1. Bertrand (1/1)

just a little thing which i'll probably continue at some point in the distant future because i love these characters, but for now it's just this. i hope you enjoy it.

disclaimer: i don't own young dracula.

bertrand had seen paintings of the alleged chosen one, of course.

count dracula had been circulating them around the globe for some months, always with ludicrously unlikely backgrounds intended to suggest that they were in hiding in

azil, or china, or russia, or peru. so of course bertrand had noticed that the boy was good-looking. that was good; vampires could be shallow and an ugly chosen one would have to fight twice as hard to keep his place. at seventeen, however, vladimir dracula was already proving that he had inherited the dracula looks – assuming of course that the portraits hadn't been doctored in any way.

somehow, though, bertrand had got it into his head that vlad must do well when represented in oil on canvas. he'd thought there was some flattery involved in the hand of the artist, or at least complete accuracy. bertrand had often observed that some vampires translated well into paintings, while others lost much of their beauty when captured as an image. he had assumed that vlad was one of the former.

he was wrong.

it hadn't been gradual, the realisation that he had fallen in love with the chosen one – the true chosen one, as he now knew. he had shared one

ief, intense conversation with the boy, and then as he had watched vlad walk back upstairs to talk to his family, it had hit him like a cannonball from nowhere. he had almost literally staggered backwards, before realising how ridiculous he was being. but vlad…

vlad had been even more attractive – more beautiful – in real life than in those foolish paintings, paintings which bertrand now realised had never done him justice. he'd known, of course, that this vladimir dracula would be handsome. what nobody had warned him, however, was that he was also passionate, genuine, and – he would later discover- utterly charming. no prophecy had told of his generous nature or winning sense of humour, no councillor had warned him that he would be completely disarmed by vlad's thoughtful frown or knocked backwards by the

illiance of his smile.

yet bertrand was there to do a job, and as much as he might wish that they had met in different circumstances – really any other circumstances, anything that didn't so completely tie his hands – there was no way of changing that. it wasn't even as if it was only his own foolish unlife he was risking – the council's reputation would be dragged through the mud if his gaze so much as lingered too long on vlad. no, he had to remain professional.

no matter how much it hurt.