Our esteemed old wizard, Dumbledore, had a habit.
On nights when the weather was too hot or too cold—just uncomfortable enough to keep him from falling asleep—the white-bearded headmaster liked to visit the kitchen for a steaming cup of hot cocoa.
The smooth, sweet taste helped him relax his mind, forget the tedious affairs he had to handle every day, and, most importantly, take a break from cleaning up after that idiot Fudge, who always managed to leave a mess behind him.
The night the rogue Bludger went wild, Dumbledore once again shook his tall, nearly two-meter frame and wandered down to fetch his usual hot cocoa.
And in front of the kitchen, he ran into someone.
This young wizard—or rather, young vampire—had strikingly handsome features, a black eyepatch covering his left eye, while his right eye glowed red under the silver-white moonlight, giving him an eerie, otherworldly charm.
"Nolan," Dumbledore greeted, his voice warm as he smiled. "I know vampires are nocturnal by nature. The blood in your veins makes you more active at night, sharpening your mind and every muscle in your body far beyond what they are during the day—but that's still not an excuse to wander the castle after hours."
Nolan let out a short laugh, rolling his eye. "Oh, come on, Dumbledore. Just tonight alone, I caught at least eight students sneaking around. Two of them were couples—so devoted to producing future little wizards for your world. Another two? The Weasley twins. Those troublemakers weren't happy about losing the match, so they decided on a brilliant plan—making sure Filch wasn't happy either."
"Oh, that is unfortunate to hear," Dumbledore said, winking playfully before draping an arm over Nolan's shoulder, guiding him forward. "I've always believed that only with a good night's rest can one truly enjoy the day ahead, full of energy and joy."
"That's probably because you're old, Dumbledore," Nolan replied bluntly. "Old people always fuss over their sleep quality. If someone ever asked me for advice on how to sleep so soundly, I'd tell them to stop being a wizard and become a vampire instead. The comfort and peace of a coffin? You humans will never understand."
When they arrived at the kitchen, the house-elves eagerly served them a late-night snack.
Dumbledore chuckled as he enjoyed his honey-drizzled shortbread cookies, along with a cup of cocoa sweetened with maple syrup.
"Why don't you ever get fat, Dumbledore?" Nolan mocked, pulling out a small vial from his pocket and pouring its contents into a glass of tomato juice.
"Ah, old men have their tricks—whether it's handling mischievous young wizards or maintaining their refined figures," Dumbledore said with a lighthearted chuckle before eyeing the liquid Nolan had just added to his drink. "And what is that?"
"O-type virgin blood. My favorite. Courtesy of Miss Greengrass," Nolan said nonchalantly.
"Astoria Greengrass?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with curiosity. "Your new girlfriend, perhaps? Does she know your true nature?"
"New girlfriend? Oh, of course not." Nolan swirled the glass in his hand, his ruby-red eye reflecting the crimson liquid inside. "The girl seems quite interested in me, but she's far too young. As for the blood—she must've heard somewhere that I need it, so every morning, she secretly slips me some. Maybe she thinks I'm conducting some grand magical experiment."
Last year, nearly all of Nolan's required blood came from Eve.
But this year, Eve had, unfortunately, fallen victim to Nolan's seduction and lost her virgin status, making her blood far less appetizing—a realization that had dealt her quite a blow.
She had complained more than once that if only she had resisted a little longer, she could have continued feeding Nolan.
What exactly was going on in that little witch's mind? Who knew? Nolan certainly didn't.
After all, even vampires weren't omniscient.
As Dumbledore ate, Nolan sat there, lazily watching the house-elves bustling around the kitchen.
"You seem interested in them," Dumbledore observed. "I thought vampires didn't require the service of house-elves."
"You're right. We only accept servitude from creatures of the dark, and house-elves, with their natural-born servility, are too lowly for our taste. Not as repulsive as werewolves, of course, but certainly not likable either. My interest in them," Nolan said, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table, "is because I suspect one of them."
Nolan tossed something onto the table.
Dumbledore, intrigued, leaned in to examine it closely, his hooked nose nearly touching the object. After a moment, he looked up.
"A piece of the rogue Bludger? From the match today?"
"There are magical traces on it," Nolan said coldly. "And if you look closely, you'll see—it wasn't a wizard's magic. It was house-elf magic."
A deep frown formed on Dumbledore's face, and his voice carried a hint of sorrow. "Oh, Nolan…"
"Don't try to convince me to care. I don't hate wizards for no reason, but I despise their so-called nobility and arrogance. Now, let's talk about the real issue—the house-elf. That creature hurt Eve, and you know how I feel about that, Dumbledore. Eve is my companion for the long centuries ahead. She will bear the next generation of the Von Draugr family. I won't allow her to be harmed at Hogwarts."
"Though I'd argue that getting injured in a Quidditch match isn't all that serious…" Dumbledore let out a small sigh, shaking his head. "Nolan, you should try to relax a little."
"I refuse." Nolan downed the tomato juice in one gulp and stood up. "We should get going, Headmaster."
The return journey was filled with silence. Dumbledore, too, seemed deep in thought about the matter of the house-elf.
As they reached the second-floor corridor, they stumbled upon something unusual.
A young wizard stood frozen in place, clad in Gryffindor robes, clutching a Muggle camera in his hands.
Nolan walked up and prodded the boy's stiff body with his wand. The surface was rock-hard. He let out a low chuckle before turning to Dumbledore.
"Well, well… Looks like we've just found the second victim. Isn't this interesting?"
"That would be… young Mr. Creevey," Dumbledore murmured.
"That's right." Nolan glanced around the hallway. "This corridor leads to the hospital wing. My guess? Our little journalist here was on his way to interview the 'heroic' Harry Potter—but unfortunately, he didn't get the chance. This petrification magic… it's quite fascinating, don't you think, Professor Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore, ever perceptive, commented, "It doesn't seem like magic. Nor does it seem like a potion's effect."
"Precisely. To me, this petrification looks more like a side effect… A mere byproduct of something else." Nolan tilted his head thoughtfully before reaching into his coat, pulling out a gleaming silver knife. He smiled faintly.
"Dumbledore, if you'll allow me to slice off his arm—no, just his hand—and take it back for study, I could give you a much clearer answer."
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