"Reunion" - Dracula fan fiction
This is a sequel to Heredity, written very belatedly for of-carabas.
Professor Harker’s office stood at the top of a long, spiraling flight of stairs. His colleagues and students often jokingly referred to it as ‘the tower’, and to Professor Harker as the medieval lord presiding over the college. It was true that he did have a distant formality to his demeanor, a polite, aristocratic remove. Some of the students attributed it to his age - he had been born in a different time, when Queen Victoria still ruled and horse-drawn carriages still filled the streets, and perhaps it was natural that his manners should be correspondingly exotic. But others told fanciful stories about his origins, speculating that he was from a decaying line of lords like those in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. Some dissented, arguing that was no famous family by the name of Harker, but the rumor-mongers suggested that perhaps he had changed his name for the sake of anonymity, or following some spectacular scandal. He was a private man, though very kind to his students, and it was difficult to draw him out into any conversations about his personal life.
The rumors which came from the other professors, who one would think might have more accurate information, were even more fanciful than those the students concocted. One young professor of history claimed that Professor Harker was an orphan, adopted in his youth by a lonely and childless nobleman who paid for his education. Another, an elderly professor of Slavic languages, said after a good many glasses of sherry that Professor Harker was the product of a strange and isolated childhood in a Transylvanian castle. But, of course, few credited this as truth.
Whoever he was and wherever he had come from, this night Professor Harker worked alone in high office. He had been grading papers for several hours. Finishing his comments on one, he yawned, rubbing his temples. He really could not keep working such late nights - he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and it was time to start attending to his health. But he had great difficulty putting down a project before he had finished it. And even such a mundane task as grading papers engrossed him. He cared about his students.
Outside, the wind groaned.
He shivered. The night was cold, for September. He picked up the next paper.
A voice, low and familiar, in the sinuous Romanian of his childhood. Quincey, will you invite me in?
He nearly dropped his pen. He did not. Instead he placed it down, slowly and carefully. He was imagining this. He was certain of it.
But, though it had been nearly fifty years, he could not refuse that voice.
Yes, he said in his mind, I will.
At once the room was filled with mist. Quincey was not sure he could breathe. Too quickly for him to see clearly, the mist cleared, and a tall, thin man stood before his desk. His pale face was smooth and unlined, his dark hair untouched by gray. His clothing was neatly cut and suited to the time, though his bearing was not.
The years, of course, had left no mark upon him. Quincey had known, if he ever saw Count Dracula again, this would be the case, but somehow, as the years went on and Quincey had seen the effect of age upon his own body, Dracula’s immortality had become more and more abstract. As they were now, Quincey could appear to be Dracula’s father.
He did not know what to say.
“Good evening, Quincey,” Dracula said courteously.
“Why have you come here?” Quincey felt suddenly afraid. He had not felt able to refuse entrance to the man he still thought of as his father, but it had been a foolish, reckless thing to do. Dracula was not human; he did not experience human feelings. Quincey knew this, and had, in the many years since he ran from his adopted father’s house, learned how human men treated one another, and how different such treatment was from the way Dracula treated those under his dominion. Just before Quincey ran away, Dracula had threatened to kill him. He could easily do so now.
The Count must have noticed his fear. “I will not harm you; what purpose could that serve me after fifty years? I came out of simple curiosity, nothing more. I was in England for the first time since your birth, and I wondered what you had made of yourself.”
What could he tell him? This was the man he had once wanted more than anything else to impress, to please. In the early days of his studies, he had longed constantly to tell his father about the things he learned. He imagined that Dracula would be proud. But he had grown out of that, with time. He had found other, safer mentors. What did he have left to say?
But he felt weak in front of Dracula, young, a child again.
“Where is my mother?” he asked. To his own ears, his voiced sounded small.
“At home. She is well.”
“Did you tell her that you were coming here? Did she want to see me?” He was trying so hard not to start weeping, not to beg his father to forgive him and take him home again. He felt disgusted at the sound of his own voice. This was not who he was; this is not who he had been for fifty years. He tried to remember the self that he knew, the self who gave lectures and wrote monographs and was solid in the world. He was closer now to the end of his life than the beginning; it was absurd that he should feel now like a young boy.
Dracula’s voice was calm and even. “I did not tell her. She does not think of such things any longer, Quincey; with your departure she renounced the last remnant of her human life. She has not spoken your name in many years.”
He was going to weep. He pushed the papers he was grading aside so that he would not crumple or stain them.
But Dracula continued, in that same steady voice. “I have decided,” he said, “to ask you if you would like to become one of my kind. You have distinguished yourself in your mortal life with your tenacity and intellect. You, alone of all mortals, were raised by me, and learned much of my ideologies from your youth. I could change you now, and return to you your former you. I would permit you to return to my home, become part of my family again.”
Faust rang in Quincey’s head. He wished he could remember the precise quote in German. He was trying not to think about his mother, or about Ecaterina, Ileana, Adriana, who had raised him as much as she had. He was trying not to think about the man who stood before him now, the man who had once been his father, though not by blood.
Though, if he accepted this offer now, blood would bind them.
Quincey had no family now. Lord Arthur Godalming, his mother’s dear friend, who had given him support and shelter and kindness when he ran away from Count Dracula, had died some years before. Although Quincey’s life had been filled with many deeply cared for lovers, he had married none of them, and he had never had children.
If he took Dracula’s offer, he could start his life again. He could have his family back, the family he had been forced to give up as an adolescent.
“Do not decide now,” Dracula said, “Consider the question. I will return in three nights.”
He vanished, mist curling in his wake.
Quincey looked at the student paper he had been grading.
No, he decided in that moment, against his father’s injunction.
“No,” he said aloud, certain that Dracula would hear him, “do not return.”
He could not accept. He was human. He was Jonathan Harker’s son.
He would get no more work done that night. Ruefully, he turned out the light and went to his small kitchen to make himself a cup of cocoa. In the morning, he would wonder whether he had imagined it entirely.
Professor Harker’s office stood at the top of a long, spiraling flight of stairs. His colleagues and students often jokingly referred to it as ‘the tower’, and to Professor Harker as the medieval lord presiding over the college. It was true that he did have a distant formality to his demeanor, a polite, aristocratic remove. Some of the students attributed it to his age - he had been born in a different time, when Queen Victoria still ruled and horse-drawn carriages still filled the streets, and perhaps it was natural that his manners should be correspondingly exotic. But others told fanciful stories about his origins, speculating that he was from a decaying line of lords like those in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. Some dissented, arguing that was no famous family by the name of Harker, but the rumor-mongers suggested that perhaps he had changed his name for the sake of anonymity, or following some spectacular scandal. He was a private man, though very kind to his students, and it was difficult to draw him out into any conversations about his personal life.
The rumors which came from the other professors, who one would think might have more accurate information, were even more fanciful than those the students concocted. One young professor of history claimed that Professor Harker was an orphan, adopted in his youth by a lonely and childless nobleman who paid for his education. Another, an elderly professor of Slavic languages, said after a good many glasses of sherry that Professor Harker was the product of a strange and isolated childhood in a Transylvanian castle. But, of course, few credited this as truth.
Whoever he was and wherever he had come from, this night Professor Harker worked alone in high office. He had been grading papers for several hours. Finishing his comments on one, he yawned, rubbing his temples. He really could not keep working such late nights - he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and it was time to start attending to his health. But he had great difficulty putting down a project before he had finished it. And even such a mundane task as grading papers engrossed him. He cared about his students.
Outside, the wind groaned.
He shivered. The night was cold, for September. He picked up the next paper.
A voice, low and familiar, in the sinuous Romanian of his childhood. Quincey, will you invite me in?
He nearly dropped his pen. He did not. Instead he placed it down, slowly and carefully. He was imagining this. He was certain of it.
But, though it had been nearly fifty years, he could not refuse that voice.
Yes, he said in his mind, I will.
At once the room was filled with mist. Quincey was not sure he could breathe. Too quickly for him to see clearly, the mist cleared, and a tall, thin man stood before his desk. His pale face was smooth and unlined, his dark hair untouched by gray. His clothing was neatly cut and suited to the time, though his bearing was not.
The years, of course, had left no mark upon him. Quincey had known, if he ever saw Count Dracula again, this would be the case, but somehow, as the years went on and Quincey had seen the effect of age upon his own body, Dracula’s immortality had become more and more abstract. As they were now, Quincey could appear to be Dracula’s father.
He did not know what to say.
“Good evening, Quincey,” Dracula said courteously.
“Why have you come here?” Quincey felt suddenly afraid. He had not felt able to refuse entrance to the man he still thought of as his father, but it had been a foolish, reckless thing to do. Dracula was not human; he did not experience human feelings. Quincey knew this, and had, in the many years since he ran from his adopted father’s house, learned how human men treated one another, and how different such treatment was from the way Dracula treated those under his dominion. Just before Quincey ran away, Dracula had threatened to kill him. He could easily do so now.
The Count must have noticed his fear. “I will not harm you; what purpose could that serve me after fifty years? I came out of simple curiosity, nothing more. I was in England for the first time since your birth, and I wondered what you had made of yourself.”
What could he tell him? This was the man he had once wanted more than anything else to impress, to please. In the early days of his studies, he had longed constantly to tell his father about the things he learned. He imagined that Dracula would be proud. But he had grown out of that, with time. He had found other, safer mentors. What did he have left to say?
But he felt weak in front of Dracula, young, a child again.
“Where is my mother?” he asked. To his own ears, his voiced sounded small.
“At home. She is well.”
“Did you tell her that you were coming here? Did she want to see me?” He was trying so hard not to start weeping, not to beg his father to forgive him and take him home again. He felt disgusted at the sound of his own voice. This was not who he was; this is not who he had been for fifty years. He tried to remember the self that he knew, the self who gave lectures and wrote monographs and was solid in the world. He was closer now to the end of his life than the beginning; it was absurd that he should feel now like a young boy.
Dracula’s voice was calm and even. “I did not tell her. She does not think of such things any longer, Quincey; with your departure she renounced the last remnant of her human life. She has not spoken your name in many years.”
He was going to weep. He pushed the papers he was grading aside so that he would not crumple or stain them.
But Dracula continued, in that same steady voice. “I have decided,” he said, “to ask you if you would like to become one of my kind. You have distinguished yourself in your mortal life with your tenacity and intellect. You, alone of all mortals, were raised by me, and learned much of my ideologies from your youth. I could change you now, and return to you your former you. I would permit you to return to my home, become part of my family again.”
Faust rang in Quincey’s head. He wished he could remember the precise quote in German. He was trying not to think about his mother, or about Ecaterina, Ileana, Adriana, who had raised him as much as she had. He was trying not to think about the man who stood before him now, the man who had once been his father, though not by blood.
Though, if he accepted this offer now, blood would bind them.
Quincey had no family now. Lord Arthur Godalming, his mother’s dear friend, who had given him support and shelter and kindness when he ran away from Count Dracula, had died some years before. Although Quincey’s life had been filled with many deeply cared for lovers, he had married none of them, and he had never had children.
If he took Dracula’s offer, he could start his life again. He could have his family back, the family he had been forced to give up as an adolescent.
“Do not decide now,” Dracula said, “Consider the question. I will return in three nights.”
He vanished, mist curling in his wake.
Quincey looked at the student paper he had been grading.
No, he decided in that moment, against his father’s injunction.
“No,” he said aloud, certain that Dracula would hear him, “do not return.”
He could not accept. He was human. He was Jonathan Harker’s son.
He would get no more work done that night. Ruefully, he turned out the light and went to his small kitchen to make himself a cup of cocoa. In the morning, he would wonder whether he had imagined it entirely.