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" 'You idiot!' Voldemort's roar thundered from the mirror, the sound shaking the small chamber. 'So many days, and you remain blind to Dracula's wariness?'
Quirrell's face, already pale, slackened further. 'Wary? Why would he suspect a mere buffoon from Hogwarts?'
'Because of your incompetence, I was forced to act personally,' Voldemort hissed, his reflection flickering with dark energy. 'The magic that secured our escape was too potent, far beyond anything you could conjure.'
'Now, I suspect Dracula's invitation to Hogwarts was a ruse—a chance to dissect the very magic that saved us and unearth your secrets!'
'What… what am I to do?' Quirrell stammered, his eyes wide with panic. 'Does this mean constant surveillance? The Philosopher's Stone… is it lost to us?'
Voldemort's image seemed to darken, a gloom settling over his features. 'Patience. An opportunity will arise.' His voice dropped to a sibilant whisper. 'A moment when all eyes are diverted. When it comes, you will…'
The opportunity Voldemort promised arrived sooner than either could have anticipated."
More than a month passed quietly, immersed in a teaching career surrounded by the youthful energy of Hogwarts. Dracula, now acclimated to his role, was about to experience his first Halloween within the castle's ancient walls.
In the Headmaster's office, located on the eighth floor of the main tower, Dracula leaned against a wall adorned with portraits of previous headmasters. Beside him, on a stool, sat a wizard's pointed hat – the Sorting Hat.
Currently, a crack bisecting the hat's brim and two pronounced wrinkles above it conspired to form an expression of utter despair. Its hopeless emotion was palpable, enough to bring a stoic man to silence and a gentle woman to tears.
"Waaah… You cannot do this to me!" the Sorting Hat cried out in anguish. "I am a sentient Sorting Hat! Every speck of dust upon me is a symbol of my long and eventful life… And now, look at me! What difference remains between me and those ordinary, plain hats?!"
The once tattered and dusty Sorting Hat was entirely renewed. All its worn and patched areas were meticulously repaired, and its grimy surface had been thoroughly cleansed. It now resembled a brand-new wizard's hat, betraying no sign of its thousand-year existence.
"You haven't had a bath in so long—were you not uncomfortable?" Dracula regarded the pristine Sorting Hat with amusement. "Why so unwilling when I merely offered to clean you?" He casually tossed it upwards, caught it, and repeated the motion, clearly enjoying himself.
"Stop, stop it! I'm going to be sick!" The Sorting Hat spun, its voice a loud plea. "I was wrong, Count Dracula! I should not have harbored the slightest dissatisfaction with your decisions!"
At the hat's desperate entreaty, Dracula ceased his game, casually placing it back on the nearby stool.
"Well?" Dracula asked, a slight curve playing at the corner of his lips. "Do you still wish to protest?" His slender fingers hovered near the edge of the Sorting Hat's brim, a silent threat that an unsatisfactory answer might result in another round of free fall and aerial rotation.
"No more protests! I dare not anymore," the Sorting Hat declared listlessly. "Count, please spare me. I was merely unaccustomed to it. But now… now I feel that being clean is rather agreeable."
Only then did Dracula withdraw his hand, a gesture that brought a profound, almost visible wave of relief over the Sorting Hat.
From the portrait wall beside them, the past headmasters murmured their approval of the Sorting Hat's new, clean image. A Slytherin headmaster, distinguished by sparse eyebrows and a goatee, commented, "Very good. Finally, I shall not have my mood soured by the sight of a tattered hat every time I open my eyes."
Dracula glanced up, noting the name inscribed beneath the portrait: Phineas Nigellus Black. The name was unfamiliar; Phineas Black must have assumed the headmastership long after Dracula had fallen into his deep slumber.
A new voice interrupted the conversation, emanating from a witch in one of the portraits. "Sir Dracula," she began, her tone laced with playful reproach, "I recall seeking you out on numerous occasions during my time as Headmistress, yet you never graced Hogwarts with your presence. What is it that now, with Dumbledore at the helm, you not only arrive but seek a professorship?"
She fixed Dracula with a pointed stare, her expression hinting at a touch of pique.
"Ah, Dilys, long time no see," Dracula replied smoothly, raising a hand in greeting to Dilys Derwent, the intellectual and elegant witch in the portrait.
Without missing a beat, he shifted the blame to Dumbledore. "Dilys, during your tenure, Hogwarts was a bastion of safety and stability. I fear I would have found little to pique my interest then."
"But now," he continued, a glint in his eye, "Hogwarts under Dumbledore's stewardship has become… considerably more diverting. The Defence Against the Dark Arts position, with its annual turnover, for example, is proving to be… fascinating."
Headmistress Derwent covered her mouth to stifle a chuckle, her gaze drifting toward Dumbledore, who stood across the room, a wry smile upon his face.
"Professor Dracula," Dumbledore called out, his voice carrying amusement, "I can't help but feel I'm being discussed behind my back – directly to my face." He rose from his desk and strolled towards Dracula.
"Not at all, Albus. I merely speak the truth," Dracula responded, adroitly changing the subject. "I was momentarily distracted by the Sorting Hat and my sudden urge to thoroughly sanitize it. I confess, I haven't yet inquired as to the purpose of this summons."
Dumbledore, happy to oblige the change of topic, picked up where Dracula left off. "Actually, it's nothing of great import. With Halloween fast approaching, a holiday that seems quite in keeping with the temperament of a vampire count, I wondered if Professor Dracula had any ideas for a performance programme?"
"Performance programme?" Dracula raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his tone. "I distinctly recall being cautioned against revealing my… nature, lest we incite undue alarm among the parent population."
"While unveiling your true self might be unwise at other times, Halloween is quite different," Dumbledore countered, a twinkle in his eye. "On Halloween, whatever guise you assume, our young witches and wizards, and indeed, our professors, will simply assume it to be role-playing. No one would seriously suspect Professor Dracula's actual identity."
"Performance programmes are far too tiresome," Dracula demurred, shaking his head slightly. "However, I could draft a letter and procure the services of a rather renowned half-blood vampire singer to perform. I also need to summon him for questioning about... completely unrelated issue, as fate would have it."
He paused, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "Furthermore, the scene design and layout of the Great Hall is best left to me. The Hogwarts professors, with their pronounced dearth of imagination, are hardly suited for such endeavours."
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