Voldemort Wants a Change

So when the other professors arrived at the scene, they were greeted with an odd sight.

The three little Gryffindors—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—were attacking the troll in their own, admittedly clumsy ways. Hermione had a small edge thanks to her knowledge of a handful of basic spells, while Harry and Ron, utterly unrefined in their techniques, resorted to casting levitation charms and other spells that screamed "beginner."

The troll, with its tough, leathery skin, seemed more irritated than hurt by their efforts. Annoyed by the relentless harassment, it swung its massive wooden club now and then, but every time it was about to land a blow, Dracula casually intervened, stopping the attack in an instant.

Confused and disheartened by the invisible interruptions, the troll eventually lost most of its aggression.

Professor McGonagall, who had rushed over in a state of panic, froze in place at the sight of the peculiar "lesson" taking place. She turned to Dumbledore, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

"Albus," she said, her voice taut with restrained outrage, "I don't think Professor Dracula's teaching methods are suitable for these poor children!"

Dumbledore coughed lightly, his eyes revealing a hint of amusement. "Perhaps Professor Dracula has his own... unique approach to education," he replied.

What could Dumbledore do? He was well aware that Dracula, despite his unconventional ways, held significant influence at Hogwarts. And frankly, Hogwarts couldn't afford to lose such a powerful ally, strange methods or not.

Noticing the troll beginning to tire, Dracula finally decided to put an end to the exercise.

"That's enough for today," he said to the trio. "You've had a taste of real danger. Remember what I taught you, and don't let me down next time."

The three nodded hurriedly, their faces pale and sweaty. They scrambled to hide behind Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore, as if terrified Dracula might conjure up another "exciting" lesson on the spot.

Dracula shook his head with a smile, then turned his attention to the approaching professors. Alongside McGonagall and Dumbledore were Snape and a rather tense-looking Quirrell, trailing behind the group with an odd, brooding expression.

"What exactly were you thinking?" McGonagall snapped at the trio, her stern glare fixing them in place. Her voice had a cold sharpness that hinted at her suppressed anger. "Do you realize how lucky you are that Professor Dracula was here to stop that thing? Why weren't you in your dormitory?"

Snape gave Harry a quick, scrutinizing look, his eyes lingering on the boy's own, checking carefully for any damage. Once satisfied that Harry's eyes were unharmed, a fleeting sense of relief flickered in his expression, only to be swallowed immediately by an arrogant snort.

Hermione, ever the responsible one, opened her mouth to take the blame, but before she could speak, her expression changed into one of pure horror.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall began, mistaking Hermione's panic for an attempt to distract her, "are you trying to pull some kind of—"

"Professor, look out!" Harry shouted.

McGonagall spun around just in time to see the troll's massive wooden club descending toward Dracula.

Even though the troll wasn't exactly a genius, it eventually figured out—after all the poking, prodding, and spells—that Dracula was the one behind its endless misery!

It decided to eliminate this irritating person first, and then go after other bothersome tiny wizards.

With a gruesome roar, it swung its club downward, aiming to squash its tormentor.

The other professors froze in shock, and for a brief, horrifying moment, it seemed as though Dracula might meet the same grim fate as the many Defense Against the Dark Arts professors before him.

Instead, Dracula raised a hand lazily and caught the club mid-swing.

The troll's strength was nothing compared to the pale, thin fingers gripping its weapon. The troll suppressed his embarrassment and tried to pull out his wooden stick from the thin fingers. The sheer force of the troll's pull caused the stone floor beneath its feet to crack, but it couldn't wrest the club free from Dracula's grasp.

With a bored glance at the troll, Dracula released his grip.

Caught off balance, the troll yanked its club backward with all its might—only to strike itself squarely on the head. The force of the blow sent it crashing to the floor, unconscious.

Dracula dusted his hands off and turned his gaze to Harry, who had yelled the warning.

"Something the matter, Mr. Potter?" he asked, his voice laced with mild amusement.

"N-no, nothing, Professor," Harry stammered, swallowing hard.

Even McGonagall and Snape, usually masters of composure, couldn't hide their surprise at the sight of Dracula effortlessly overpowering the troll.

"It's late," Dracula said softly, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. "You should all return to your dormitories and rest."

As he strode past, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his fingers carefully, and then burned the cloth clean with a flick of his wrist.

When he reached Quirrell, Dracula paused, his piercing eyes briefly locking onto the man. There was something sharp and knowing in his gaze.

Quirrell flinched but said nothing as Dracula walked past him, vanishing into the shadows as though the moonless night itself had swallowed him whole.

---

It's night in the cramped, dimly lit teaching assistant's office.

After removing his ever-present purple turban, Quirrell knelt on the floor, trembling uncontrollably. On the back of his head, Voldemort's fierce face contorted with rage, its voice booming as it vented its fury.

"Waste! You're pathetic! How could you be so blind to Dracula's defenses?" Voldemort seethed, his voice filled with venom. "You can't even see what he's doing to you!".

"If I hadn't noticed the mark he left on your shoulder in time, would you have been stupid enough to run toward the restricted area on the fourth floor?!"

"Master... Master, I really didn't notice anything unusual about me..." Quirrell said weakly, his voice barely audible.

"Even if you didn't notice it, Dracula patted you on the shoulder in an unusual way—didn't that raise any suspicions?" Voldemort hissed, his anger bubbling over. "Your performance is full of mistakes. Now, even Dumbledore has noticed something's wrong with you!"

"Damn it, why do I have to possess you, and not Severus?!" Voldemort's rage peaked, and he cursed Quirrell in frustration, blaming him for his failures.

At that moment, Voldemort's hatred for Quirrell burned brighter than his disdain for Snape. But despite his fury, he knew he couldn't reveal his true identity to Snape, the former loyal Death Eater.

On the one hand, Voldemort was too weak in his current form to possess Quirrell effectively. His appearance in front of his former subordinate would only humiliate him, and it could undermine his authority, possibly even leading to rebellion among his followers.

On the other hand, Voldemort hadn't been able to regain full strength for eleven long years, and in that time, Snape had earned Dumbledore's trust. Voldemort could no longer be sure of Snape's loyalty, and the thought of exposing himself to Snape now filled him with dread.

"I can't stay with Quirrell much longer," Voldemort muttered darkly to himself. "Besides, his life force is too weak. I need to find another way out!"

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