HP: Vampire Professor

The diary of Tom Riddle gazed at the tarnished diadem, a thrill of recognition coursing through his very soul. A dark, wicked smile twisted his handsome features. With a sudden, decisive motion, he seized the diadem and forced it onto his head, pressing down with both hands to prevent it from escaping.

Instantly, the diadem fought back. A powerful wave of energy surged from it, slamming into Riddle's soul-form. The sapphire embedded in its center began to glow with a malevolent, crimson light, and from it burst the spectral image of a bald, red-eyed midget. The apparition shot forward and crashed into Riddle's forehead.

Riddle's eyes went vacant. The crimson light of the diadem's soul fragment and the pitch-black darkness of his own intertwined, tearing at each other in a vicious, silent battle for dominance. Riddle's form flickered violently, like a distorted image on an old black-and-white television, his very existence seeming to waver between reality and nothingness.

But slowly, inexorably, the crimson light began to dim. The black spots of Riddle's soul swelled, consuming their weaker counterpart until not a single speck of red remained.

Riddle's eyes snapped open, a chilling, triumphant light radiating from them. His body solidified, becoming so corporeal that it was nearly impossible to distinguish him from a living, breathing person.

"You must be so disappointed, my dear prime soul," he chuckled, his voice a low, dark murmur. "I have no interest in seeking help from others. Because I, like you, only trust what I can hold in my own two hands."

If Lord Voldemort could have witnessed this, he would have been apoplectic. He had never imagined that the diary, his own creation, would be capable of such a feat. Though he had imbued both Horcruxes with a soul fragment of similar size, the diary was unique. It contained not just his soul, but his memories, his knowledge, and his ambition. Over fifty years, the diary had grown, its power subtly augmented by every witch and wizard who had ever written in its pages.

Now, it had effortlessly annihilated its weaker sibling and absorbed its power. The fusion of the two soul fragments had given Riddle a form as solid and real as flesh and blood.

He tossed the now-empty diadem aside like a piece of junk. As the last of its dark magic faded, the rust and tarnish that had marred its surface for centuries began to disappear, revealing the shimmering, pristine silver beneath. It was a thing of breathtaking beauty, but Riddle had no time for such things.

He gazed out the high window at the two distant moons, his mood heavy. He knew that the dark moon was Dracula's magic, and he understood the immense power it represented. He had no intention of facing such a being directly.

"As if Dumbledore wasn't bad enough," he muttered, "now there is a Dracula." He idly flipped through the pages of his diary, his eyes unfocused. When he reached the title page, he paused. It was blank, as if waiting for a name.

His eyes flickered. The words Tom Marvolo Riddle appeared on the page.

And in that moment, as he looked at his own name, a brilliant, audacious plan began to form in his mind.

Two days later, Harry Potter awoke in the hospital wing.

Dumbledore was there, arguing with a stern-looking Madam Pomfrey. "Albus, the boy needs rest!" she insisted. "His spirit is weak. He is not to be disturbed."

"Just for a moment, Poppy, I promise," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. "I only wish to see our young hero."

"Oh, very well," she conceded reluctantly. "But don't make a habit of it!"

Dumbledore sat by Harry's bed, his heart aching as he looked at the boy's pale, sleeping face. He gazed at the lightning-bolt scar, lost in thought.

Just then, the sealed window of the hospital wing swung open, and a silver-haired figure appeared on the sill.

"Professor Dracula," Dumbledore said with a weary sigh. "You really ought to close the window. Poppy will have a fit if she feels a draft." He had long since given up on trying to make the man follow the rules.

"Very well," Dracula shrugged, leaping down from the sill and casually shutting the window. "How is the boy?"

"Thank you for your concern, Professor," Dumbledore replied. "His condition is stable. He should wake soon."

"Oh, you misunderstand," Dracula waved a dismissive hand. "I have no interest in the boy's health. I am simply curious. How did he manage to burn Quirrell with his bare hands? I have lived for a very long time, and I have never witnessed such magic."

Dumbledore shook his head, a sad smile on his face. "Harry's mother died to save him," he said softly. "Voldemort, having been conceived under the influence of a love potion, will never understand the power of such a thing."

"Wait," Dracula held up a hand. "You're not about to launch into your 'power of love' speech, are you? You might be able to fool children with such sentimentality, but I am not so easily swayed."

"But it is the truth, Professor," Dumbledore said, his eyes meeting Dracula's. "Lily left Harry with the protection of a love charm, a charm that now runs in his very blood. Quirrell, having sold his soul to Voldemort, was a cursed, broken thing. When such a creature touches someone protected by so powerful and pure an emotion, it is purified, burned away."

"So," Dracula snorted with derision, "any powerful wizard can be defeated by a helpless weakling, so long as they are 'filled with love'? Do you truly believe that is reasonable, Headmaster?"

"Professor," Dumbledore said gently, "love itself is not a reasonable thing. It is the purest energy of the human spirit. It allows us to do the impossible. Lily's love for her son gave her the power to defy Lord Voldemort..."

Dracula frowned, and with a sudden, swift motion, placed his hand on Harry's neck, his sharp nails extending just enough to prick the skin.

"What are you doing?!" Dumbledore cried, leaping to his feet.

"Relax," Dracula said, withdrawing his hand. "So it is merely a specific form of blood magic. I don't understand why you must make everything so needlessly complicated. The boy's mother, in her final moments, condensed her love and her life force into a powerful bloodline curse, one specifically designed to repel her killer. A clever trick, to be sure. It allows the weak to overcome the strong, if only for a moment."

He looked at the artery pulsing in Harry's neck, a covetous glint in his eyes. If Dumbledore weren't there, he would have been sorely tempted to take a sample...

Just then, Harry's eyes fluttered open. He stared blankly at Dumbledore for a moment, and then his eyes widened in terror.

"Sir! The Stone!" he cried, his voice hoarse. "Voldemort... he got away from Quirrell! He must have the Stone!"

"Calm yourself, my dear boy," Dumbledore said gently. "You are a bit behind the times. Lord Voldemort did not get the Philosopher's Stone."

Harry paused, his mind racing. The last thing he remembered... a figure in black, sweeping through the flames...

"I remember!" he gasped, tears of gratitude welling in his eyes. "Professor Snape! He came through the door! He saved me! He saved me twice!"

(End of Chapter)

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