Poppy, you're not my mother.

[Professor Kholling]

Hours of work, finished. Lesson plans, supply stocking, the general yard-long list of, of... right, teaching prerequisites. Two years ago, he'd been a stray dog people cross the street to avoid, afraid of catching a disease or rabies. Today he was a professor, a staff member for one of the finest magical schools in the wizarding world. Astonishing as it was, he'd somehow wormed his way into a teaching position with no credentials other than his practical skills and know-how.

Vampires were a dreaded, abhorred part of society. Everyone feared them or hated them, everyone wondered about the shadows in an alley, everyone pretended that the differences between them and a vampire were too immense to cross. Well, he was a miracle then, wasn't he? Half of him was perfectly acceptable, the part of him that came from a pureblood French family with high standings. The other? Screwed, magically, socially, physically. Merlin, the tales he could recall, in detail, about how vampires were "the scourge of magic folk."

Sitting in one of the chairs in the Hospital Wing, a lone man watched an older witch bustle around from cabinet to cabinet. She mumbled to herself occasionally, but not a hair of her low bun was out of place. Poppy Pomfrey was a talented mediwitch with enough patience to fulfill her duties and a rigid sensible side to boot. Shuffling his feet, Terrance ground his lower lip between his teeth. He and Poppy would be working closely together, depending on how his class went. Oh, and how often he needed his "supplements".

"Ah, there we are! I knew I had gotten the order yesterday. Right then, here you are Professor Kholling. Now. Don't be stingy; I expect you back here every other day for a fresh batch." She instructed, waiting while he stood to hand him a medium glass container. The contents sloshed loudly in the silence that followed. Finally, Terrance gave a tight-lipped smile. "If it's not too much trouble. Thank you, Miss Pomfr--"

"Poppy, dear."
"Poppy -" Terrance corrected, smile broadening faintly. After a moment, he nodded and slipped the blood supply into the deep fold of his robes. "Well, thank you Poppy. Have a good night."
"Of course, anytime. Get some sleep, Professor. You'll need it around here."

The trip from the hospital wing toward the kitchens was a short one. Each step reminded him of what he carried, of who - and what - he was. Frankly, he'd long gotten over the fact that is father was a vampire. Others, however, weren't so forgiving of his heritage.

[Draven Whittimore]

"Mmmm..."

Draven's feet stop below him as he turns the hallway in the corridor. He doesn't creep in the night as some do, but moreso strolls; he's turned a blind eye to a number of innocently travelling students on more than one occasion, and it seems to be that only in sight of actual mischief or a bad mood that he feels obligated to do some damage to house points or otherwise.

A student is not what has initiated tonight's pause, however; the tall figure approaching from the opposite end of the corridor is definitely not one of a student. For a moment, Draven considers hiding. The idea is silly, but if the pile of pastries in his arms has anything to say for him...

Well, he can always blame the house elves. Wiggling his eyebrows as he maintains his deer-in-headlights demeanour, he purses his lips somewhat when he comes to term with who exactly is approaching him. A new teacher - the new teacher, really. The talk of the town, if you will. As not much of a gossip monster, he knows more about the slender man approaching him than he'd like to admit; to the staff, anyway, it's not a deep secret that the new DATDA teacher is part vampire.

It's all very ironic, really.

"Terrance," he greets uncertainly. His green eyes peek around, as though checking to see if they have any more company. He's not scared, no - not for himself, anyway. Draven practices a strange equality to peculiar species; why is not certain, but people often relate his strange quirks to his previous occupation.

Whether it's relevant or not? Who knows.

He stalls as he glances down at the pile of treats on the plate at his hands, before raising his eyebrows and pulling a long face once they are in a closer proximity of eachother.

"Fancy a pastry? If it's to your taste, that is," he adds offhandedly. He seems drawn to the porcelain visage of the other professor for moment in a similar manner to how individuals would normally observe someone unnaturally handsome, before he turns bottle-green eyes back toward the man's politely. "Not sure what suits you."

If he's fortunate, he figures that he won't be called out on his sweets smorgesborde robbery.

[Professor Kholling]

There were many peculiar artifacts strewn throughout Hogwarts. Each hallway offered a splendid opportunity to glimpse a bit of forgotten history. As a Frenchman by heritage, Terrance had plenty of reason to stop and stare at a portrait longer than necessary. As common in the wizarding world, these portraits were not fixed images like their muggle counterparts. The young DATDA teacher had already received various gestures from a few spunkier paintings; a smile from an older maiden had soothed his troubled soul. Likewise, a swashbuckling pirate scene had nearly scared the devil out of him when canon shots had fired loud as real life.

Night had long ago fallen and his energy level had plummeted with the descent of the sun. While he had visited Hogsmeade for a few pleasant hours, he hadn't found anything worth sticking around for. He had failed to order a blood-saturated drink at the Three Broomsticks. Anyone and everyone in the magical world would know exactly what he was if he had. That sort of daring had been out of his reach - Terrance appreciated the privacy afforded from ambiguity. Therein a visit to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts had been in order. Poppy was a kindly, stern mediwitch; her easy going nature was still sending shock-waves of surprise through Terry's fragile psyche.

He turned left to continue down a corridor which he believed would lead him toward his rooms. With the blood sloshing around in his pocket, his "thirstier" nature was dragging on his reservations. The bags under his eyes were especially apparent in the hall's dim, everlasting candlelight. At least he was warm under his gray, silken teaching robe. The weather didn't call for the woolen ones he had stored away, but Terry had not stopped at wearing dress pants, a long sleeved shirt and cardigan to ward off any September chill. A scarf floated in loose coils around his shoulders, red and inviting against the drabber hues of his clothing.

"Eh?" Slate eyes flickered, awareness sparking in their depths. Chin lifting, Terry found himself nearly toe-to-toe with an equally tall individual. Lips parting in quiet surprise, he immediately took a step back. "D-Draven," he stamped out, summoning an identity from the recesses of his memory. Everything was rather foggy, from meeting the staff that morning and all that occurred later on. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "My apologies... I was not paying attention... ah."

There was an accent to accompany his upbringing. Wetting his lips idly, the gaunt vampire remained unaware of Draven's silent stare. He had long ago learned to ignore the eyes that followed him down the street, through the store and everywhere else he went. His existence was an anomaly. What he was, also, was an aberration the wizarding world liked to fear more than anything else.

The delicate, sugary collection in Draven's arms served to quickly snag Terrance's attention. "If you're asking whether I eat solid foods, I assure you I have a healthy appetite," he drawled quietly, capping his sarcasm with a humorous, dark-edged chuckle. He lifted his eyes to Draven's, lids heavy over a weary gaze. He appreciated the offer and felt mildly guilty that he'd already let his reverse-prejudice slip out. "...I do have a hankering for honey..." He murmured softly. He closed the gap he'd made to extract a honey bun from the plate, lifting it to "toast" Draven's generosity before taking a bite.

Politely finishing his bite, Terry cleared his throat, the honey bun sitting limply in his palm. "...You teach Transfigurations, yes? I remember from this morning." The half-vamp shrugged too-thin shoulders and adjusted the scarf a second after. Too many people had stared at his neck as if expecting to see twin scars; ridiculous since he'd been born like any other child on the planet. Sucking on his teeth, the corner of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. "The flavour of English pastries is pleasant. Frenchmen like theirs light and airy - tasteless, unless soaked in chocolat..." He remarked off-handedly. Taking another bite, his mouth went suddenly dry. Throat tight, it took a great deal of will power to swallow it without choking.

A moment after, he withdrew a dark flask from his robes. Blue-gray orbs rested on Draven's features, a nervous energy creating a sickly sheen over them. "...Do you mind?" Liquid swished in the flask as he flicked it to show what he was referring to with his question. Yanking the lid off with his teeth, he let the lid flop on its small, thin chain. "It's animal, I promise... And a healthy dose of sherry."