracula.

A heavy breath left Snape's lips, masked as quiet resolve.

He made his choice.

The next moment, he raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A sickly green flash illuminated the chamber.

A deafening crash shattered the silence.

Dust and splinters exploded into the air as something enormous slammed into the floor between Harry and the Killing Curse.

A thick slab of dark wood, ancient and sturdy, lay embedded in the stone like a gravestone.

Behind it, leaning lazily against the overturned lid of his own coffin, stood Dracula.

A smirk played on his lips, a blood-red lollipop hanging loosely from his fingers.

"My, my," he murmured, his silver hair catching the dim light. "Seems I arrived just in time."

A stunned silence followed.

Voldemort's expression twisted, his earlier satisfaction evaporating in an instant.

"It's you again," he hissed, his voice laced with pure venom. "Dracula."

Dracula took a slow, deliberate step forward, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement.

"Quite the little reunion we're having," he mused. "Tell me, Voldemort—since when does the Dark Lord need to test his own followers?"

Snape, still against the wall, exhaled silently.

Dracula had arrived.

And for the first time since stepping into that room—he allowed himself to believe that he might survive this night.

Snape's expression went blank in an instant, his dark eyes losing their sharpness, turning dull and empty.

Dracula, who had been watching with keen amusement, paused for a moment. Then, as if finding the situation even more entertaining, he chuckled lightly.

"Professor Snape, I haven't seen you for a while, and yet—" His lips curled into a smirk. "Why do you look so pitiful?"

His tone was playful, but the amusement in his crimson eyes carried an unmistakable edge. He tilted his head slightly, studying the unresponsive Potions Master, then let out a dramatic sigh.

"A House Head, reduced to being controlled by the Imperius Curse?" He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "I almost feel embarrassed for you."

Standing beside them, Voldemort released a silent breath of relief. Everything was going according to plan.

At the last moment, he had cast the Imperius Curse on Snape, ensuring the illusion of absolute control. The goal was simple yet brilliant—Snape would pretend to be under his command while casting the Killing Curse on Harry Potter. This way, even in failure, Dumbledore's trust in Snape would remain unshaken.

The old fool would continue sheltering the man within Hogwarts, completely unaware that Snape was his most valuable spy. Even if the Sorcerer's Stone slipped from his grasp tonight, he would still have Snape feeding him information, giving him countless chances to seize it again.

But Voldemort, for all his cunning, had overlooked one crucial detail—

Dracula had been watching from the very beginning.

Not only had he witnessed the spell being cast, but he had also seen Snape's subtle cooperation, the deliberate way he succumbed to the Imperius Curse. He had observed every little nuance of the Dark Lord's test.

He had simply chosen not to expose it.

Because it was far too dull to end the game so quickly.

Of course, Voldemort remained blissfully ignorant of this.

Believing his control to be absolute, he gave a small nod of approval and tightened his grip on Snape's mind.

"Attack him."

Snape raised his wand stiffly, the tip gleaming faintly as it pointed straight at Dracula.

The vampire's smirk widened.

Before Voldemort could even blink—

BOOM!

Snape's body slammed into the cold stone wall behind the Mirror of Erised with bone-crushing force. The sheer impact left a deep, human-shaped indentation in the surface, cracks spiderwebbing outward.

He collapsed onto the ground, motionless.

Dracula, unfazed, flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve. Then, he turned his gaze toward the self-proclaimed Dark Lord.

"Well then."

His voice was smooth, dangerous. A spark of excitement lit up his crimson eyes.

"You must be Voldemort, the infamous Dark Lord whose very name terrifies the wizarding world." He let the name roll off his tongue slowly, savoring it. Then, with a sharp grin, he added, "How disappointing."

Voldemort's red eyes burned with anger.

For the first time in a long, long while, he felt something dangerously close to insulted.

Dracula's mere presence was suffocating, a force unlike anything he had encountered. Even Dumbledore—his greatest obstacle—had never spoken to him so casually.

Yet this vampire dared—dared—to address him with such audacity?

A cold fury settled in his gaze.

"You will regret your arrogance, Dracula," he hissed, lifting Quirrell's wand with precise control.

"Confringo!"

A blazing jet of explosive magic shot toward the vampire—

Only for the wand in Voldemort's grasp to suddenly twist in his fingers, the trajectory veering wildly.

Instead of striking Dracula, the spell blasted a gaping hole in the stone wall behind him.

CRACK!

Shards of debris rained down.

Dracula, standing leisurely in the center of the destruction, raised an eyebrow.

"You missed?" His lips twitched. "At such a close distance?"

His voice dropped into a drawl, teasing, mocking.

"Tell me, Dark Lord, are you sure you're not just some Hogwarts student playing pretend?"

Voldemort's fury reached its peak. If he had a nose, it would undoubtedly have twisted in rage.

"You insolent—!"

He bit back his words. His mind worked rapidly, calculating.

He knew—knew—that in his current spectral form, he was at a disadvantage.

I cannot defeat him like this.

So instead of aiming for Dracula, Voldemort had struck the wall deliberately.

And now, from the gaping hole in the stone—

A pair of enormous, glowing yellow eyes emerged.

A moment later, the rest of the beast followed.

A thick, gleaming emerald-scaled body slithered forward, its movements eerily smooth, coiling through the shattered wall with slow, lethal grace.

The Basilisk.

The moment Dracula turned his head, he was met with its unblinking, deathly gaze.

And for the first time that night—

He felt something.

A sensation, light and fleeting, brushing against his consciousness.

His body... was becoming light...

Like mist dispersing into the wind.

Voldemort, watching intently, let out a triumphant laugh.

"A shame, Dracula," he sneered, stepping forward. "But you underestimated me."

His lips curled in satisfaction.

"Thanks to your arrogance, you dared to meet the Basilisk's gaze. And now, you will turn to dust—just like every other fool who has crossed me!"

The thrill of victory coursed through his form.

Finally, finally—something had gone right.

Ignoring Dracula entirely, he moved toward Harry, reaching for the Sorcerer's Stone.

But then—

He froze.

Because behind him—

A voice, low and laced with dangerous amusement, echoed through the chamber.

"Isn't this Salazar's Basilisk?"

The blood in Voldemort's spectral veins ran cold.

Dracula's voice carried a quiet, almost disappointed tone.

"Where did you get the confidence... to think you could use it against me?"