Chapter 15 — The Joke
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On the morning of the second day of term, Harry finally welcomed the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class he had been looking forward to.
To avoid repeating the near-disaster of almost being late for Transfiguration on the first day, Harry dragged Ron out of bed early. The two of them crossed staircases that sometimes vanished without warning and arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom before anyone else.
"Harry, why did we come so early?" Ron complained, yawning as he slumped over the desk. "If you ask me, we should've slept a bit longer."
"Fred and George told me that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor usually lasts only one year," Ron continued. "So no matter what kind of person the professor is, we just have to endure it for a year and we'll be fine. There's no need to worry about them giving us trouble!"
"That's not the point, Ron!" Harry immediately argued. "I met Professor Dracula when I bought my wand at Ollivanders. He's really tall and handsome—and most importantly, he's not afraid of Voldemort. Professor Dracula must be an incredibly powerful wizard!"
Hearing the terrifying name "Voldemort," Ron shivered and instantly lost all traces of sleep.
"I can't believe it. Aside from you—the one who defeated You-Know-Who—there are actually other wizards who aren't afraid of him!" he said, eyes wide with shock.
While they were talking, another young wizard walked into the classroom carrying a huge stack of books.
She was a young witch with bushy brown hair and a pair of large front teeth, looking rather like an enlarged beaver.
"Harry Potter, Ron Weasley?" she said, sounding surprised to see them already there. "Why are you two here?"
"You mean it's impossible for us to arrive early, Granger?" Ron said stiffly, as if the idea of coming early had been his all along.
"Oh, that's not what I meant." Hermione set the tall pile of books onto the desk in the first row closest to the podium. "I was just… a little surprised. You know, you two were a bit late to the Transfiguration classroom yesterday."
Ron felt embarrassed and retorted stubbornly, "We were lost! Lost, okay?!"
Just then Harry tugged at him.
Ron looked up and saw a strange wizard entering the classroom. The man wore a purple turban and had a pale complexion. He walked to the front and stood behind the teacher's desk.
"This is the tall, handsome, powerful Professor Dracula you were talking about?" Ron muttered to Harry. "Why does he look like he's suffering from kidney failure?"
"I've seen this professor at the Leaky Cauldron too. He should be Professor Quirrell. Professor Dracula wouldn't look this… weak," Harry said.
Then he added in confusion, "But Professor Dracula was clearly at the opening feast the night before last. Why is Professor Quirrell the one teaching us?"
Ron stared at Quirrell for a moment before sniffing the air.
"Harry, do you smell that? There's a really strong—really fragrant smell coming from Professor Quirrell."
"I smell it too. I think I know what it is," Harry whispered. "It's perfume. My uncle sprays a ton of it on his face whenever he goes to meet clients. But the smell on Professor Quirrell is way stronger than that!"
"Why would anyone spray something this awful? I'm going to suffocate." Ron rolled his eyes and made a gagging expression.
He grabbed his books and quietly slipped to the back row with Harry. Only then did they feel slightly better.
"Maybe… men with weak kidneys need this kind of thing to boost their confidence?" Harry guessed after finally catching his breath.
"…."
As more students gradually entered the classroom, the Hogwarts clock tower chimed the melodious bell signaling the start of class.
Quirrell spread open his lesson plan and stammered nervously to the students:
"G-g-good morning, e-everyone. I'm P-Professor Q-Quirrell. T-today I'll be t-teaching your D-Defense Against the Dark Arts class."
Having endured the suffocating perfume smell for quite a while, Harry immediately raised his hand.
"M-Mr. P-Potter?" Quirrell looked at him.
"Professor Quirrell, I'd like to know why Professor Dracula isn't teaching us," Harry asked in one breath, then looked at him nervously.
Hearing Harry's question, the other young wizards in the classroom also looked at Quirrell with hopeful expressions.
The girls who were particularly fond of Professor Dracula's appearance—and the students sitting closer to the source of the overwhelming perfume—especially hoped he would come instead.
"P-Professor D-Dracula?" Quirrell froze for a moment before stammering an explanation. "A-after yesterday's t-teaching, h-he was v-very dissatisfied w-with Hogwarts' t-teaching standards. S-so he a-asked m-me to t-teach in his p-place for a f-few days."
A chorus of groans immediately filled the classroom.
Quirrell ignored the reaction and dutifully began his lesson.
Of course, his so-called teaching consisted of stumbling through the contents of the textbook and lesson plan, reading them word for word. From time to time he was startled by small movements from students below the podium.
It didn't even take a full class period before Quirrell became the laughingstock of the young wizards from both houses.
…
At that very moment, the man responsible for letting his teaching assistant become a joke—Dracula—was not at Hogwarts.
Paris. Inside the Palais Garnier Opera House.
All the audience members were watching the performance on stage with rapt attention, occasionally smiling knowingly.
The show had only just begun. Yet beside a white-haired old man, several audience members suddenly seemed to remember urgent matters and hurriedly left the theater.
No one present noticed that a phantom image of a dark moon, accompanied by several bats flying past, suddenly appeared in the empty seats they had left behind.
As the dark moon faded, a silver-haired figure lazily leaned against the back of a luxurious seat, legs crossed, appearing beside the old man.
"Oh, Dracula, those audience members paid to watch the show," the old man said, turning his head and giving the suddenly appeared vampire professor a reproachful look. "Why did you use a Muggle-Repelling Charm to drive them away?"
"What does it matter to me whether they paid or not? I'm not like you—developing a habit of watching opera after all these years," Dracula scoffed.
Then he straightened slightly in his seat.
"Old man, I came here to ask you something. Are you hiding something from me?"
"What kind of relationship do we have? Why would I hide anything from you?" Nicolas said innocently.
"You've even lent out the Philosopher's Stone you rely on to live, and you call that not hiding anything?!" Dracula couldn't help raising his voice.
Startled, Nicolas quickly cast a soundproofing charm around them, trapping Dracula's voice inside.
Then he looked at his friend of several hundred years and complained unhappily:
"Albus really is something… I can't believe he let you figure it out so quickly…"
…
…