Chapter 7 — Blood Hotpot
While the professors were chatting and laughing among themselves, a gaunt wizard strode over with a manner that seemed to acknowledge no one.
His hair was greasy, his skin sallow, and he had a prominent hooked nose. A long black robe flowed behind him as he walked.
Even Dracula, so familiar with the presence of bats, almost mistook him for a giant bat at first glance.
"Ah, Severus, you've finally arrived," Dumbledore said cheerfully upon seeing him, then introduced him to Dracula. "Professor Dracula, this is Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin House."
"Severus, this is Professor Dracula, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
At the mention of "Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Snape's eyes darkened slightly.
He then lifted his deep black eyes to look at Dracula.
"Professor Dracula, is that correct?" he said with a forced smile that didn't reach his eyes, each word seeming to be squeezed out through his teeth. "Before the term begins, I think it necessary to remind you… Defense Against the Dark Arts is an extremely dangerous subject. I hope your abilities will prove sufficient."
Dracula sensed the malice behind Snape's words. His eyelids lifted slightly, meeting Snape's gaze directly.
Two hostile gazes clashed, as if sparks of invisible fire had ignited between them.
Dracula's wine-red eyes twitched ever so slightly, while Snape's deep black eyes suddenly constricted!
Snape took two steps back, his face paling.
At that moment, Professor McGonagall stepped forward, positioning herself between them to diffuse the tension.
"Severus, control your temper!" she snapped, glaring sharply at him.
Snape took the cue to avert his gaze, his expression now one of hesitant uncertainty.
The other professors were taken aback by the scene.
No matter how notorious the Head of Slytherin's reputation, they all acknowledged his strength. After all, not just anyone could become the right-hand man of a Dark Lord purely through raw skill.
Yet this expert in Defense Against the Dark Arts and master of Legilimency had been subtly bested in a mental clash with Dracula in an instant!
Ignoring the stunned professors, the diligent Deputy Headmistress McGonagall reacted first, leading Dracula into the Great Hall.
"Professor Dracula, don't mind Severus," she said. "He's always wanted to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor himself, but Albus never approved him. Therefore, he doesn't show a pleasant face to anyone who succeeds in obtaining the position."
Dracula raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the bat-like figure.
"Didn't expect this position to be so in demand," he said with a light chuckle.
McGonagall guided Dracula to a seat at the head table in the Great Hall, assigning him a spot far from Snape, to prevent further conflict… or perhaps to spare Snape, who had just lost face, from embarrassment.
"Since everyone is here, let's begin our meal!" Dumbledore said, his face beaming as he tapped a plate.
At his command, an array of sumptuous dishes appeared on the golden plates before them.
Dracula glanced disinterestedly at his own plate, then raised his eyebrows in surprise and turned to look at the center of the professors' table.
"I heard that the duck blood soup and blood sausages from Poland are quite tasty, and the dish 'Spicy Blood Curd Stew' is particularly distinctive, so I instructed the house-elves to include them in the menu!" Dumbledore winked at him.
After lunch, Dracula returned to his office as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and once again encountered Quirinus Quirrell.
"So… you're sure you want to be my teaching assistant?" Dracula asked, pouring himself a large glass of cold water and drinking it in one gulp.
Quirrell's expression was hesitant, but in the end, he nodded.
"Y-yes… I'm sure," he stammered.
In truth, for Quirrell—or rather, for Voldemort—this decision wasn't particularly difficult.
On one hand was his obsession with becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, his dwindling shred of dignity; on the other was the chance to get close to the Philosopher's Stone, a hope for resurrection…
So Voldemort decisively discarded his dignity.
As the saying goes, what good is dignity? Can it be eaten?
And for Voldemort, what is dignity? Can it grant him greater power? Can it save him from death?
Clearly, it could not.
As a "survivor king" who had endured eleven years in the forests of Albania, Voldemort even went so far as to parasitize small animals to siphon life energy.
It wasn't until Quirrell arrived that he finally regained some ability to act.
Moreover, upon first meeting Dracula, Voldemort immediately sensed the intense dark power radiating from him—a force that felt extremely dangerous.
This was why he had ordered Quirrell not to act and to retreat immediately.
After Quirrell's failed escape, Voldemort took over his body and, using his self-created dark magic, barely evaded Dracula's interception.
During that time, he gained a deeper understanding of Dracula's strength.
Thus, Voldemort had long abandoned any hope of seizing the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship and had already begun plotting other plans.
Dumbledore's letter offering Quirrell the teaching assistant position, however, arrived like timely rain, reigniting Voldemort's plan to steal the Philosopher's Stone at Hogwarts.
"Very well, but I have a few conditions," Dracula said coldly, taking another large gulp of water as he looked at the timid Quirrell.
"First, from now on, grading assignments, writing lesson plans, and organizing exams will all be your responsibility. I have no interest in doing such tedious work."
"O-okay… n-no problem," Quirrell stammered, startled by the bluntness.
"Second, if there's ever a day I'm too lazy to teach, you will take over my classes."
Quirrell nodded again.
"As for the last condition…" Dracula set down his glass, his face darkening suddenly. "Finally, you will remove that disgusting garlic smell from yourself!"
Dracula felt nauseated by the occasional garlic scent emanating from Quirrell.
It wasn't just because vampires naturally detest garlic—it was also because the smell reminded him of the Spicy Blood Curd Stew he had just eaten.
He truly couldn't understand what Dumbledore had been thinking, serving a cold, ominous vampire a spicy, fiery hotpot! Yet, out of curiosity, Dracula had actually taken a few bites.
Now, he felt as if he had just basked in a warm, sunlit afternoon—a sensation that was… difficult to describe in words.