Hope

"Tell me, what do you want to do?" Dracula's eyes bored into Nico's. "Do you really need to use the real Philosopher's Stone just to tempt a little Voldemort?"

Dracula wasn't particularly interested in the Stone. He didn't even bother picking it up when it was tossed his way. But if the Stone—the only one of its kind—was threatened, he'd do whatever it took to protect it. After all, it was Nico's very lifeline.

"Relax. Dumbledore can handle it," Nico said with a grin. "I'm not worried as long as it's in his hands."

He added with a wink, "And I've got plenty of elixirs, just in case. If something happens, I'll have time to deal with it."

"Don't you trust Dumbledore very much? Then why prepare extra elixirs?" Dracula asked, his voice laced with an edge of amusement.

Nico's words faltered, his eyes briefly avoiding Dracula's sharp gaze. He feigned an appreciation for the unfolding drama on stage and turned his attention to the performance.

Dracula followed his gaze. The opera stage was stripped of grandeur, its simplicity stark against the dim lighting—a humble country road and a solitary tree, bathed in the soft glow of dusk.

Beneath the tree, two old tramps sat with faces etched in boredom, their patience worn thin. One of the homeless men, seemingly without a spark of life left in him, removed his belt and looped it over the branch above, preparing to hang himself.

Dracula, watching intently, spoke softly, his voice tinged with a rare compassion. "So, are you prepared for the possibility that the Philosopher's Stone may never return?"

Nico sighed, the weight of centuries of experience pressing down on him. "As long as the Philosopher's Stone exists, there will always be those who covet it. This time, it's Voldemort, with Albus standing against him. But what happens next? Will there be an even greater threat? And who will stand guard over the Stone when Albus is no longer around?"

His gaze drifted away, as if lost in the endless expanse of time. "Brad, you must understand how I feel. A life stretched out over centuries grows wearisome. And I'm old, too old to keep pretending that there's meaning in this endless wait. Life is absurd, and suffering is infinite."

Dracula felt his words catch in his throat. He knew too well the agony of a long life, and that pursuit of fleeting enjoyment that defined his existence. He, too, had seen the crushing weight of immortality.

"If you and Perenal leave," Dracula's voice was low, almost a whisper, yet laced with an undeniable seriousness. His gaze fixed on Nico with an intensity that could freeze the air itself. "I will have no one left. No one, Nico."

The words hung in the air, heavy and laden with a deep, unspoken truth. Dracula's eyes softened, but only for a moment, before the familiar mask of control slid back into place. He had walked through centuries, faced death and betrayal, but this... this was different. This was the emptiness that came from outliving those who mattered.

Nico smiled faintly, his eyes carrying the wisdom of someone who had lived too long. "You'll find new friends, Brad. You may have your immortality, but I've reached my end. There's nothing left for me to do—no more regrets."

Dracula said nothing, his eyes fixated on the absurdity unfolding on stage. The old tramp had just tied his belt around his neck, but it was too fragile, unable to hold the weight of his despair. It snapped, and the man was left dangling, unharmed, his attempt thwarted.

The audience erupted in laughter at the tragicomic moment.

Dracula chuckled, his mood lightening. "It's not so easy to die, old man." He turned his gaze back to Nico. "If I offer to help you protect the Philosopher's Stone, how many of the excuses you gave me before would vanish?"

"As for your complaints about life being boring... don't worry. The magical world will soon descend into chaos. There will be no shortage of interesting things to find, believe me."

Dracula thought of the image he had seen in the Mirror of Erised, and an unbidden smile played at his lips. "Besides," he added with a glint in his eye, "don't you want to see the 21st century? To witness the unfolding of a new era, one that spans millennia?"

Nico raised an eyebrow, then burst into laughter. His weathered face softened, the years falling away as he smiled genuinely.

"Today's performance is oddly fitting," Nico mused, the wrinkles on his face relaxing. "Maybe life isn't just a hopeless wait. Perhaps, as long as there's hope, there's always a reason to move forward."

Dracula nodded, his gaze still lingering on the stage, where the tramp pulled up his pants and turned to his companion. "Shall we leave?" he asked, his voice dull with resignation.

"Let's go," his companion replied.

The curtain fell slowly, and a warm round of applause filled the room.

Dracula joined in, his hands clapping rhythmically. "What's the name of the play?" he asked.

"Waiting for Godot," Nico answered, his voice thoughtful. "It makes you think. From a different perspective, life isn't all hopeless waiting—it's about hope, the kind that drives us to keep going."

"True," Dracula said with a smirk. "And that Defense Against the Dark Arts position you recommended to me? Not bad at all."

"Then why don't you hurry back to Hogwarts and finish your work, Professor Dracula?" Nico teased.

Dracula chuckled, then nodded. With a small flick of his fingers, his form shifted into that of a dark moon, his figure vanishing into the shadows as a group of bats fluttered overhead, fading into the night.

---

The next moment, Dracula appeared on the windowsill of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

He casually leaned against the edge of the window, sitting effortlessly on the sill. The breeze tousled his black-red cloak and silver hair, making them dance in the wind like the shadows of the night.

Inside, Quirrell was still stumbling through his lesson, his voice faltering as he read the words. The students beneath him were a sea of boredom—some fighting off drowsiness, others lost in their own thoughts, playing small games. A few clever ones seemed more focused on ways to amuse themselves at Quirrell's expense than actually paying attention.

But among the sea of distractions, there was one student who stood apart. Hermione Granger sat upright, her attention fully on the lesson, scribbling notes with methodical precision.

On the other hand, Ron was already half asleep, his face resting on the table, caught somewhere between dream and reality. Harry, however, was lost in thought, his eyes aimlessly drifting across the classroom and out the window.

Then, a figure caught his eye.

For a fleeting moment, his gaze locked onto the silver-haired man sitting so casually on the windowsill. The sight was enough to jolt him out of his daze.

"Professor Dracula!" Harry blurted, his voice sharp with surprise.

The sound of his voice cut through the air like a bolt of lightning. The entire class snapped to attention, the weight of Harry's exclamation breaking the monotony. Heads turned in unison, eyes wide as they sought out the source of this interruption.

Dracula's lips curved into a knowing smile at the sudden attention. He waved at Harry, the gesture almost casual, but the impact of his presence undeniable. Then, with a fluid motion, he made his way toward Quirrell, still fumbling at the podium.

"Professor Dracula!" Quirrell stammered, his voice shaking. "Why... why are you here?"

Dracula's smile widened slightly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "I merely came to see how you were faring," he said, his voice calm yet carrying an undercurrent of something darker. "But I didn't expect to find this," he gestured toward Quirrell's shaky performance. "Isn't your lesson plan working out?"

Quirrell stood frozen, trembling, his mind racing for words, but no sound came from his mouth. He hesitated, unable to form a coherent response.

Dracula sighed, his tone turning slightly annoyed as he shook his head. "Forget it," he said, dismissing Quirrell with a flick of his hand. "Go clean your troll until it doesn't stink, and then give it to Dumbledore for placement at the checkpoint below."

The students watched in stunned silence as Quirrell shuffled out of the room, his face a mixture of confusion and fear.

Turning back to the class, Dracula adjusted his expression, his smile widening to something far more charming as he addressed the students. "Apologies, students," he began, his voice smooth and enticing. "It seems I've allowed Quirrell to take charge of today's class for far too long. But I'm here now, and you're about to experience a real Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson."

The air in the room shifted as Dracula's words hung in the silence. There was an undeniable tension now, a promise of something far more thrilling than anything Quirrell could provide.

The students leaned forward in their seats, eager to see what would come next. The game had just changed.

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