Chapter 16 — Waiting for Godot
"Tell me, what is it you want to do?" Dracula stared intensely into Nicolas Flamel's eyes. "I don't think seducing a mere little Voldemort really requires using the real Philosopher's Stone."
Dracula truly had no interest in the Stone; even if it were thrown in front of him, he wouldn't bother picking it up.
But if this one and only Philosopher's Stone in the world were under threat, he would throw himself into its defense without hesitation. Because it was Nicolas's lifeline!
"Relax. Albus will definitely be able to protect the Stone for me," Nicolas said with a smile. "Hand it over to him, and I have absolutely no worries."
"Moreover, I've prepared plenty of Elixirs of Life. Even if the Stone were to encounter an accident, I would have more than enough time to handle whatever needs handling."
Hearing this, Dracula furrowed his brows deeply.
"Don't you trust Dumbledore? Then why prepare extra Elixirs of Life?" he asked.
Flamel's words faltered. His gaze avoided Dracula's scrutiny as he pretended to admire the stage, directing his eyes toward it instead.
Dracula followed his gaze to the spacious stage of the opera house.
The stage was sparsely set, depicting only a country road and a single tree, bathed in the dim light of twilight.
Under the tree, two old vagrants stood bored, their expressions vacant, seemingly without any interest in life. One of them removed his belt, hanging it on a branch, preparing to hang himself.
"So… in truth, you've already made peace with the idea that you might never get the Stone back?" Dracula asked quietly, watching the two old men attempt suicide out of sheer boredom.
Nicolas let out a soft sigh.
"As long as the Stone exists in this world, it will always be coveted. This time it's Voldemort, with Albus opposing him—but who knows what stronger evils may appear next? And then, will there still be someone like Albus to protect the Stone?"
"Brad," he continued, "you should understand how I feel. A long life can be unbearably dull. And I am truly old. Just like this play—it reminds us that life itself is an endless, hopeless wait. The world is absurd, and humanity suffers."
Dracula's words of consolation stuck in his throat. He understood the monotony and torment of immortality, or else he would not have devoted his life to the pursuit of amusement.
"If you and Perennial were gone, I would have no friends left in this world," Dracula said slowly after a long silence.
"You will have better friends," Nicolas smiled. "I do not possess the innate advantages of vampires. My muscles, my limbs, they are long past their prime. Besides, I have lived long enough. What should be done, has been done. What should not, has been avoided. I have no real regrets."
Dracula remained silent, absentmindedly watching the two old men on stage perform their ridiculous antics.
The vagrant who had just hung his belt over the branch now placed his neck in it. But the worn-out belt was too fragile to support his weight—it snapped with a loud crack.
The old man failed to die.
The audience below responded with laughter at the timely mishap.
Seeing this, Dracula let out a soft chuckle.
"Old fellow, wanting to die is not so easy." He turned toward Nicolas. "If I say I'm willing to help you protect the Stone, then at least half of your earlier excuses are now invalid!"
"As for living a life devoid of interest, there's no need to worry. A few years from now, the wizarding world will undoubtedly descend into chaos. Interesting people and events will be everywhere."
Dracula recalled the visions he had seen in the Erised Mirror, and a subtle smile curved his lips.
"Besides, don't you really want to see the 21st century—the world a thousand years ahead?"
Nicolas stared at him in surprise, then smiled.
"Today's play is truly fitting," he said, laughing joyfully as the wrinkles on his face relaxed.
On stage, the vagrants picked up their trousers.
"Shall we go?" one asked.
"Let's go," replied the other.
The curtain slowly fell, and warm applause filled the hall.
Dracula and Nicolas joined in the clapping.
"What's the name of this play?" Dracula asked.
"Waiting for Godot," Nicolas answered. "Now that I think about it, if viewed from another perspective, life is not merely endless, hopeless waiting. It can be understood as—where there is hope, there remains the drive to move forward."
"Exactly. That black magic Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position you recommended to me is promising enough," Dracula said with a light laugh.
"Well, aren't you going to return to Hogwarts and properly attend to your duties, Professor Dracula?" Nicolas teased.
Dracula nodded slightly, transforming into a dark moon, fading away into the air as the shadows of a flock of bats passed.
...
The next moment, Dracula appeared perched on the windowsill of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
He leaned casually against the edge, sitting on the sill. A gentle breeze stirred, fluttering his black-and-red cloak and silver hair.
At that moment, Professor Quirrell was still stammering through the lesson.
Some of the young witches and wizards were dozing off, some were distractedly playing little games, while a few clever ones were scheming ways to prank Quirrell.
Only Hermione Granger remained focused, taking notes diligently.
Ron was already lying face down on the desk, half-asleep. Harry's gaze wandered idly, drifting over the classroom and the scenery outside the window.
At that moment, his eyes caught the silver-haired figure perched casually on the sill.
"Professor Dracula!" Harry called out in surprise and delight.
The other students, hearing Harry, suddenly became alert, lifting their heads toward the window.
Dracula smiled faintly, waving at Harry before approaching Quirrell at the podium.
"Pr-Professor Dracula, you… you came back… just like that?" Quirrell stammered nervously.
"I just wanted to see how your lesson was going," Dracula said. "But I truly didn't expect you to run the class like this. Wasn't your lesson plan written quite well?"
Quirrell trembled, fumbling for words without managing a single coherent sentence.
"Forget it," Dracula said, shaking his head in resignation, then casually tossed Quirrell out of the classroom. "Go clean your troll. Make sure it has no remaining odor, then deliver it to Dumbledore to place under the checkpoint."
After issuing Quirrell's task, Dracula adjusted his smile and spoke to the students.
"Class, having Quirrell substitute was my apology to you," he said. "Next, I will give you a proper Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson!"
...