Dracula cleared his throat, the sound sharp enough to cut through the lingering awkwardness in the damp lavatory. "Myrtle," he began, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "I have a few questions for you. I expect you to answer them truthfully."
"Of course! Anything you ask!" Myrtle practically vibrated with excitement, her ghostly form shimmering. For the first time in decades, she felt important.
Dracula paused, his crimson eyes fixed on her. "Around nine o'clock this morning, did you happen to see a man wearing a purple turban come through here?"
"No," she stammered, then her expression turned indignant. "I… I saw a handsome boy this morning. Terribly handsome. He was headed towards the Prefects' Bathroom, so naturally, I followed him. But I waited and waited, and he never showed up! The nerve! He must have tricked me!"
Dracula and Dumbledore exchanged a look of weary disbelief. This ghost was certainly one of a kind.
Helena, however, looked scandalized. "Myrtle Warren!" she snapped, her voice echoing with the stern authority of her mother. "How could a Ravenclaw student be so… undignified! To spy on boys bathing! It's no wonder you lose your wits at the mere sight of my uncle!"
Myrtle shrank under her gaze and lowered her head, not daring to speak. Dumbledore, on the other hand, seemed thoroughly intrigued.
"And how handsome was this boy, Myrtle?" he asked with a good-natured chuckle. "Handsome enough to make you lie in wait for him? As a point of reference, was he as handsome as our Professor Dracula here?"
Myrtle glanced at Dracula, blushed a pearly white, and then quickly looked away, giving a frantic little nod-shake of her head.
"Well... what does that mean, exactly?" Dumbledore asked, puzzled.
"It's just... they're both so handsome," Myrtle whispered cautiously. "It's impossible to say who is more so."
Her answer, however, made Dumbledore frown. "Are there any prefects or Quidditch captains at Hogwarts currently who could rival the professor's appearance?" he mused, looking at Dracula.
"Rule out Percy Weasley," Dracula said flatly, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes at the memory of the pompous, red-haired boy who had tried to get his favorite source of amusement expelled.
"Percy is considered quite handsome, and Oliver Wood isn't bad," Dumbledore countered thoughtfully. "But they don't quite have that... quality." He turned to Helena. "What about Robert Hilliard from your house? He's one of the more striking prefects."
"Hilliard is a pleasant-looking boy," Helena said dismissively, "but he is a flickering candle next to the star that is my uncle."
"Then this is very strange indeed," Dumbledore murmured, stroking his long beard as he fell into thought.
Dracula surveyed the scene—two powerful wizards and two ancient ghosts, standing in a derelict girls' bathroom, seriously debating the relative attractiveness of teenage boys. The absurdity of it was almost impressive.
"Enough of this speculation," he cut in, his voice sharp with impatience. "Myrtle saw him. Let's get a description." He fixed his gaze on the ghost. "Myrtle, what did this student look like? Be specific."
"Let me think..." Myrtle murmured, cupping her chin. Her eyes took on a dreamy, distant look. "His hair was black... and his eyes, too. A deep, pure black, like polished jet. His skin was so pale... and he had this... this aura about him." She paused, a strange, happy sigh escaping her. "Ah, yes," she said softly. "That's what it was. A wonderfully wicked aura. I adored it."
As she spoke, Dumbledore's cheerful demeanor vanished, replaced by a profound gravity. Helena went rigid, a look of dawning horror twisting her delicate features.
"What is it?" Dracula asked, his interest piqued by their sudden change in demeanor.
"Tom Riddle."
Dumbledore and Helena spoke the name in unison, their voices filled with a chilling finality.
"Tom Riddle?" Dracula echoed, a slow smile spreading across his face. He leaned back against the central stone basin, folding his arms. The game had just become interesting. "I don't believe I've heard the name. It seems he has a history with both of you."
Helena turned her head to look at Dumbledore. Seeing that the Headmaster remained silent, she closed her eyes, as if bracing herself against a painful memory. "Tom Riddle," she whispered, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles shone. "He... he tricked me. He stole my mother's diadem from me."
Her voice was filled with shame. "I still remember... he was so charming. So handsome. He seemed to understand my pain, to sympathize with my ambition..."
"And so you told him where to find Rowena's diadem?" Dracula's voice was low, laced with reproach.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Dracula..." Helena mumbled, looking down.
"He will not keep it," Dracula interrupted, his voice dangerously soft. A slow, sinister smile spread across his face, making both ghosts shiver. "Rowena's legacy will not be tarnished by some common little thief. Tom Riddle, you say? He had better hope I never find him."
He reined in his expression, his face becoming a cool mask once more. "Helena, where is the diadem now?"
"After I fled Hogwarts, I hid it within a hollow tree in a forest in Albania," she said, her voice filled with gloom. "But he will have taken it by now. It won't be there anymore."
Dracula nodded slowly, then turned his gaze to Dumbledore. "And you, Headmaster? Did this Tom Riddle trick you as well?"
"Tom did not trick me," Dumbledore said, his voice heavy with the weight of history. "But he tricked nearly everyone else at Hogwarts." He paused, letting the silence stretch, the air growing thick with unspoken dread.
"Because Tom Riddle is known by another name now."
"Lord Voldemort."
***
(End of Chapter)
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