Dark Deals: The Vampire Who Owns Hogwarts

Quirrell closed his eyes tightly, bracing himself as though about to face his doom. With a sudden tug, he yanked off the purple turban and tossed it to the ground.

His bare head, bald and shiny, was revealed to the stunned professors. It looked oddly small, smooth, and completely devoid of hair.

Dracula, sitting leisurely nearby, wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Stop playing around," he commanded sharply. "Turn around."

Quirrell hesitated but obeyed, slowly rotating to expose the back of his head.

What the professors saw left them horrified.

Professor Sprout gasped and slapped her hands over her eyes so hard that a red mark immediately appeared on her forehead. Snape's sharp features contorted into an unrecognizable grimace, his usual composure shattered. Professor Flitwick, mid-snack, spat out everything in his mouth and nearly toppled off his chair.

Dracula, however, didn't waste words. With a flick of his hand, he slapped Quirrell's head from afar, sending him spinning like a top. Quirrell stumbled, tripped, and fell backward with a heavy crash, embedding the back of his head into the floor of the professor's lounge.

And there, for everyone to see, was the horrifying reason for their revulsion.

Three jagged scars ran across the back of Quirrell's head, forming the grotesque semblance of a human face. Two deep slashes for eyes, one for a mouth, all combined to create an unsettling, shadowy visage.

The sight was so disturbing that many professors lost their appetite for days.

---

Although reluctant to believe it, Professor McGonagall, as the fair and impartial Vice-Principal of Hogwarts, had no choice but to accept that beneath Quirrell's turban, no sinister secret was hiding—just the hideous scars.

Unfortunately, this revelation placed the professors in an awkward position. They now resembled a gang of merciless villains, cornering the trembling Quirrell and stripping away his final layer of dignity.

"Now... are you satisfied?" Quirrell's voice quivered as he lifted his head from the floor, tears welling in his eyes. "I... I only wear the turban to hide these ugly scars... I'm afraid the students... they'll laugh at me... If making fun of me brings you joy, then so be it."

Two middle-aged professors, McGonagall and Sprout, were visibly moved by Quirrell's pitiful words.

Professor Sprout dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, her voice thick with emotion. "Oh, poor Professor Quirrell... We've been so thoughtless, reopening old wounds."

"Quirinus," McGonagall added gently, her stern demeanor softening. "Rest assured, Hogwarts does not take pleasure in wronging anyone.

Quirrell offered a trembling smile, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you... "

He carefully extricated his head from the jagged floor tiles, cradling his turban like a lifeline. With his head bowed and shoulders slumped, he limped out of the lounge, the picture of a defeated man.

A heavy silence settled in the room, broken only by Snape's sharp, biting tone.

"Deans," he began icily, his dark eyes narrowing on McGonagall and Sprout, "because of your bleeding hearts, we've just lost our most significant lead."

McGonagall's lips thinned, her cheeks coloring with irritation. "Must you always be so insufferable, Severus?"

Snape's sneer deepened. "Forgive me, Minerva, if I prefer facts over misplaced sympathy. But I suppose that's too much to ask of some people."

Before McGonagall could retort, Flitwick quickly intervened, his high-pitched voice filled with urgency. "Now, now, let's not quarrel. Minerva and Pomona only acted out of fairness. Surely we can agree that Assistant Professor Quirrell deserves observation rather than condemnation."

Snape let out a low, contemptuous chuckle. "A woman's kindness," he repeated, his voice dripping with disdain.

With that, he swept his black cloak dramatically around him, striding out of the room like a shadowy apparition.

McGonagall's face turned red with fury. "That man is utterly insufferable!" she fumed. "One day, Severus Snape will learn exactly what it means when women 'hold up half the sky.'" She looked ready to march after him and deliver a lesson herself.

But before she could act, Sprout gently grabbed her arm, her tone calming. "Minerva, let it be. You know Severus. He's always like this—it's not worth it."

Though still bristling, McGonagall took a steadying breath and nodded reluctantly.

With the mood thoroughly soured, the professors began to drift away, their conversations muted and strained after the unpleasant exchange.

Yet Dracula lingered, his expression contemplative.

He strolled to the hole in the floor where Quirrell had been moments before, his sharp eyes landing on the forgotten purple turban. He bent down, picking it up carefully, and brought it to his face.

A faint scent of cheap perfume clung to the fabric—so faint that only a vampire's heightened senses could easily detect it.

Dracula turned the turban over in his hands, his crimson eyes narrowing. He hadn't given much thought to it before, but now the realization dawned: it had been a while since he smelled the overpowering perfume from Quirrel. That change, subtle as it was, likely played a role in the professors' softened attitudes today.

If Quirrell had entered the lounge reeking of that obnoxious perfume—or worse, the unholy stench of troll—it wouldn't have mattered how pitiful he looked. McGonagall and Sprout would likely have thrown him out on principle.

Dracula's mind began piecing together the pattern.

From the first time he'd encountered Quirrell, the man had been masking something. The pungent garlic he wore at the start—a laughable attempt to repel a vampire—had quickly been discarded at Dracula's command. That was followed by the revolting odor of unwashed troll socks and a heavy air of dampness, like a dungeon. Few could endure such smells, yet Quirrell had lived with them as if it were second nature.

Eventually, the troll stink was replaced with the overpowering perfume—a more socially acceptable tactic, which lasted nearly the entire semester.

But as Christmas approached and the school grew busier, Quirrell's attempts at masking his scent had quietly diminished. Around the time of Harry Potter's first Quidditch match, Dracula noted, that the perfume had faded, leaving behind something far more unsettling.

A darker, unnatural smell.

Reaching into his pocket, Dracula pulled out the Hogwarts title deed. He unfolded the magical artifact, its map-like surface glowing faintly as it revealed the castle's layout. His sharp eyes immediately found a small room shrouded in layers of protective enchantments. Even the title deed couldn't penetrate its defenses.

Quirrell's office.

"Interesting," Dracula murmured, a sly smile curling his lips.

With a swirl of his dark cloak, he vanished from the lounge, leaving only a faint chill in his wake.

---

In Quirrell's office, the bald man knelt reverently, carefully placing a diary on the table before him with both hands.

"I've finally managed to clear myself of suspicion, Master!" he said, his voice trembling with both excitement and fear. "Rest assured, Master, I will secure the Philosopher's Stone for you!"

From the diary, the faint, shadowy image of a black-haired boy emerged, his presence eerie and commanding. He nodded slowly at Quirrell, a sinister smile spreading across his face.

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